Samandiriel
Fallen Angel
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2005
- Posts
- 7,757
Its a good thing.impressive said:
And the Bitch is gone....an exercise in writing.
- Thread starter ABSTRUSE
- Start date
Stella_Omega
No Gentleman
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2005
- Posts
- 39,700
North to the forest
Did I mention how much I hate the cold? I do, I hate it and I never seem to know how to dress for it. Nevertheless, this forest is magical in the grey light. These are the tallest trees we've ever seen standing solemn about us. I am enchanted by the colors of the Sequoias; the russet of their shaggy skins glows from within. Above, the soft feathery needles glow ghostly green, and the snowflakes flakes drifting down, white against the grey... All around us is the kind of quiet that is made up of the wind high overhead, the faint drip of snowfall, and the crunch of a footfall in the snow.
I want to wander a while here before we go back to the little cabin, the aromatic fire and the steaming mugs, the stereo and the conversations. Right now, I am hushed and awed and small, and very, very grateful to feel that way.
Did I mention how much I hate the cold? I do, I hate it and I never seem to know how to dress for it. Nevertheless, this forest is magical in the grey light. These are the tallest trees we've ever seen standing solemn about us. I am enchanted by the colors of the Sequoias; the russet of their shaggy skins glows from within. Above, the soft feathery needles glow ghostly green, and the snowflakes flakes drifting down, white against the grey... All around us is the kind of quiet that is made up of the wind high overhead, the faint drip of snowfall, and the crunch of a footfall in the snow.
I want to wander a while here before we go back to the little cabin, the aromatic fire and the steaming mugs, the stereo and the conversations. Right now, I am hushed and awed and small, and very, very grateful to feel that way.
Stella_Omega
No Gentleman
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2005
- Posts
- 39,700
Samandriel... Run away with me to India... 
fcdc
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2007
- Posts
- 491
I have no idea what brought this on. I promise I'm not this grim in real life! Maybe it was mentioning the Emily Dickinson house earlier.
-----
West: Deserted Village
There might have been running water there once upon a time, but on this late September day, there were just small, pooling sluices that carved along the sides of the dirt road, the only touch of moisture on the muddy ground brought by that afternoon's rainfall. Indian summer had warmed the village, but it could not make it spring to life.
My path was cushioned underfoot by the dirt, small splatters flying up onto my hiking boots as I trudged through the street. "Eminence," proclaimed the sign on the main road, and I almost laughed. The town didn't look eminent at all.
It looked dead. It felt dead. The burnt and brownish leaves were paper-thin underfoot, crinkling like tissue, and the scent of roadside flowers was old and chokingly floral, like my grandmother's perfume. There was a heaviness in the air, prickling my arms a little. It had rained a few hours ago. It would rain again.
The scent of rich earth assaulted my nose. The dirt of the old graveyard smelled strong enough that I could taste it, the flavor crouching far back on my tongue, bitter like chocolate or coffee, rich with death.
Nobody I knew was dead there. We hadn't grown up here. The names of the graveyard were familiar, though - blue-collar names of the nineteenth century. John. George. William. Emily. Anne. Sarah. Strong, solid-sounding names, not the fripperies of Cornelius Vanderbilt or his children named Phebe, or Ethelinda. The names were clear, and the death dates were clear too: Half of them were children under ten, dying of childhood diseases.
People in this town weren't expected to live past thirty, it seemed, and here I was, at twenty-five - five years away from their death. I shivered, a crawl creeping down my spine, and turned away.
The houses across the street from the graveyard, lemon-yellow and seashell-pink, looked almost insultingly pastel. I couldn't look at them. I stared straight ahead and started to walk again, stopping for the squirrel that crossed my path, chattering at me as if I had intruded. I knew I had trespassed on the life of the squirrel, and on many other lives here as well, however eternal.
The town's western limit was marked by a scraggly fence across the road, easily climbed, and a long-unattended cow pasture, high with grass. Only when I had clambered across the fence did the rain start to fall, and I ran, dripping with death, autumnal blazes springing like hellfire before my eyes.
