Paper Army

The hands laughed, joyful, full laughs, their silky palms coming together in rudimentary claps. The fair skin of these small hands was the color of uncreamed milk, a silky, smooth, white color; an unmarred surface only a child's hands can provide. their palms were pink, the color of unripened cherries, still hanging from the blossoming tree. The hands played with the fun things the face had brought them, crumpling them and listening to the wonderful sounds; tasting the rough surface, like the marbled stones that lie under the croaking frog.