FICTION
Stories are harder for me than other forms of expression because, for the most part, they require extended periods of focus. You won’t find much that’s finished here, but that’s okay. Think of it as a broken radio that tunes in to pieces of people’s lives. You might find an interesting scene or two.
Sun yellow, green grass, sky blue, white cloud, stars uncovered, head clear, life strong and at its beginning. Flat plain, pathless, undisturbed by time and weather. Slow turning of mother and father, gentle dance, untrained eye. She accepted her birth, her presence here in the world and so accepted the change that must come. Send me off with a kiss, she thought. She liked kisses.
It stood out only a bit from the frozen troll shadows of furniture, the idiot gape of the open closet, the silver squares of moonlit window. But it was rocking slowly, side to side, and the motion caught her attention. Her nerves jangled and she silenced them. Whatever was going to happen would happen and she would be part of it. She turned on the light.
I could never figure out why some people get it and some do not. And what I mean by “get” “it” is get the point. The crux. The inner singularity wherein all that we are converges into a single, simple beauty from which everything grows. Our bodies, our minds, the air, the earth, light, stars, souls. All things of us and not of us though still somehow part of us.
I imagine, sometimes, the day that I finally fall. The day I must push my heart to bursting, my stride full out, my wits at end. The day I do not have to surrender. Because I am taken.