Standard disclaimers apply.
Redeeming Qualities, if there are any: It's short. Period. ;
Just a little take on Sanzo' s "Dust on one's own head…" & Non-Attachment philosophies.
as stripped of all forethought by: Nikoru Sanzo
"Sanzo, there's blood on your robes."
His face is briefly illuminated. There's the flick of his lighter and a wispy trail of smoke ascends towards the night sky. The moon makes it journey across the firmament above us. The only lantern that dares to shed light on the killing fields where, earlier, we had reaped.
But was it us who had sown? I digress.
His sandals, thin and worn, barely shields his feet from the filth of torn flesh mingled with dirt. Yet he carries on as if the stench does not cling to him, just as much as nothing is ever attached to him.
Sanzo looks at the hem of his robe, soiled and robbed of its purity. He doesn't even glance towards me.
"Wash it then."
Consecrated to everyone in 838 Land and for June, who asked for a drabble (is this? ;).
Sorry I couldn't make it angsty. How about Hakkai wrestling with The Laundry Of Doom? Comments, flames, & suggestions are very much welcome. I'm new at this and I truly will appreciate feedback.
Yay(!) for shameless Plugging! XD
To wipe the bad aftertaste of this horrid ficcie and for a look at this fic' s companion fanart, please feel free to take a peek at my photobucket album (see author profile). The pic's called "Laundry: A Labor Of 83 Love!"