-----
West: Deserted Village
There might have been running water there once upon a time, but on this late September day, there were just small, pooling sluices that carved along the sides of the dirt road, the only touch of moisture on the muddy ground brought by that afternoon's rainfall. Indian summer had warmed the village, but it could not make it spring to life.
My path was cushioned underfoot by the dirt, small splatters flying up onto my hiking boots as I trudged through the street. "Eminence," proclaimed the sign on the main road, and I almost laughed. The town didn't look eminent at all.
It looked dead. It felt dead. The burnt and brownish leaves were paper-thin underfoot, crinkling like tissue, and the scent of roadside flowers was old and chokingly floral, like my grandmother's perfume. There was a heaviness in the air, prickling my arms a little. It had rained a few hours ago. It would rain again.
The scent of rich earth assaulted my nose. The dirt of the old graveyard smelled strong enough that I could taste it, the flavor crouching far back on my tongue, bitter like chocolate or coffee, rich with death.
Nobody I knew was dead there. We hadn't grown up here. The names of the graveyard were familiar, though - blue-collar names of the nineteenth century. John. George. William. Emily. Anne. Sarah. Strong, solid-sounding names, not the fripperies of Cornelius Vanderbilt or his children named Phebe, or Ethelinda. The names were clear, and the death dates were clear too: Half of them were children under ten, dying of childhood diseases.
People in this town weren't expected to live past thirty, it seemed, and here I was, at twenty-five - five years away from their death. I shivered, a crawl creeping down my spine, and turned away.
The houses across the street from the graveyard, lemon-yellow and seashell-pink, looked almost insultingly pastel. I couldn't look at them. I stared straight ahead and started to walk again, stopping for the squirrel that crossed my path, chattering at me as if I had intruded. I knew I had trespassed on the life of the squirrel, and on many other lives here as well, however eternal.
The town's western limit was marked by a scraggly fence across the road, easily climbed, and a long-unattended cow pasture, high with grass. Only when I had clambered across the fence did the rain start to fall, and I ran, dripping with death, autumnal blazes springing like hellfire before my eyes.
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slyc_willie
Captain Crash
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2006
- Posts
- 17,732
West
I did not know how I came to this place. My memories, if you could call them that, were little more than a heavy fog rising from some hidden valley.
The buildings and dwellings were slight, simple, small; built only for their general purpose and nothing more. There was the Shop, the Gas Station, the Bar, and . . . the homes of those whom I did not see.
I could hear the crunch of dry gravel beneath my shoes as if I were walking through an auditorium. I called out to see if there were others to hear my voice; I was given no rejoinder.
A sputtering neon sign caught my attention; I stepped across the ghostly street, glancing briefly to the roadsign in green that read, 'Salvation, 66 miles.' I did not think much of it at the moment.
The bar was dark, pungent with the aromas of lost and false hopes. Hidden speakers lamented the loss of love a la Patsy Cline. I took a seat at the bar, looked to the bartender.
"What'll it be?" he asked gruffly, acting as if business was the last thing he wanted.
"Beer?"
He soured. "Light or dark."
I managed a smile. "Dark, of course."
He pulled a tab, looking like he was jerking on the leg of a protesting calf, passed me the beer. No head. I sighed inwardly, sipped the caustic brew. winced in response.
"What's wrong?" the bartender asked.
I smacked parched lips. "It's dead."
The bartender laughed and leaned upon the bar. "What did you expect?"
I frowned. "You got a fresh keg?"
He shook his head. "Don't think you get it," he said, then spat on the floor, not looking to me. "Everything's dead here. Get used to it, or move on."
I did not know how I came to this place. My memories, if you could call them that, were little more than a heavy fog rising from some hidden valley.
The buildings and dwellings were slight, simple, small; built only for their general purpose and nothing more. There was the Shop, the Gas Station, the Bar, and . . . the homes of those whom I did not see.
I could hear the crunch of dry gravel beneath my shoes as if I were walking through an auditorium. I called out to see if there were others to hear my voice; I was given no rejoinder.
A sputtering neon sign caught my attention; I stepped across the ghostly street, glancing briefly to the roadsign in green that read, 'Salvation, 66 miles.' I did not think much of it at the moment.
