from the tide to my toes
the sand prints they go
to where i have run to
when i can't hide
the sea wash away white
i can see the light
from my toes to the tide
in my hand is a shell
once more i will speak
Three floors with alarms, their safety abandoned. Three Sirens rolled to see smoke reached to the zenith. Three-hundred students under a waterfall. Three abandoned were in the undertow caught: the Charybdis of fear, the Scylla of inaction. Three Dreams melted in that Deluge. Three grotesque exploded canisters, crayons amalgamated on the linoleum next-door. Three and three-hundred lost in the halls.
(This was written for a swap one of my friends sponsored. Requirement was 60 words, and it's that exactly.)
My friend is hosting a writing swap over at Swap-bot. The [super-]short-short-story is a fascinating medium, and the website in general is a cool new concept to me. I like the snail mail usage, though I'd like to know if they have an electronic option. Hum.
Also, there is the 100 words writing project(s). That should satisfy to keep me busy.
Eventually I'll get better with the timing. Here it is nonetheless.
I'll also get to reading the stuff you folks have left us. I do want to!
And There Was No Delay (D)
I saved a life today and there was no delay. No delay in my reaction. Thoughts did not touch my resolve. She was in a line like the rest, demure like the rest. Friendless without a group, worthless without a group. Perhaps it was not so, but it seems so.
I could tell she was going to when I looked at her. So few look at you here. Or they look too much. And it's not, as I was told, that they don't want you to look at them--they do. It's that they look for truth more quickly--more desperately--and then look away as quickly and desperately to cover it. They don't want you to know. What truth, I don't know. Who knows. Where I come from, so many don't even want to know, so they just stare, dumb, incessant, sheepish, until they forget what they were doing and look up something else and look away. They do that here too, just faster, or slower.
Her eyes were different though. They looked that way they do, with knowing not knowing but knowing, and with a final desperation I could feel in my heart well before my mind could catch up with it. It was a devastating sadness, which is why I acted as quickly as I did--that kind of feeling does not live long in this world. It cannot. It consumes faster than anything known to man--faster than any Ebola infection--leaving effect not-unlike a terrible brain mashing prion.
I moved in quickly, my arm hairs already feeling the breeze of the intended rush of the oncoming train. She took a step where I took two. A head moved and shifted behind us, too far to help, too slow to recognize. Her eyes looked away then, consumed back into her inner world. Mine did not flinch. She leaned forward in the wind, and her hair and skirt ruffled slightly, a balance of pressures played upon raised toes. Another step and my arm was around her waist. She leaned into it with such strength, such power, she seemed to push off to try and fly--I felt bad to weight her down so. Bad to be the harbinger. Such power though, I thought she must be a soccer player as our directions clashed on the concrete field. She seemed to press with even more determination into my arms as I lost balance, teetering on the precipice--losing myself. I pivoted my hip as only my own training could have provided and crashed at the edge as I felt concrete stubble break my skid off the ledge--earthen pseudopods to save lives as fingerprints grip tools, as cleats grip grass. Her weight crashed fully upon me, cementing me further, but not enough before I rolled away with her in my arms. From the ledge, the rush of metal appeared and we scrambled over each other to get up and appear as nothing had happened. Eyes glared upon us from everywhere and were filled with wind, tearing from the eddies created by the train, it's walls rushing in to reflect their gazes. But hers were more so, filled with rage and sorrowful winds. Heads turned--but not mine--as they walked around us, locked on their destinations as doors opened, mine on hers. In mere seconds we became alone again, and again, and again. Last calls and silence.
And then I found myself crying--a wake of wind from the train's departure, for keeping the gaze open, there on the concrete, guardian of the tracks, unyielding in an eternity of seconds we seemed to share, there, alone. She looked down, fondly, and I admit, I scrounged a blink while she flattened her skirt, shrugging her arms together to re-hold her bag. She looked up once more to me and turned and walked back up the stairs. But I think she knew.
Title The Trunk
Rating PG (mentions underwear and sexual situations)
Word Count 2443
Warnings Some less than enlightened thinking occurs. These things happen.
Author's Notes This is actually a third draft and close to final draft of something I've been playing with. I rewrote the first two paragraphs as dialogue, and have done so with some of the internal narrative and I like it much better. I adore Eula May.
( The TrunkCollapse )