you took my hand and showed me how the sun’s light can warm instead of burn,

and just for a while, i felt what it is like to be sheltered unconditionally.

i looked at you in awe, with all these untamed feelings coming over me like a rush of the ocean’s waves sweeping me under for just a moment.

just a moment.

for once, being under the current of someone’s love didn’t feel suffocating and heavy. as I came up not for air but to see your eyes gazing back at me, i knew it would be foolish of me to turn and walk away from this cosmic dance between us.

so, I continued to dance with you on the rings of Saturn, allowing my heart to be set free.

A faint earthy smell of fresh petrichor lingered through the air like a magical serenade. Coal black clouds boogied across the sky, opening up so gently to pour beads of mellow raindrops which soon beat and bickered on the clean sunshade. Chelsea rested her elbows on the window-stool and cupped her chin in her hands, staring out into the night. Drawing a heart over the condensed droplets of the glass window, she pulled up the casement, allowing the rain to caress her delicate cerise palms. She then folded her hands, and brushed her elbows, strapping her satin robe a bit tighter as her soft flaxen hair horripilated like a million needles from her silken skin. Colourful bright umbrellas started blooming quickly down the street like azaleas at the crack of dawn.

“Kwarh,” her little boy mumbled in his sleep. She turned and sat on his bed, stroking his flushed pink cheeks. Pulling the edge of the bedsheet a bit up, she kissed his warm forehead and smiled as she switched off the lights and sneaked out of the room, not making the slightest noise. She walked through a series of white rooms with little furniture and went downstairs, her hand running smoothly on the varnished wooden railing. A big television screen welcomed her as she went into the main hall, moving her hands around her neck to keep warmth. Winston sat slouching on the dove couch, dressed in checked blue pyjamas which smelled of new fabric. A dark woman in her late forties, her hair arranged in an old-fashioned style on top of her head stared out of the 40 inch television. She had a perfect looking face with big brown eyes and natural black hair that was just beginning to grey. Chelsea brought her arms forward and looped them around his shoulders, allowing his head to nestle under her chin.

“My dear comrades, we were all born equally…” the Congresswoman’s strong voice said from the speakers. Her fringe of hair, cut straight across the forehead danced as she talked suiting her intelligent and sensitive face.

“That woman’s definitely winning the elections. Just too good at canvassing,” Winston tilted his head up, his blue eyes staring at the upside-down face of his wife. Her sandy blonde lines of thick eyebrows which arched down at the ends, twitched into a frown.

“Come on, what’s wrong with her? She’s a great leader!” Chelsea said, pinching his hand slightly. He chuckled, switching off the television set and turned towards his wife, taking her cheeks in his hands.

“I know you’re going to vote for her,” he said with a little rise in the corner of his mouth, a stocky sweet smirk. She scratched her head a little and rolled her eyes, turning towards the direction of the glass window where spurts of rainwater flowed down like the cascades of Niagara. Winston breathed in a little and stroked her anomalously youthful cheeks.

“Nice weather, huh?” he said, pushing a chunk of hair behind her ear. She smiled, revealing her fine, pointy teeth.

“I hope this never ends,” she said to her husband.

“Me too,” he whispered with a strange light in his bright blue eyes. He kissed her forehead and pulled her close to snuggle against his chest.

The rain’s white noise sounded like a heavenly timpani. Leaves and branches of elm trees brushed in discreet whisperings. Baby birds ensconced close to their mother’s breast. And from a distance a nocturnal observer watched them all in tranquil silence.

***

Strong, puissant winds swept the city. Angry obsidian clouds spat out gouts of rain. Gummed up rheumy eyes shut tight with every single cry of hers. He brushed back with his calloused hands the dark coily hair which curled around on her little forehead. Drenched all over and shivering every second, the rainwater stripped his shrivelled body to the bone. Jeremiah wrapped her in a piece of rag and held her close within his tattered coat trying his best to keep her warm. He shook her body slowly, sending her to a gentle slumber when bold colossal electric streaks of a bright forked lightning tore the sky into four parts, vaunting its mighty prowess, paving way for a violent thunder which rumbled and roared conjuring a new batch of battering blood curdling rains.

The little girl fulminated again into a series of unceasing cries as the tent roof toppled and fell to one side. Ada crawled slowly beside him, taking the child from his arms.

“Tis alright, sweetie, tis alright. Look a’ Mama! Look a’ Mama!” She tried comforting the adamant kid. Her eyes fluttered as she put one hand under her belly, feeling the boy who kicked from inside. She tore a strip of cloth from her gown and wrapped it around her baby. Rocking the child in her arms, she sang a rhymeless lullaby kissing her back to sleep.