The bar was dark, pungent with the aromas of lost and false hopes. Hidden speakers lamented the loss of love a la Patsy Cline. I took a seat at the bar, looked to the bartender.
"What'll it be?" he asked gruffly, acting as if business was the last thing he wanted.
"Beer?"
He soured. "Light or dark."
I managed a smile. "Dark, of course."
He pulled a tab, looking like he was jerking on the leg of a protesting calf, passed me the beer. No head. I sighed inwardly, sipped the caustic brew. winced in response.
"What's wrong?" the bartender asked.
I smacked parched lips. "It's dead."
The bartender laughed and leaned upon the bar. "What did you expect?"
I frowned. "You got a fresh keg?"
He shook his head. "Don't think you get it," he said, then spat on the floor, not looking to me. "Everything's dead here. Get used to it, or move on."
fcdc
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2007
- Posts
- 491
Sawyer? Izzat you?
http://z.about.com/d/lost/1/0/U/2/-/-/29-Sawyer-With-Christian-Sh.jpg
Sorry, that's instantly what I thought of though.
Clearly I need to stop watching TV.
http://z.about.com/d/lost/1/0/U/2/-/-/29-Sawyer-With-Christian-Sh.jpg
Sorry, that's instantly what I thought of though.
Clearly I need to stop watching TV.
slyc_willie
Captain Crash
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2006
- Posts
- 17,732
fcdc said:
Don't even . . .
You don't know me. Don't pretend you do.
And . . . maybe you should watch less TV
fcdc
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2007
- Posts
- 491
slyc_willie said:And . . . maybe you should watch less TV
Finals versus 'Lost,' containing at least two good pieces of eye candy: Josh Holloway and Naveen Andrews.
'Lost' wins!
-----
To get back to the subject of the thread, rather than derail it further: We allowed to do more than one?
jomar
chillin
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2006
- Posts
- 27,663
Three thousand feet above the snow blanketed Canadian wilderness, the only sound was the rush of air along the fuselage of the 1967 DeHavilland Beaver. Two-thirds of the way to the Snapper Lake Lodge, deep in the Canadian wilderness, the Beaver’s engine belched, coughed, sputtered and - stopped.
As he watched the propeller’s slow rotation, Chase wondered if this could be another one of Ruane’s little messages. His beautiful red haired mechanic and lover was prone to letting him know directly or indirectly when he had managed to piss her off.
But Chase dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. No, Ruane had pulled some crazy ass stunts before when she got a head of steam built up, but she would <I>never</I> shut down an engine in mid-flight. She was far too competent a professional for that. Chase began to run through a procedural checklist.
Chase and Ruane were business partners and together owned Busy Beaver Bush Tours. They had lovingly restored their old DeHavilland workhorse. Chase knew every rivet and washer on his beloved Beaver and every little quirk; like how she wanted to climb when banking right, and to dive when carving left. He knew the old Beaver had it in her to deliver them safely. He trusted Ruane’s skills implicitly, and she knew no superior as a mechanic. Ruane loved that Beaver as much as Chase did, maybe more, and kept her in pristine condition.
“What the hell’s wrong with the engine?” demanded Parker Dill, the chubby and balding academic sitting in the seat behind Chase. Being a full professor and department chair, Dill was used to being in charge and for things to go his way. But of course, that was back in civilization where his boorishness was tolerated out of fear of retribution.
“No worries, friends, no worries. Just look around. Beautiful, isn’t it? The sky’s so clear you can practically see Vancouver.” Chase cocked his head to the side. Maureen’s stylishly short blond hair, her voluptuous figure and ample breasts involuntarily drew his eye. He thought he saw her legs part slightly. “I’ll restart in a minute. In the meantime, enjoy the unspoiled view.”
Chase turned his attention back to the engine. Just before shutdown the dials had looked good, the oil pressure was holding, and the engine sounded strong.
He felt an unusually strong updraft rock the Beaver. He feathered the flaps, nudged the yoke, entered a shallow dive then pulled up, taking advantage of the strong wind to climb. Repeating this, he skillfully scalloped the Beaver several hundred feet higher. When the updraft passed, Chase pushed the yoke forward and the Beaver gracefully arced into another dive.
