You're sitting on the hood of your car at the cusp of autumn, smoking a cigarette.
The stars are bright and the sky is dark. Grey smoke spirals lazily around your head as you lean back to admire the sight.
You're sitting on the hood of your car and the breeze bites just a bit more than it did last week. For a moment you wish you had someone to huddle with for warmth.
Though a jacket might do just as nicely.
You're sitting on the hood of your car and for a moment, you can't remember why you came out here; what reckless longing sent you driving into the wilderness where the sky is wide and the stars outnumber people a million to one.
Maybe you don't really need a reason.
Showing posts with label writing: prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing: prose. Show all posts
19 October, 2014
08 June, 2014
Crush(ed)
You want to say it started tonight
Standing in a brightly-lit gallery
surrounded on all sides by flower-covered animal bones.
You want to claim that your passion for the art
this shared enthusiasm is what began it all...
(It's a lie.)
Still, even if you know it has been going on longer
(Quite a bit longer)--
you know that this is that critical turning point.
The moment when your flight of fancy solidifies,
when it becomes real in your mind and you must face it.
So.
It may not have started tonight.
But it certainly took you until tonight to catch on.
It took a mutual love for wine and paintings,
dinner and religion in a tiny cramped diner,
and round after round of karaoke.
(It also took shot after shot of tequila,
warm shoulders, and wide grins,
but don't get carried away.)
Alcohol is funny that way.
Turns everything golden around the edges,
and smooths away sharp corners.
By the time you've realized the danger
you're too far gone to panic.
Standing in a brightly-lit gallery
surrounded on all sides by flower-covered animal bones.
You want to claim that your passion for the art
this shared enthusiasm is what began it all...
(It's a lie.)
Still, even if you know it has been going on longer
(Quite a bit longer)--
you know that this is that critical turning point.
The moment when your flight of fancy solidifies,
when it becomes real in your mind and you must face it.
So.
It may not have started tonight.
But it certainly took you until tonight to catch on.
It took a mutual love for wine and paintings,
dinner and religion in a tiny cramped diner,
and round after round of karaoke.
(It also took shot after shot of tequila,
warm shoulders, and wide grins,
but don't get carried away.)
Alcohol is funny that way.
Turns everything golden around the edges,
and smooths away sharp corners.
By the time you've realized the danger
you're too far gone to panic.
13 February, 2012
Tout le Monde
It starts with an itching on the back of your hands, a thrumming under your skin.
The world is quiet, sleeping, but you don't join in, every groan of the house amplified by silence.
It sets your teeth on edge, and you wince in time to the ticking of the clock.
Up, up, time to go your muscles scream, and it takes a concerted effort not to leap from your seat.
Outside, you know, the cold black sky is waiting, wider than anything you could ever reach.
An awareness of the never-ending roads pounds relentlessly through the back of your mind.
A shudder rippling through your frame; a visceral reaction to the wanderlust infecting you, body and soul.
Visions of the future flash by, clear as memory, promising adventures and new people and freedom.
Freedom that tastes like ice-cold spring water, a welcome reprieve from the constriction in the back of your throat.
You can't seem to conjure a reason not to go; you've forgotten that all ideas are good ideas in the middle of the night.
How could such a decision possibly seem poor under the luminescent moon's calm gaze?
So with a haphazardly loaded duffle, you set out into the Great Unknown, fearless in the throes of your fevered desires.
No one can say a word, not for good, nor for ill, either.
We're only side characters in each others' stories anyway.
Only the protagonist can steer this destiny, and leave the rest to Fate, or particularly good writing.
Dawn is breaking on the horizon and the next chapter is yours to complete.
No one else can ride off into the sun for you, you've got to do it yourself.
The world is quiet, sleeping, but you don't join in, every groan of the house amplified by silence.
It sets your teeth on edge, and you wince in time to the ticking of the clock.
Up, up, time to go your muscles scream, and it takes a concerted effort not to leap from your seat.
Outside, you know, the cold black sky is waiting, wider than anything you could ever reach.
An awareness of the never-ending roads pounds relentlessly through the back of your mind.
