The GiftShe was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, facing away from her house. The tree behind her whispered like the curtain of a theater, pulling away with the grace of a nightgown; the stage a dark map of old, crumbling cement.Her jeans were faded blueprints and her arms were crossed like structural supports, holding up a pair of vacant eyes; haunted, almost
the color of dehydrated grass.I opened my front door. Light the color of old paper, no longer crisp, washed over my face. I went to her.Recognition lit like fireworks--flashed and burnt out quick.Theyre gone.I stood across from her, searched her overturned, pottery-bowl of a face. Murmured, Who?The kittens. Pause. Had to give them away. A strand of curly black hair corkscrewed across her face.Oh. The kittens. I swayed, unsteady. Now I knew why she looked as
the yearning seasonIt was the yearning season, when the dust that settles on old photograph albums flies for the first time in years on the breath of great, great-grandchildren, when antiques wont let you cease to feel their loneliness; when a stranger is a friend from childhood who doesnt even notice you in the crowd. When you sit. When you sit and hold up the weight of the world, the weight of reality, so that the couple on the other side of the street dont have to. So that they can be oblivious and you can dwell on the sorrow in the crumbling sidewalk for awhile. When your heart crumbles, just a little bit, like the sidewalk.When you know it will pass, but it will not pass. When everything is a distraction, but nothing holds your attention for long enough because you remember--you remember--you remember that you lost something
but you dont remember what.And it was the yearning season.
the wind is my favoriteThe light switches are bare, their covers stripped off. Metal and plastic and wires hide inside their little cave, hide within their simplicity. I sit on the porch swing and a bee cruises by. The mower hums happily as it munches on the lawn. The very air holds a natural music. Inside, the droll machines mumble the same mechanical dribble every day. Outside is a canopy of birds, dogs, insects, trains, airplanes, and four-wheeled vehicles in the distance. But, the wind is my favorite.
Description GamePrompt from illuminara: Be spontaneous.You should do it. Ryan took the stool from Katherine and looked for a spot in the back of the box truck.Do what--oh, not this again. Katherine walked over to the arm chair and leaned on it, waiting.Seriously, Ryan said, hoping down out of the truck and coming over to help with the furniture. Youve always wanted to, and youre practically fluent in Italian anyway.But I already explained this--I miss a year of practicing and composing if I go. Ryan grabbed his side of the arm chair and they lifted it.You can find a piano over there somewhere
Nu uh, Katherine grunted as they lifted the chair into the back of the vehicle. It doesnt work that way.Come on
youre always complaining about how your compositions lack that certain something