Whittling indifference down to nothing, she shrugs lightly by the moonlight and stars, looking up, gazing blankly into where nothing can be felt. Would it matter if she never cared at all, or would great things cease to be? In that moment, isn't it amazing how the moonflowers glow when the skies are darkened but the streetlamps have yet to click on? The crickets whisper the sounds of summer while the shock of little league lights across the creek stream break through the lies we tell ourselves in the lonely silence through the rickety screen door.
She sleeps in too big tees with her oscillating fan at her feet. She dreams of those times with dirt on her knees. A tear on a pillow dries quick to the cotton.
Sky scrapes black moldy swirls through a cloud-washed, light-speckled night. The TV flickers reruns of Patty Duke; curtains billow in and out from the breeze through the back door screen. Be steady, girl. Lift your head to the night skies into dreams of better days to come. That smell of summer air, crisp with sweat and sun, lingers aimlessly on the tip of the tongue. Lips chapped in winter winds now burned in summer's sun. This is home, this is where I must return.
She sits now, barely aware when the silence is broken by the screaming through the wall. This time, it's not so bad. This time, they're just loud.
Serendipitous flight. Am I running away or running home? A little of both, I suppose. I've learned this past year that water will never hold me up, water will never show truth, water will never be steady and still. In it, she will drown, she will puddle, she will become the lesser being he always predicted she would. It's an addiction, that water. And it has its own pathetic addictions. They're both addicted to pain - causing it, feeling it, being in it.
She's there, imagining, wishing, sleeping in a place where everyone but her knows the silence lies broken.
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This... well, for how quickly you wrote it... is not bad. Good, actually.
ReplyDeleteOne criticism: In the second to last paragraph when you briefly switch to first person? Yeah... don't do that.
a lot of interesting word play. nice
ReplyDeletei know why Jeff did not like the switch but it made it personal at that point...like the word play...like sky scrapes...very nice.
ReplyDelete"Lips chapped in winter winds now burned in summer's sun." ...loved this line!
ReplyDeleteNice to see you back :). I think I might know her.
ReplyDeleteWow. The last sentence in the first paragraph: Crickets whisper the sounds of summer...that was a powerhouse of imagery and longing. I've been right there, staring through a screen door, longing, and then choosing (correctly) not to. Love your style. Love this piece. Just to chime in on the topic, when you switched voices in the last paragraph I thought the piece was over at first, and you, the blogger was now talking. I see what Brian is saying, but honestly, it confused me. Can't wait to read more of your work.
ReplyDeletei like the slow build to this one, then it gets in your face. i agree...keep it out of the third person, it helps the flow.
ReplyDeleteNot sure about the comments, re the 'I' and the 'third person'.
ReplyDeleteYou mix 'she' and 'I' which I found confusing. Who is 'I'? Some really good visual stuff. You paint swell pictures, sensual even. But you confuse the voice.
You carried me back with the reruns of Patty Duke and the rickety screen door. Fortunately, I didn't hear pain along with those sounds. To add a comment to the first-person-switch discussion, I felt it as a time shift, from memories of then to the understanding of now.
ReplyDeleteI agree, the imagery in it is quite beautiful. I guess it just needed an event-minor one, symbolism I guess would be good.
ReplyDelete"She sleeps in too big tees with her oscillating fan at her feet."
ReplyDeleteAre you watching me sleep!? Just kidding...this is nice.
"In that moment, isn't it amazing how the moonflowers glow when the skies are darkened but the streetlamps have yet to click on?" That often where I choose to live. The pain is muted then.
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