A shudder rippling through your frame; a visceral reaction to the wanderlust infecting you, body and soul.
Visions of the future flash by, clear as memory, promising adventures and new people and freedom.
Freedom that tastes like ice-cold spring water, a welcome reprieve from the constriction in the back of your throat.
You can't seem to conjure a reason not to go; you've forgotten that all ideas are good ideas in the middle of the night.
How could such a decision possibly seem poor under the luminescent moon's calm gaze?
So with a haphazardly loaded duffle, you set out into the Great Unknown, fearless in the throes of your fevered desires.
No one can say a word, not for good, nor for ill, either.
We're only side characters in each others' stories anyway.
Only the protagonist can steer this destiny, and leave the rest to Fate, or particularly good writing.
Dawn is breaking on the horizon and the next chapter is yours to complete.
No one else can ride off into the sun for you, you've got to do it yourself.
03 December, 2011
Silent Snow
It's cold outside, but it hasn't yet become bitterly so, and she makes the decision to keep on walking. The hour is late and the streets are mostly deserted, despite the warm light coming from inside the shops--extended hours for the holiday season. It's been snowing gently, thirty minutes hence, and there's a light dusting of fluffy flakes covering everything; streets, sidewalks, rooftops, and windowsills. It's still coming down, looking almost etherial in the orange glow of the street lamps.
Snow is the most silent of all phenomenon, and she relishes the quiet, hearing only the soft crunch underfoot and the first notes of "Carol of the Bells" somewhere in the distance. Holiday bustle has its own appeal, but this...this is something special.
Colored lights twinkle benignly at her from a shop window, in red, green, and white. She leans close to the glass, to watch the path of a small electric train around a mountain crafted from chicken wire, hard work, and paint. Her breath fogs the window and she brushes it clean with a gloved hand before going on her way.
She straightens her scarf and the snowflakes that have collected there are scattered, on her lapel, and on the ground, reunited with the rest. Though the snow is gentle, it is steady, and she knows that by morning, there will be a significant supply, sparkling and pristine, awaiting demolishment at the hands of children.
But for now, the silent snow and the empty street are a haven, and she stands for a moment, overwhelmed by the scene. It's quite appropriate, then, when she thinks she hears the strains of "Winter Wonderland" floating in from somewhere faraway.
Snow is the most silent of all phenomenon, and she relishes the quiet, hearing only the soft crunch underfoot and the first notes of "Carol of the Bells" somewhere in the distance. Holiday bustle has its own appeal, but this...this is something special.
Colored lights twinkle benignly at her from a shop window, in red, green, and white. She leans close to the glass, to watch the path of a small electric train around a mountain crafted from chicken wire, hard work, and paint. Her breath fogs the window and she brushes it clean with a gloved hand before going on her way.
She straightens her scarf and the snowflakes that have collected there are scattered, on her lapel, and on the ground, reunited with the rest. Though the snow is gentle, it is steady, and she knows that by morning, there will be a significant supply, sparkling and pristine, awaiting demolishment at the hands of children.
But for now, the silent snow and the empty street are a haven, and she stands for a moment, overwhelmed by the scene. It's quite appropriate, then, when she thinks she hears the strains of "Winter Wonderland" floating in from somewhere faraway.
03 March, 2011
Stairs
Have you ever been walking up stairs, not paying attention, and you miss a step?
Your foot thuds down a little harder than necessary,
but there's really no harm done?
(Well, maybe to your pride, but if no one sees, it's really kind of funny.)
I suppose you've also walked down stairs, and maybe missed a step.
Generally, there's a moment of panic and then those blessed neurons fire
and you catch the railing, heart pounding, but uninjured.
Worst case scenario, you do fall, but usually backwards, and there's just a sore tailbone.
Have you ever been shoved down a flight of stairs?
By that bully that really doesn't like you?
Your arms windmill and you're pitching headfirst, a victim of gravity.
When you land, there's a sense of shock, and sharp pain where the bruises will appear.
And maybe for a second, it seems like you can't get up.
Perhaps, you don't really want to.
With grim determination and no tears. (Maybe a wince or two.)
You're back on your feet.
