kibben
he and i didn't know each other well, even though we'd been dating for six months. we just weren't connecting, y'know, although i liked him enough. but there was something about spending three days hauling a 70lb canoe around a mosquito infested series of lakes that really, i dunno, we got past language and got into something deep.
clearly not, she said, i would never, she said, i couldn't, she said, and then she paused
a million remembrances, a thousand thoughts, each whirling through, passing by, zipping and blipping and shocking her as her mind suddenly asked,
could i?
would i?
have i?
the bombardment, too strong, too true, too close
full brakes
she says
no. i'd never.
sometime ago she told me about her mother. about the way they sang together when the stars stayed hidden from view. and when they were out. they kept the cold and the dark at bay by raising their voices, strong high voices, out of tune with the tune, but in tune with each other.
far from the cutest, far from trite, petite, small, adorable, far from all of that. not complete, not engage, not do, but end. ending of all. of all sensations, a swift chop, gravity working it's deadly purpose, pulling the blade down and then it's done. it's all over. not-even-blackness.
from the floor
and returning
to the floor
tasting the excesses of the sky
kissing the infinite possibilities of UP
but slowing
pausing
reaching
not quite kissing
not quite touching
so tantalisingly, temptingly, outrageously close
a pause
a suspended moment of hope
and then the descent
in denial at first
slowly
and then with speed
back
down
it was well past midnight, and the young man had been standing guard for over six hours. The dark called.
He looked at his sister, asleep in her bedroll, her hair still golden despite the pale moonlight. he frowned. he should have woken her hours ago, but she hadn't slept for days.
the dark called louder.
the young man's eyes drooped for just a moment... as he snapped back up, his skin went ice cold.
there were howls.
they were close.
they were getting closer.
he took a long, hard look at his hair. this was the first haircut he'd had in six years. six years of long hair, sticking to the back of his neck, his forehead, getting greasy, tickling his shoulders. he had been shocked when he finally saw his reflection, shocked even more when he saw it cut and styled: it had been a long time since anything about his appearance had been intentional, and the possibilities frightened him.
you can't keep on building castles.
you can't keep on hiding behind stone
with small chinks to throw missiles from
you can't just build a moat
bring up the drawbridge
and hunker down
eventually you'll run out of food
eventually you'll have to open the gates
and withered, starved, broken
step inch
slowly
across the moat that you built
to beg for help
from the enemies
that just wanted to say hello
he had been waiting for a very long time. he wasn't sure, before this, that a man could sweat so much in a room where the air conditioner had been set to Antarctic levels, but he could, and he did. Fourty five minutes. What if they needed time to find out the best way to tell him he was going to die?
it had been a long time coming, this fall, this historical autumn. they had been waiting for it, everyone knew it was coming. they could have done something about it, but here, in the beginning of the end, they knew and said out loud that they never wanted to stop it. something in their hearts told them, "the end is coming, and let it." let it all collapse.
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