almost verse or a part of a beginning
The smell of pine and summer dustThe sound of hooves The bird's call The birds answer The trumpet sounds He runs
A beginning.
The forest hushed but for the sound of breaking pine needles beneath his feet. Nothing breathed. The noise left a vacuum. The absence of sound filled his ears. The boy stepped forward again and nodded towards the tree stump. Atop it sat a squirrel, rusty, suspicious, tail curled over the top of its head. Its black eyes marked the child.
He took another step.
A horn sounded in the distance, piercing the air, filling the vacuum. The squirrel was gone.
The boy froze.
beach ii
The guitar player speaks the lyrics in a whisper that fades in and out. The snap and crackle of the bonfire drowns his voice, but not the chords. They're not perfect. A string missed, here and there. He stops and picks up the whisky bottle. They all look at him as he swigs. They speak in hushed whispers when they speak at all. Mostly they stare at the fire and drink. Once in awhile someone will add a log, or a discarded piece of furniture.
Some wander towards the sea, to skip stones on the flat, black water or sit on the cool rocks, away from the heat and ubiquitous sand.
They stay as long as the booze lasts, and sometimes the sun joins them.
aesthetics
No. She's not beautiful. Or if she is, you're not allowed to know she is. You can't know she is. I don't get it.
No. You don't.
But she's hot!
Hot is fine. She is hot. But she's not beautiful.
Right. I still don't -
I know.
she smiles.
he shifts and takes a sip from the bottle between them.
Beauty has to be known? she smiles again.
Yes.
Whereas hot is just looks?
Bingo.
You just said bingo. she laughs and he joins her.
You're beautiful. she grabs the bottle from him and takes a long sip, her eyes locked on his.
beach i
He wiggled his toes in the sand, feeling the cool grains slide between them. His clothes smelled of bonfire, his hands streaked with coal. The sea sat still. She walked among the rocks the tide revealed, stepping lightly, eyes on her feet then back to the horizon. Once or twice she looked back to the beach, to where he sat.
His eyes watched her, and nothing else.
Night walk.
The cat walked along the sidewalk. It was fast, but not obviously so. Once in awhile its eyes caught a streetlight and flashed with emerald luminescence. It was not hurrying, but it was fast.
It traversed the large ficus roots that tore through the sidewalk in front of the abandoned school without bother. The leaves above whispered in the warm breeze. Once in awhile the cat stopped to peer through the link fence, into the awkward grass. Whatever caught its attention did not keep it long, and once again the cat walked.
The man was not hurrying, nor was he fast. He staggered along the sidewalk. He thought the street empty.
The cat saw him before he saw the cat. It stopped, its back to the fence. The moon emerged and cast its pale light on them both. The man paused, knowing he was watched. He looked down and saw the green lanterns appraising him, curious.
He smiled. The street was not empty. He crouched, with difficulty, and held his empty hand towards the looking lanterns.
The cat sniffed and then walked towards the hand. It dragged its whiskers and face against the outstretched fingers. From the earth came a purr.
The man smiled and spoke, slurring the evening and his life to the small feline that rubbed its face against his hand. He wept, tears ran down his cheeks but still he spoke and smiled and still the cat purred. Once in awhile the cat would stop and look at him. He would stop as well, his smile fade. A small meow and once again the routine would begin, the story of his life continue, the weight of the past pressing against him.
From the awkward grass came a noise. They stopped. The cat looked away towards the grass. The man held his breath. He stood, unsteady, and watched.
The cat walked along the sidewalk. It did not hurry, but it was fast.
a piece of morning
Morning approached with a sliver of silver over the trees. They looked at it and drank, their words spoken quietly, to no one in particular, to all of them, hushed but lyrical and somehow in tune with the growing birdsong that surrounded them. They sat on damp steps and felt no cold. Between words the silence filled the gaps and the birds seemed quieter. The wine went down bitter and sweet. The occasional beer bottle popped and hissed. A few said they needed their beds, but did not move. Couples snuggled close, some for the first time. The sliver of silver grew, pushing back the sack cloth. With the light came more birdsong and the buzz of all things waking.
Some fell asleep before the sun, some afterwards, all in the new morning, their glasses and bottles half full.
in the middle of something
She looked at him. Her brows crinkled slightly, her eyes a question. They didn't speak. She pushed her hair back and brought her knees up under her chin, stocking feet slipping between the cushion of the couch. He saw a small hole on the left shin of her jeans. He thought it an odd place for a hole. He thought of her stocking feet getting dirty in whatever mess had gathered between the natty cushions on the sofa. He looked from where her feet disappeared at her ankles to the hole in her jeans and back again. The mug in his hands was cold. Her mug sat on the floor next to the couch, empty. For a moment his eyes slipped up to hers. They hadn't moved. They asked still. Noise filtered through from the rest of the flat, an awkward soundtrack.
She spoke. "So."
He sighed, and regretted it. He put the cold mug down next to hers. "So."
He looked at her.
Snippets II
The sun's rays caught the dust in the gallery. It looked like mist, not light. He stepped and watched the particles' eddies and currents swirl, affected by his movement for only a moment before taking their own course once again. -------
The vivid horizon stood crisp against the sky, the hills and peaks sharp, the cumuli perfect. The middle distance was hazy, wrinkled with heat and lazy dust and the odd flotsam in the air that floats indefinitely throughout summer in the country.
Snippets I
It was not sunset, but the ghost of one. A faint, jaundiced orange painted the clouds towards the East, the skeletons of westward trees silhouetted without shadow, shadows themselves. ----------
The mist wept in the brightening dawn, its cold tears scattered on the moss and lichen that crusted the ruin's stone. It was like walking in wet cling film.
----------
The sun unleashed a light from within, filling the hills, fields and rivers until they overflowed, adding to the sun's light their own richness, making it brighter; light that was tactile, a physical, touchable part of the surroundings, as much a medium as the air he breathed and the water running next to his feet.