Before takeoff Maureen watched Chase closely as he inspected the Beaver, and his confidence was comforting. She met Chase just prior to the flight, and as the Beaver descended she thought back when she first saw him. She was immediately attracted to Chase as he strode out of the hanger to greet her and Parker. She liked his rough hands when they shook, holding hers a beat too long. She recalled his ruggedly handsome face. He had an easy sexy smile, a barely chipped tooth added to his appeal. Maureen guessed Chase was about six foot three. With broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, Maureen wondered what he looked like with his shirt off. She imagined he would be hard and muscular, not at all soft.
As the Beaver dove toward the trees, Maureen had the odd urge to run her manicured fingers through his tousled brown hair. She imagined what kind of lover he would be, and as she did, a plan took form. Maureen became moist and wondered if Chase could sense her arousal in the confined space of the cockpit.
She watched Chase check the instruments, toggle this switch and tap that dial, never appearing concerned that they were plunging ever downward, ever closer to the magnificent pine forest rushing at them with apparently increasing speed.
Chase let the Beaver gather airspeed and pressed the ignition switch. With the wind aiding propeller rotation, the engine sputtered to life, coughed several times and - went silent. Chase took a deep breath, thought, <I>Uh oh.</I> He angled Beaver into a slightly steeper dive, adjusted the choke, pressed the ignition switch and the updated Pratt and Whitney PT-6 turbo engine roared to life and held. <I>That’s my girl</I>, Chase thought. Under the engine’s drone he heard Maureen’s soft moan when he pulled the Beaver smartly up, barely a hundred feet from the wispy tops of the giant pines.
Stella_Omega
No Gentleman
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2005
- Posts
- 39,700
Josh Halloway is a box of chocolates.fcdc said:
Back to the subject, you're encouraged to do all four of them!
Fallenfromgrace
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 13, 2006
- Posts
- 12,322
Travel South & Greet the Ocean
The sky was streaked in light hues of yellow and pink and the air heavy with salt and spray. I was accutely aware of the solitude surrounding me as i dipped and weaved in and out of the softly rolling waves. Looking around me as i searched for shore, there was not a soul in sight. No birds kissing the sky, making me envious of their closeness to the heavens, no trace of man on the shore or scarring the waters. Too early.
By now the water had lost the sting that stiffened my body when i first entered and i moved freely without hesitance. I revelled silently in the feel of my bare skin embracing each droplet of water as it caressed me. Streams of water brushing over every inch of me, like lithe fingers of a lover finding those perfect rhythms within me.
As i moved below the surface i let myself go, lost in the silent world surrounding me, filling my ears with nothingness. Wrapping around every inch of me. The salt water clung heavily in my hair but i didnt care as i flew below the surface, hidden away in my own place.
Breaking the surface the fingers combed back through my hair and stroked down the skin of my back and chest. I studied the charriot of fire setting ablaze the eastern sky, slowly drawing nearer to wake the world in which i was an unwitting part.
I wasnt ready for the world to join me in conciousness yet and so i slipped back into the silky folds and waves of water to escape. I'd meet the world when i was ready to share myself with them. In time.
Perhaps for now i could discover Atlantis.
The sky was streaked in light hues of yellow and pink and the air heavy with salt and spray. I was accutely aware of the solitude surrounding me as i dipped and weaved in and out of the softly rolling waves. Looking around me as i searched for shore, there was not a soul in sight. No birds kissing the sky, making me envious of their closeness to the heavens, no trace of man on the shore or scarring the waters. Too early.
By now the water had lost the sting that stiffened my body when i first entered and i moved freely without hesitance. I revelled silently in the feel of my bare skin embracing each droplet of water as it caressed me. Streams of water brushing over every inch of me, like lithe fingers of a lover finding those perfect rhythms within me.
As i moved below the surface i let myself go, lost in the silent world surrounding me, filling my ears with nothingness. Wrapping around every inch of me. The salt water clung heavily in my hair but i didnt care as i flew below the surface, hidden away in my own place.