“Will this ever end?” Jeremiah growled as the downpour increased, dropping down gallons of water-bombs. He put one hand around his wife and held her tight. The tent collapsed a bit more and hit his head. He pushed the polythene sheets a little and stared out at the street. A television set nestled inside a local retail store which sat opposite to their crumpled tent.

“We were all born equally…” The Congresswoman’s voice travelled through the sounds of devilish drums from above and into his ears. Jeremiah chuckled and tilted his head down, shaking it wildly.

“Sweedart,” he said to the little figure on the television. “We ain't born equally. No, we ain't.”

The nocturnal bird hooted from a distant cottonwood tree. It flexed its talons and pressed the bough of its perch and lowered its body a bit down. It then held forth its ankles, pushing the whole body forward and opened its umber wings, hopping into an astute flight with one swift leap. It set off into the buffeting rains and flew through the deep dark ebony skies. Under her lay a bizarre city, festooned with pleasure and pain, life and death.

Two lovers walked under one red parasol on their first date, the girl collecting raindrops in her hand and splattering them onto the boy’s face. A peasant sat smiling inside his little hut, its thatched roof crumbling down over him, thanking the rain, for now his crops would grow well. A basenji stood sniffing at the body of a refugee, struck dead by a lightning; died without a proof, died without a birth or death certificate and no one to care if he was dead or alive. A rich couple fondled each other, enjoying the natural air-conditioner, whilst in the next street a doomed family sat on the asphalt pavement, trying to keep each other warm and alive. An old lady grumbled about her garbs left to hang in the clothesline being doused in the rain. A Congresswoman pushed back the reporters and paparazzi who blocked her way and got into her matt grey Mercedes, smiling to herself that her speech would make the headlines. A weatherman stood on a busy street wearing a raincoat and was reporting into the camera in front of him that the rains were expected to last not more than an hour, whilst in the background a wealthy merchant cavilled over his business losses, not realising how lucky and blessed he was.

The bird went on soaring upwards and jiggled its body altogether, whirring its wings, shaking off the water droplets from its feathers. Funny, is it not? How many dimensions this world can behold.

Jets soared through the sky above the arena, leaving red, white, and blue streaks across the sky.

“Ain’t it beautiful?” I said into the mic, looking at the crowd as they stared up in awe. “Spectacular. Love it. My prediction is that the sports ball team is going to make a homerun down the ten yard line to make a slam dunk. Sports ball is the best sport, like, ever. Goodness, I love sports ball!

“Yeah, man. The Super Bowl is tonight. Looking forward to watching two teams I don’t give a darn about battle over a trophy I don’t give a darn about. Just another reason to eat food, really. If you didn’t catch on, I have no idea how football works. Okay, I do a little, I’m just not into it. When I say that I am there for the food, I mean that the only reason I am there is for the food. And it is hilarious to watch my father scream and yell at the TV, throw the remote, and pace up and down the hall in rage, trying his hardest not to punch a hole in the wall.

“He is a Seahawks fan (and, therefore, I identify myself as one when asked, even though I pay no attention whatsoever to it), so this year is especially tough with the Rams, the Seahawks’ arch nemesis, being in the Bowl.

“Can’t wait to watch him get so worked up every time whoever the other team is (see, I told you I didn’t pay attention) makes a bad play and the Rams make an advancement.

“But enough sports, who’s ready for some PEN TO THE PAPER, BABAAAAY!?”

Feelings numbed

Brain dumbed

By chit-chatters

Plenty mad hatters

And cruel batters

Swinging hard hits

Windows into bits

Just another attack

Innocents in the sack

And souls off-track

Wrongs all right

No one left to fight

No saviours, soldiers, a hero

It all goes to show

Blood in the snow

All good turned bad

All sane became mad

Souls caught in chains

Clinging to horses' manes

Riding through bloody rains

Hopefuls praying for change

Looked upon as strange

As the rest all wane

Losing track of the pain

Giving in to the strain

Madness reigns where evil overtakes

The Walls.

The Light.

No Window or Vent.

A Slot in the door that lets air in.

I might be alive, but I might as well be a rotting corpse.

There's warmth in here, from the light, but also cold, from the bare concrete floor.

I know I'm supposed to be here, but do they need to keep me here that long.

I listen for sounds,

I hear the blowing wind, some chatter from the outside, footsteps walking by and on occasion, a tray being slid in, from under the door. My meal.

But in here, All I hear is..................................................................

SILENCE.

