soft disarray

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

The bloom began to inventory the impossible: receipts for storms, a ledger of vanished streets and small apologies It listed a moon with pockets, a compass that read which childhood you'd be tomorrow, a church spattered in origami birds Rivers were filed under "waiting," mountains cataloged by the taste of their shadows, borders stamped with lullaby signatures The Monkey King watched the list sign

The bloom tucked a giggle into the margins, folding receipts into paper frogs that hopped names like marbles, They croaked corrections—"Turn here, the horizon is on holiday"—and ribboned the borders with jaunty asides, The Monkey King snapped back, assigning mountains to improvise and rivers to practice slapstick by moonlight, Ledger and monarch became a call-and-answer: one lists the impossible,;

He plucked a canyon like a fiddle string; the air answered with a grin. The bloom folded that canyon into a paper bell and taught rain to read jokes. They tossed names back and forth—his wink exploded fireworks, its petal stitched new surnames into passports—so mountains learned to cartwheel. Borders giggled open; alleys redrew themselves, and the ledger, delighted, inked the prank into law.

They folded syllables into cranes—snap, snap—percussive whispers that turned names into hymns Paper birds recited footnotes: fold this alley into a river, fold the river into the shape of a child's memory The King kept the beat; frogs and bell-folds answered in pleated refrains until whole cities hummed like breathing paper The bloom sewed those refrains into the ledger's margins, so every entry,,

split into clipped riddles: who borrowed the last sun? Petals ticked replies in staccato: no. yes. maybe. gone. He counted the beats like a sly metronome; towns answered in single syllables and coughs. The ledger swallowed those snapped truths and stamped new borders with a consonant's kiss.

The ledger's spine unfurled like a shawl; ink-songs slid sideways into braids of soft rope. Petals unthreaded themselves into stitches that warmed the city's lanterns into small confessions. The Monkey King cupped each stray loop, humming a patient undoing—no snap, only the slow kindness of a tailor's thumb. Borders frayed into curled pages; names loosened and drifted back like moths relearning a

Names loosened and drifted back like moths relearning a sweater's weave, nestling in thumb-sized hollows of light The Monkey King, patient as a seam, let stitches slacken into a hush that was kind and crooked and forgiving The bloom folded its last receipt into a pocket of moon, the ledger closed with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like laughter In that gentle muddle maps became songs, borders H