Just Squawking

“They’re so beautiful!”

“What?”

“The birds! Little black spots blinking in the sunset, all red and orange and blazing. It must be amazing up there, the wind in your feathers, the sun ahead, a world below you like a living map. That would be wonderful, don’t you think?”

I blink, lick my dry, cracked lips. Darkness, that familiar shroud, pulls me close. Her voice, an excited, romantic lilt, melds with the distant honking until I struggle to distinguish them. It feels like she’s distant too, and I’m alone again. It’s just a bunch of squawking to me. Nothing but squawking. 

Everything Falling

The prodigal blogger returns! I pledge no oaths that I will gain the promised consistency, as life is still entirely crazy on every level – but now that Twelfth Night has come to an end (oh, such a bittersweet moment for us all!), I am attempting to set aside time to continue my Extreme Flash Fiction series. When production photos are released, I intend to devote a post to the play, the fabulous cast, and the amazing experience it was, but for now, I pray you are content with the next installment of this personal writing challenge of mine.

Skies turn dark. The wind chimes sing, the glass panes rattle at every violent gust. A screen door slaps the outer wall with constant, rusty, shuddering thuds. Thunder peels like a big bass drum. Crystalline drops patter, louder, louder, growing, pounding. Jagged whiteness shatters the shroud, slicing, shredding my darkness, there and gone again, but the rain keeps falling… everything is falling. 

“Turning”

 

Turning, turning, turning. It just keeps turning in my hands, the cool, slick clay. Coming to life beneath my fingers. Turning, turning, my foot keeps the rhythm. The clay takes shape like an elegant lady, dancing on ice. Everywhere is turning. Wet, red hands at work. A mournful whimper escapes my tight throat, a momentary lapse of focus leaves a soggy lump in the lady’s place. I look to the others for help, or solace. But they just keep turning, turning, turning.

“Not Running”

I could run almost before I could walk. I don’t remember not running. It’s as much a part of me as the skin that holds me in. We would race, play tag or hide and seek. It was fun. I called it fun. But then it got dark outside. 
The air is fresh and crisp. It feels good against my hot cheeks. My lungs drink it in like water, because I’m running again. I always run.