Breaking the surface the fingers combed back through my hair and stroked down the skin of my back and chest. I studied the charriot of fire setting ablaze the eastern sky, slowly drawing nearer to wake the world in which i was an unwitting part.
I wasnt ready for the world to join me in conciousness yet and so i slipped back into the silky folds and waves of water to escape. I'd meet the world when i was ready to share myself with them. In time.
Perhaps for now i could discover Atlantis.
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scriptordelecto
Ethereal Girl
- Joined
- Jul 27, 2006
- Posts
- 2,918
East
I walked as quickly as I could down the sidewalk. The cold drizzle falling from the sky rolled in rivulets down my exposed face and arms. I didn’t notice. Around me, people crowded the streets in the usual mundane ebb and flow. I increased my gait trying to fight against the tide.
I went through this every day, the futility of it wearing away bits of my soul, but I had no choice.
I reached the café just as he was leaving, as always in a hurry. I watched with bated breath. Would this be the time he noticed me?
He brushed right past, his shoulder knocking me back until I stumbled. The horrid screeching sound, like vultures circling, ended my torment this day.
It would all begin again tomorrow.
I walked as quickly as I could down the sidewalk. The cold drizzle falling from the sky rolled in rivulets down my exposed face and arms. I didn’t notice. Around me, people crowded the streets in the usual mundane ebb and flow. I increased my gait trying to fight against the tide.
I went through this every day, the futility of it wearing away bits of my soul, but I had no choice.
I reached the café just as he was leaving, as always in a hurry. I watched with bated breath. Would this be the time he noticed me?
He brushed right past, his shoulder knocking me back until I stumbled. The horrid screeching sound, like vultures circling, ended my torment this day.
It would all begin again tomorrow.
FatDino
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Mar 26, 2007
- Posts
- 7,387
I go east, expecting to see you even if just for one more time.
I see the ocean. I hear the waves lost in their own melody. The sun is rising, its first rays of light are creeping along the surface of water, penetrating the night. I see some sparkles, and the reflection of a new day. My mind travels for thousands of miles, follows those rays to where they originate. Closing my eyes, I let the wind carry my imagination to that place, the place where someone has been keeping a part of me.
My eyes are still closed, not much light around, yet I experience no darkness. Lively images fill my head, images of you. I see your smiles, I hear your laughter, I feel your touch, I taste your sweetness and I can smell your earthly aroma. Memories of you intoxicate my senses, like a drug I can never get enough of, yet they’re all that I have of you. Have been for so long.
I go east. My feet reach the wet sand; the waves rhythmically brush against my skin. In the morning everything feels so cool, so fresh, and so peaceful.
I hear a bird chirping somewhere, still with my eyes closed, my head turns to the direction where I think the pleasant sound has come from. Another chirp, a smile slowly develops on my face. I take in a deep breath, all the while trying to make out the various smells the ocean brings.
Images of you are still flashing in my mind. Coherent or not, they are wonderful. A breeze gently pushes a few strands of my hair sideway; somehow, it feels like your hands are caressing my face. I dare not open my eyes, for the fear reality will shatter this imaginary moment.
My feet stop in the water, yet my mind continues wandering to the east, where it feels the most complete. Maybe it’s because I have forgotten something there. I don’t know what exactly, but at this moment, I know I have forgotten to say “I love you.”
I see the ocean. I hear the waves lost in their own melody. The sun is rising, its first rays of light are creeping along the surface of water, penetrating the night. I see some sparkles, and the reflection of a new day. My mind travels for thousands of miles, follows those rays to where they originate. Closing my eyes, I let the wind carry my imagination to that place, the place where someone has been keeping a part of me.
My eyes are still closed, not much light around, yet I experience no darkness. Lively images fill my head, images of you. I see your smiles, I hear your laughter, I feel your touch, I taste your sweetness and I can smell your earthly aroma. Memories of you intoxicate my senses, like a drug I can never get enough of, yet they’re all that I have of you. Have been for so long.
I go east. My feet reach the wet sand; the waves rhythmically brush against my skin. In the morning everything feels so cool, so fresh, and so peaceful.
I hear a bird chirping somewhere, still with my eyes closed, my head turns to the direction where I think the pleasant sound has come from. