The slant of the light through the trees turned the hazy springtime air to gold. Everywhere you looked branches covered with new growth obscured what must have been a take-your-breath-away blue sky. The birds, which had fallen silent when I stumbled into their abode, sang sweetly. A pleasant counterpoint to my ragged breathing and pounding heart. I could get use to this I thought, as the picturesque lines blurred, but who has the time.
“I am, I’m here!”
Her rescue call sounded unsure at best.
The pilgrimage, as she had started referring to the now impossible climb, which had begun with so much hope and ambition was about to undo her. She could clearly remember herself telling others, in falsely modest tones, how rewarding this would be. Life changing, had been a phrase she used.
“Oh June, what’s next? Where are you off to now?”
“Me? I’m planning a pilgrimage [insert shy but knowing grin here]. It will help define my path. This opportunity will be life changing.”
The memory caused bile to rise in the back of her throat, and her more cynical side to sneer in approval of her fate. Maybe she was deserving of the lonely frigid darkness after scenes like that.
The unvoiced dare to give up hung in the air, corporeal.
The thought of abandoning the path reeked of failure and rang of waste, the giving up would be worse than never trying. As the decision slowly solidified the tears upon her cheek were both joyful and filled with sorrow.
She turned away and walked with defeat. Each sure step proof positive that she’s done something wrong as only struggle and strife could measure the true worth of an endeavor.
Her progress slowed as regret replaced defeat, but still she moved forward.
Her eyes averted she missed the flowers.
Her internal dialogue so loud she missed the bird song.
Until the path stoped short…
“I am here!”
Her roar of triumph was undeniable.
All rights to the owner who I thank for posting such a beautiful image.
It pulled at his attention constantly, and just like the itch you cannot scratch this only made things worse. Nothing seemed to help. Thinking about it, trying not to think about it, and researching it online all had the same effect…none. The twitch, it seemed, was here to stay.
Image by Travis Howell as seen on Dribble
I’m dying.
That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Hell, it’s the only thought my chaotic mind seems to be able to latch hold of. If I’m dying then the crushing defeat seems right. The helplessness. The desperate resignation. The hollowness just south of my heart and north of my navel.
Is it bad to want this, to smile through the tears in an attempt at grim humor? Will that smile remain once I finally give up, or slide away like so many other things I’ve lost? How long till nothing’s left?
How many drinks till none of this matters? Till the whiskey burn is all I feel. Finally warm where the nerves are shot and the dull ache throbs.
How much longer till I give in?
The spinning stops. The silence is everywhere. The cold seeps back in just as the color leeches out.
Otis looked up, dark eyes as round as saucers, at the full moon. A quick check on his fingers confirmed it. This was the 12thmoon. Knowing that it would only cause hunger pains he walked down the street to the corner bakery anyway. Smudging the oversized windows with his grimy fingers he was unable to stop imagining how the large fluffy bites might actually taste.
He didn’t remember why he had started to keep count, tracking the moons through the years, but Otis remembered when. The snow had been nearly waist deep as he walked through the night, and the biggest full moon he had ever seen had followed his struggle. Now when he saw the full moon he felt strong and 12 in a row meant… something even if he couldn’t quite explain what it was.
Having leaned even closer to the display window the bell above the bakery door made Otis jump as it rang out. The woman who stood in the door way looked terrifying as a backlit and shadowy figure. Otis considered bolting.
“Wait…” the woman said reading the instinct in his eyes. She held out a small box in one hand still holding the door open with the other.
Otis hesitated only momentarily, fearing the trap of easily grabbable things, before snatching it and running off.
Her shoulders sag slightly. The invisible weight she carries obvious only when no one is watching, she hopes. She takes a deep breath. It’s fair to say she runs on caffeine and pure determination. You can see it in the tightness around her eyes and the forward lean of her posture. She’s poised for motion, having accepted that retreat and advance are both valid options.
Always looking for approval she dons the clothes, does her hair, and applies the mask. Squared shoulders, keen eyes, and an easy smile complete the look. She tells herself she is in control willing it to be true.
I turn away from the mirror before doubt shatters the moment, confident in my lack of confidence.
The tension was a palpable solid thing that was slowly filling the room forcing even the oxygen out. They stood locked in place unable to look away slightly out of breath. Maybe it was ice forming between them, crystalline enough to break but too rigid to allow for shifting, she thought. A lot had cooled recently so ice made a poetic kind of sense. He shifted his weight and broke eye contact to look at the door. More specifically the shattered plate of cookies littering the floor just in front of the door.
“What do you want me to do?” He asked slowly, almost defeated.
Stop, she wanted to scream, honestly she wanted it all to stop. Even though she knew it would never happen, never could, that’s what she really wanted.
“People depend on me you know,” as he said the words she could hear his jaw tightening. “If I don’t go… well I don’t even want to think about what could happen.”
“To you or your people Chris?”
His head shot up and his mouth open and closed but no words came out. She walked over to him, eyes bright with unshed tears crunching cookies and platter as she went, and handed him a card. “I’m done Chris. I just, I just can’t do this anymore.” She paused for a moment unsure how to continue. “There’s a way to stop it.”
He looked at the card.
“There’s a clause for it.”
As she walked purposefully toward the hill crest the leaves didn’t crunch underfoot, they whispered. Still their message was clear.
Respect the passage of time.
Diana didn’t need the reminder though. Everywhere she looked the delicate balance of life and death was being played out for all to see. Healthy feed corn on withered stalks. Vibrant colored trees dropping leaves like rainclouds. Even the air seemed to spin with wild abandon from sunlight warmed to bonfire perfumed icy breath.
She like the manic feel of Fall. The frenzy of soaking up every last dappled drop of light before night overtook day. The rush of completing each autumnal event on the list. Apple picking, check. Pumpkin carving, check. Cider mulling, double check. Each outdoor activity fighting off the not so secret fear of a pending winter. To Diana euphoria tempered with melancholia was the ideal mindset for this moody season.
From August through November she had watched the world change before her very eyes with each storm or frosty morning. Finally, perched at last upon her vantage point the whole of Diana’s small town was laid out before her. It was quaint, her town, filled with a bright history, like so many others, but it’s future was shadowy at best. For a moment it seemed to Diana that she could see both past and future in that panorama. For a second the frenzy gave way to clarity.
Seasons change, tides turn, and time marches on.
In the face of such certainty Diana felt easy for the first time in months. We are all in this together she thought, looking longingly over her shoulder jealously wanting to hold on to her moment of peace, during dark winter nights and balmy summer days… only time would tell which way the balance was falling.
Jasper was every bit an “average Joe”. He loved his small-town roots, his perfectly worn in steal-toe boots, and his permanently coffee stained 42 ouncer plastic mug representing the one and only gas station before the junction. He had watched with mild fascination as the old community office just across the street had been transformed into a den of over-priced coffee, never feeling the pull of the iconic green and white cup sporting his name in someone else’s handwriting, but today was different. Today, Jasper was more than curious. Today, Jasper was in need.
The Gas’N’Go had failed him. Faulty wiring in the hot plate, where the decaf usually sat, had shorted the whole thing leaving nothing behind but an OUT OF SERVICE sign and a whiff of overheated metal coils. So now Jasper stood just within the doors of what he affectionately referred to as the Coffee Cult when making fun of his “on-trend” friends. It was a lot to take in. His first thought was that commercialization was alive and well. Quickly followed by a rapid fire 20 questions game with his sensory response to the environment. What is that sound? Was it a bag pipe? What is that smell? Carmel? Vanilla? It was like stumbling into a new age rock concert held on a scented candle. Even his eyes had to adjust to the low jewel toned mood lighting.
Two minutes later and Jasper was at the “I’ll be damned” stage. He had read the handwritten menu three times and could not find the word coffee anywhere. He was sure one of the items must be a simple coffee, but since fancy to him had meant a flavored creamer, things like Amerciano held no coffee-based meaning to him. By the time he made it to the woman at the register he had formulated a plan.
“Mornin’ I’ll have the least expensive coffee you serve.”
It had made sense to him a small black coffee was enough to get him to work and while it wouldn’t last all day, like the 42 ounces would have, it was better than nothing. Also, a plain coffee should be the least expensive thing on the menu and ordering this way would require no fancy jargon.
“That’s the best order I have heard all day!” The lady with an ear full of metal exclaimed flashing a smile that was pure manic glee. “You are in for a fun ride love,” she said her mouth drawing thin, “Name?”
“Uh, Jasper.” He was sure he had made a misstep, black coffee wouldn’t have gotten that response, but it seemed he was too far in for a graceful retreat.
“Tall PSL for,” direct eye contact then a wink, “for Uh Jasper”.
He walked to the PICK UP sign and scanned the hand drawn posters trying to decipher what he had ordered. He didn’t have to look very hard the center board was dominated by the words Special: Pumpkin Spice Latte. “What the…”
“Uhjazpeer!”
He almost missed his own name. “Hey, I just wanted coffee,” he offered to the man with an orange side swept Mohawk.
“That is coffee.” Came the response as the man hurried off to the next item on his list.
“Damn it.”
Jasper grabbed his “coffee” and headed over to the fixin’s counter. He tried the drink, eyes squinted, to assess how best to handle the PSL. An intense combination of kitchen spices lingered with a nice warmth in the back of his throat triggering an immediate need for another taste. Lid forgotten he walked over the nearest booth and sat. Savoring the aroma and smooth frothiness he alternated between gulps and sips till he hit foam. It was gone. Jasper sat still for a moment. Shocked. Confused. Unsatisfied.
He stood quickly, not sure if he would run for the door or the counter, then it hit him. His eyes went dim and a roar of electric sound tore at his sanity. His scalp and face recoiled from the sensation of a million fire ants angrily making their way from one side to the other. His chest felt tight and his extremities squeezed. Stumbling forward Jasper made it to the bathroom before he collapsed.
Blinking his eyes, he first noticed that the music in the bathroom was much nicer than what they had been playing in the shop. The tightness had disappeared, so he chanced walking to the sink. In the mirror he could barely recognize himself. His clothes looked at least two sizes too small, the burning sensation on the right side of his scalp had left him with an exaggerated asymmetrical part, and his face which still itched and stung had sprouted a full beard. The door opened pulling a tendril of cinnamon scented air towards Jasper. His spine stiffened, all concerns forgotten except for the insatiable need for his next pumpkin spice latte.
The woman behind the counter was still smiling the manic grin. “What’ll it be?”
The day’s rain could still be heard in the leaves of the trees, softly rustling in the gentle breeze, and plodding off the broken drain pipe onto the slate slab walkway below. The sky, however, had been washed clean. The stars sparkled and the moon’s illumination fell softly upon the night. While the easy rise and fall of the nighttime thrum sang of rest and eternity.
It represented a moment of peace, and in that moment everything was beautiful.