After all, it takes more than a bully to take you out.
Your foot thuds down a little harder than necessary,
but there's really no harm done?
(Well, maybe to your pride, but if no one sees, it's really kind of funny.)
I suppose you've also walked down stairs, and maybe missed a step.
Generally, there's a moment of panic and then those blessed neurons fire
and you catch the railing, heart pounding, but uninjured.
Worst case scenario, you do fall, but usually backwards, and there's just a sore tailbone.
Have you ever been shoved down a flight of stairs?
By that bully that really doesn't like you?
Your arms windmill and you're pitching headfirst, a victim of gravity.
When you land, there's a sense of shock, and sharp pain where the bruises will appear.
And maybe for a second, it seems like you can't get up.
Perhaps, you don't really want to.
With grim determination and no tears. (Maybe a wince or two.)
You're back on your feet.
After all, it takes more than a bully to take you out.
07 December, 2010
The Crossroads
There was a point in life when the most frightening thing she had to face was a fork in the road. A decision between going left and going right, between a good choice and a poor one. A or B. Now that simple time seems so distant.
She stands at a crossroads, coat wrapped tightly around her body in a desperate attempt to keep in the warmth. A sharp wind loosens her hair from its braid and she reaches up to brush it back, her fingers temporarily exposed to the icy air. The sun is setting and she knows it will only grow colder from here. There isn't much time, but still she stands, paralyzed.
This is no fork in the road. There are hundreds of paths, branching out in each direction; north, south, east, and west. In the middle of the road is a large signpost, covered in arrows, but the words painted on them are too faded to read. Some point in nonsensical directions, as if intentionally designed to mock her.
Right now, none of the paths look particularly pleasant. One heading straight into the sunset is packed with well-trod dirt, but she can see clearly the heartbreak and pain that lurk in the shadows. Another path goes for only a few yards before leading to a precarious rope bridge on a high precipice. It's obvious that only cruelty and manipulation will be found down that road. Still another is winding and narrow, with cliffs of poverty and anxiety reaching to the sky on either side. A fourth leads down the side of a rocky ridge, towards a terrifyingly unknowable sea.
Where is the safe road, she wonders, the one that will take her safely to her destination? Where is the road lined with roses and bathed in sunlight? Is there no peaceful forest path to be found?
As the sun sinks lower over the horizon, she knows her time at the crossroads is coming to an end. She must make a decision soon. Gathering her courage, she prepares for the first step. It hardly matters that there is no easy road; she's not concerned anymore that she has no idea where she might end up. The only way to escape the crossroads is to step forward in blind faith.
And when the moment comes, that is precisely what she will do.
She stands at a crossroads, coat wrapped tightly around her body in a desperate attempt to keep in the warmth. A sharp wind loosens her hair from its braid and she reaches up to brush it back, her fingers temporarily exposed to the icy air. The sun is setting and she knows it will only grow colder from here. There isn't much time, but still she stands, paralyzed.
This is no fork in the road. There are hundreds of paths, branching out in each direction; north, south, east, and west. In the middle of the road is a large signpost, covered in arrows, but the words painted on them are too faded to read. Some point in nonsensical directions, as if intentionally designed to mock her.
Right now, none of the paths look particularly pleasant. One heading straight into the sunset is packed with well-trod dirt, but she can see clearly the heartbreak and pain that lurk in the shadows. Another path goes for only a few yards before leading to a precarious rope bridge on a high precipice. It's obvious that only cruelty and manipulation will be found down that road. Still another is winding and narrow, with cliffs of poverty and anxiety reaching to the sky on either side. A fourth leads down the side of a rocky ridge, towards a terrifyingly unknowable sea.
Where is the safe road, she wonders, the one that will take her safely to her destination? Where is the road lined with roses and bathed in sunlight? Is there no peaceful forest path to be found?
As the sun sinks lower over the horizon, she knows her time at the crossroads is coming to an end. She must make a decision soon. Gathering her courage, she prepares for the first step. It hardly matters that there is no easy road; she's not concerned anymore that she has no idea where she might end up. The only way to escape the crossroads is to step forward in blind faith.