I have nothing to do, nothing to talk to, well I have myself, but that doesn't really help that much seeing where I am.

I sit down on my mattress thinking that maybe, just maybe I could see someone.........

no human interaction is really getting to me. Just looking at a face would suffice.

The light stays on, if it's night or day, I don't know.

The only way to tell the time in here is by the hustle of lunch time, when everyone goes to eat and I get my meal.

It's

lonely

I wait as I always do, for someone to come with food then leave with my dishes then come again a few hours later then come again, then the same thing the next day and the day after that and it's been like that for months.

Feels like centuries.

The days move like years.

The hours drag along like weeks.

Each second makes my head fill with thoughts I never thought I had.

The boredom is killing me from the inside, I might be alive, but the time I want to spend moving

I might as well be a corpse. Waiting. Hoping for someone to come and claim my soul, because it's stuck in purgatory, my purgatory of solitude, where no one can come to me and I can't go to anyone.

All I do is wait.

Wait for them to let me out, so I can go back to my bed.

The next day,

I hear the knock for lunch,

but they don't give it to me under the door,

I wait for my meal, but that's not what happens,

the door moves, the sound of the lock sliding open, the loud clank when it reaches the end of it's journey.

My heart gets flooded with happiness and my body gains life, again.

I try to look at my salvation but the beauty of the light is just too much for my eyes to handle and I keep squinting. Even with my hands over my eyes.

A shadowy figure stands at the door, but it's no mystery who it is, he always comes here personally to see what becomes of the people in solitude.

To see if we're still here

or if we can't come back

because in here, you either lose your way or you stay on it

As my eyes adjust I see him better, then he starts talking

"I hope you had a nice time in here, these walls seem like a nice place to call home, huh."

Even though it was his voice, after all this time, it was nice to hear someone.

I could've just sat there, listening to him, to hear another voice, it felt unreal,

but I had to reply, and I couldn't let him think I was going soft

"If you really believe that, then why don't you spend 6 months in here."

"I'm just sayin', for someone who says he loves to talk, you sure have gotten some quiet time over the years."

"What can I say........... things happen."

"They, sure do. Well, your time's up, just gonna sit there?"

I hesitate to agree with him, showing off his power all the time, but another moment spent in here is another moment spent outside of reality,

another moment with boredom.

I stand up and get to the door, he steps out of the way and I walk out into hallway, two guards standing on either side of the door, waiting for me. The fluorescent lights hum, louder than I remember them to. I look in front of me and I see the hallway back to my room.

I start walking

the guards follow me and when I reach my room, he's sitting on his bed reading a book.

He looks over and sees me, puts his book down and stands up with a smile. The guard opens up the door, I walk in and the first thing I do is give him a hug.

"Whoa! didn't know you missed me so much."

"I didn't miss you, you just had something on your back, I was just brushing it off."

We both smile at each other, he shakes his head and hugs me back.

"It's good to have you back, ma' man."

"It's good to be back, homie."

After so long of being confined to one spot, I went from one cage to another. But instead of having walls and emptiness surround me, I now have bars that I can see through and a roommate that makes bad jokes.

Couldn't ask for anything more.

Hello.

How are you?

...

Not one for conversation, eh?

Me either.

...

That was a lie. Are you new here?

Me too.

...

That was another lie.

I tend to do that.

Sorry.

I've been here forever, I think. Well, as much as forever as I can remember.

I think I was born here.

I talk to all the new ones, but they always leave pretty quickly.

I'm not great company, I guess.

What do you remember?

...

Ok then.

Well, how did you get here?

...

Oh yeah. You don't remember.

Right.

...

Who am I?

Well Im...

...

I... Don't know.

No one's ever asked me that before...

Who am I...?

Did I forget?

Was I... someone?

...

Do you know??

Who am I??!

...

Well who are you??

...

What do you mean you don't know??

What do you mean you can't explain??

How can you not know who you are?

How are you...here?

Everyone who comes here is someone, everyone came from somewhere!

Everyone here knows who they are.

...

But... I'm here too.

And I don't know...

Did I... forget?

Have I been here so long that I've forgotten... who I am?

Can that happen?

Was...

Was no one here to...

Tell me where to go?

Or was I just so focused on helping everyone else...

That I forgot where I was supposed to go?

...

I can...

Leave?

I can just, go?

Like everyone else?

But then...

Who will help everyone else?

Will they all be left here like... I was?

...

Oh.

I suppose that you want to go too.

It's ok.

Everyone does.