And when the moment comes, that is precisely what she will do.
26 May, 2010
One Summer's Evening
Pinks, purples and oranges mix on the horizon as the sun begins to set, looking more brilliant than a master painting. The two race to the car and she wins, effectively calling dibs on driving. The key is turned in the ignition and the engine rumbles to life. Peeling out of the parking lot, she laughs and rolls down the windows, euphoric. In the passenger seat, he simply smiles his calm smile and turns on the radio.
She opts to take the back roads instead of the interstate, their desertedness encouragement to accelerate. The wind whips her long hair about her face, but she takes no heed, devoting her energy to belting along with the music blaring from the stereo. Their glances meet and her contagious grin prompts him to add his tenor with equal enthusiasm.
No feeling can quite match it. They are on top of the world, just the two of them. Cool wind blows in their faces, scented with honeysuckle and the promise of rain. It doesn't even matter what's on the radio; they sing with zeal, whether they know the words or not, making up lyrics when necessary.
It's grown quite dark now and as they pass a vast pasture, she stops, suddenly, and kills the engine. Only by the glow of the almost-full moon can he see her raise her arm and point. All across the field, tiny pinpricks of light fade in and out. Thousands upon thousands of fireflies illuminate the night, more beautiful than the most extravagant Christmas displays. It's like magic and a nostalgia for childhood fairy-tales sweeps over them both. Thunder rolls in the distance, but neither makes a movement to leave.
In the silence, her hand finds his and when their fingers twine together, they know contentment. And in the moment that he pulls her out to dance in the field of fireflies, they know joy.
She opts to take the back roads instead of the interstate, their desertedness encouragement to accelerate. The wind whips her long hair about her face, but she takes no heed, devoting her energy to belting along with the music blaring from the stereo. Their glances meet and her contagious grin prompts him to add his tenor with equal enthusiasm.
No feeling can quite match it. They are on top of the world, just the two of them. Cool wind blows in their faces, scented with honeysuckle and the promise of rain. It doesn't even matter what's on the radio; they sing with zeal, whether they know the words or not, making up lyrics when necessary.
It's grown quite dark now and as they pass a vast pasture, she stops, suddenly, and kills the engine. Only by the glow of the almost-full moon can he see her raise her arm and point. All across the field, tiny pinpricks of light fade in and out. Thousands upon thousands of fireflies illuminate the night, more beautiful than the most extravagant Christmas displays. It's like magic and a nostalgia for childhood fairy-tales sweeps over them both. Thunder rolls in the distance, but neither makes a movement to leave.
In the silence, her hand finds his and when their fingers twine together, they know contentment. And in the moment that he pulls her out to dance in the field of fireflies, they know joy.
19 April, 2010
Conversations
They face off from opposite sides of the room, she perched on top of the table and he leaning against the door, clearly ill at ease. Suddenly the statement that "you could cut the tension with a knife" makes sense. It's almost hard to breathe. He runs a hand through his hair and looks heavenward. She uncrosses her legs and lets one dangle down towards the floor, swinging nervously.
For what seems like the hundredth time, she wishes awkward conversations could be scripted, like in Grey's Anatomy or something. There are never million year-long silences in an awkward-serious Grey's Anatomy conversations. Everything comes out right away, and even if the characters are scared of what their words might do, they say them without hesitation. Why can't life be like that?
He opens his mouth, blinks and closes it again. A soft sigh escapes his lips. Hers is louder and more intentional, an expression of frustration and confusion. For a split-second, his lips twitch, but then his expression is neutral again and she swings her leg anxiously.
After another long moment, he looks up and their eyes meet. Panic floods her system and she drops her gaze to the floor. Eye contact is just as awkward as the not-talking that they are becoming very good at. Oh, if this were television, it would all be so much easier. Maybe she should start scripting all of her conversations.
The silence is finally broken by the trill of a cell phone and she wrenches her eyes away from the linoleum, surprised into staring again. He reads his text message and then straightens up.
"I have to go." They're the first four words spoken in what seems like hours and she bites her lip at how unaffected they are. He breezes past her so quickly, she doesn't even realize that he's deposited a paper napkin in her lap. The door closes behind him with an obscenely loud bang and she flinches, fingers closing reflexively around the napkin.
It's several minutes before she can unfold it, fingers shaking and mind racing. Scrawled hastily in blue pen are the three words that were so hard to say out loud.
She smiles and crumples up the napkin, shoving it into her pocket. Maybe this scripting conversations idea is not so bad after all.
For what seems like the hundredth time, she wishes awkward conversations could be scripted, like in Grey's Anatomy or something. There are never million year-long silences in an awkward-serious Grey's Anatomy conversations. Everything comes out right away, and even if the characters are scared of what their words might do, they say them without hesitation. Why can't life be like that?
He opens his mouth, blinks and closes it again. A soft sigh escapes his lips. Hers is louder and more intentional, an expression of frustration and confusion. For a split-second, his lips twitch, but then his expression is neutral again and she swings her leg anxiously.
After another long moment, he looks up and their eyes meet. Panic floods her system and she drops her gaze to the floor. Eye contact is just as awkward as the not-talking that they are becoming very good at. Oh, if this were television, it would all be so much easier. Maybe she should start scripting all of her conversations.
The silence is finally broken by the trill of a cell phone and she wrenches her eyes away from the linoleum, surprised into staring again. He reads his text message and then straightens up.
"I have to go." They're the first four words spoken in what seems like hours and she bites her lip at how unaffected they are. He breezes past her so quickly, she doesn't even realize that he's deposited a paper napkin in her lap. The door closes behind him with an obscenely loud bang and she flinches, fingers closing reflexively around the napkin.
It's several minutes before she can unfold it, fingers shaking and mind racing. Scrawled hastily in blue pen are the three words that were so hard to say out loud.
She smiles and crumples up the napkin, shoving it into her pocket. Maybe this scripting conversations idea is not so bad after all.
28 March, 2010
Adventures in Wonderland
Life is it's own little Wonderland. There are no talking rabbits, true, but everyone of us has experienced a fall down the rabbit hole. We all know what it's like to face a furious Red Queen. Each of us has fled a vicious, snarling Bandersnatch or two in our day.
Life is an adventure and we should treat it as such. So many times, we simply refuse to engage--burying our heads in our textbooks and ignoring the caterpillar's advice. Why are we so fearful? What do we have to worry about? Life was, after all, made to be lived. We're supposed to adventure, to explore, to learn.
So get up out of your chair, take the key, eat the cake and journey to a strange new land. Banter with a Cheshire cat in answerless circles, laugh at the antics of a madman, and be sure to drink the tea he offers you. Be late. Slay your Jabberwocky. Walk upside down. Think outside of the box.
I promise you, life will be better for it.
22 March, 2010
Overactive Imagination
It's like this every time. The pounding heart, the irregular breathing. The stupid smile that creeps over her unwilling face. She has no doubt, either, that if she were to look into a mirror, her cheeks would be flushed and her pupils blown wide like she's received a head injury. Despite the protestations of her mind, every physiological reaction is intensified to a point of ridiculousness. One well-placed comment can set her cheeks aflame and her heart a-racing. It's nearly unbearable.
She hopes it's all magnified in her mind. Maybe, if she's lucky, only a few particularly astute people will see. Perhaps the involuntary glances will go unnoticed by most (one, in particular) and she will make it through another afternoon. After all, she knows it's useless to feel this way. For her attention to be noticed--much less shared--is as likely as sus scrofa spontaneously sprouting a pair of aerial appendages.
Nonetheless, evening comes and she succumbs to her overactive imagination. She recalls a moment when he'd grabbed her hand, trying to make a point, and she'd jerked away, fingers tingling as if she'd touched a live wire. In that split second, she'd been certain he knew. Or that late night drive, awakening to find she's accidentally made his shoulder her pillow. To wake to his eyes boring into her; it's easy to release the flight of fancy.
But these thoughts are reserved for midnight solitude and the dawn comes all too soon. So she tosses her head and laughs, promising that at the next midnight, she will not think of such things again, knowing, even as she says it, that it is a lie.
Such are the cruel tricks of an overactive imagination.
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