She fell down the stairs in the dark, banging her hips and ankles until she landed. All her muscles were stiff; dull red aches turning brown in her body. She thought she had been holding a candle, but had she dropped it, or had it never been?

Wood grain on the floor, on the walls, the threat of splinters in her fingertips. She tried not to touch anything.

When her eyes had adjusted, she could see the faintest outline of the stairs, wooden stairs with gaps you could fall through, if you really tried. There might have been a hint of light at the top, the bottom of a door, or maybe not. She couldn't tell if she could see that far.

Water dripped somewhere, but the air was warm and musty and felt familiar. The space was almost friendly; and yet, she could feel threats in the air. The threat of a storm, static electricity. The threat of lightning. The threat of your candle going out. The threat of your candle lighting up a shadow in the corner.

Getting to her feet, she held up the candle. It was in her hand again, unlit, smelling of beeswax. She had no way to light it, which was nice. It would blur her night vision.

Was it night? She didn't know.

So she began to walk, as slowly as she could while still moving, pausing often. She didn't want to stand still, but was moving worse? The floor kept pricking her, but she found no splinters in her skin. Shadows hung cobweb-thick from the ceiling and she couldn't see anything but darkness and space and not-space, the shadows of walls.

She worried she'd been here for too long. She couldn't stand doing the same thing for too long. Had she been walking for too long, pausing for too long? The paragraph was too long, too many words.

Should she light the candle?

She wanted to. But she didn't.

My mind sometimes feel like an expressway, where writing ideas constantly flow back and forth.

Some take the nearest exit, getting worked into a story or journal that make their way here.

Others go to a Motel 6 off the exit and stay there - some temporarily, some permanently.

Some take the exit onto my page of notes for future story ideas - some ok with staying, others aggressively calling out to be chosen.

Some resign to the fact that they won't be chosen due to there simply not being enough time or energy to write everything that ever comes to mind, and some are even ok with that.

Me? I honestly wish I could give them all a good home.

They keep my mind sharp, and I truly appreciate them.

So writing ideas, please know that I love you all, and whether you make it into a piece or not,

Please know you're always welcome to stay here, with me.

I will always appreciate your company.

I am writing again.

Though I am sure it's not gonna work yet I am again weaving a fruitless dream. I know that it will also be thrown on the heap of unfulfilled desires and unfinished tasks. Still I am choosing to plan. Considering myself a bright optimistic, I am intentionally ignoring that I am just a fool. It's not gonna happen like all my other dreams but still I am planning and weaving a baseless dream.

It was late, but Alex did not have to work tomorrow. It was Monday, but it was his day off. He worked the Tuesday-Saturday shift, so his weekend is one day off from whaty some might consider a typical weekend. It suited him fine, he had the Monday to go to the dentist or whatever else is closed during the weekend, not that he has been to the dentist in a few years. Hopefully his teeth were okay. Tonight he was wondering what he wanted to do with his time, that was the problem with weekends. He didn't have to work, but he needed to do something. It felt wrong to just seat around all day without doing anything productive with his time. Sometimes he felt like he wanted to go to work on his day off. It felt empowering to go to work if he wanted to, but still actually have the choice to go or not to go.

Earlier in the day, he did actually get a text from his boss, Lisa, asking if he wanted to come work a few extra hours for overtime that day. Phil had called out. Again. Alex decided against going into work. It is not like Alex could be fired for not going into work on his day off. Hamburgers were not that important. However, now he needed to find something to do with his time. Something productive, but not work. He did not like working so that others could profit off his labor. He wanted to work for himself, but he found no help from his art degree. He posted tons of art online, but nobody was really interested. He got loans to pay for a degree that was not helping to pay for itself. He was in a hole with no way out, and nothing to do for fun, except for working on weekends, if he wanted to. However, no matter how much he worked, he barely got by with paying for his needs. Rent was high, and getting higher, his car was costing him more than it was worth, and his loan payments were very high.

The only thing that allowed Phil, his coworker, to get by in life, who was in a similar situation with a degree in history, was drinking. However, Phil had a drinking problem, that was why he did not show up to work. Alex knew this because Phil was next to him on the couch, passed out. It honestly surprised Alex that Phil still had a job, but Lisa never fired him.

"We need all the staff we can get," she often said. "Besides, he is the only worker who knows how to fix the milkshake machine when it breaks."It broke often, Phil probably had a hand in that.

"While, Phil," Alex told sleeping Phil as he reached for the bottle of expensive beer that Phil had offered him earlier in the evening, before Phil passed out after drinking four other similar bottles. "I got nothing to do, and nothing I can do to get out of this financial mess I'm in. Lets drink."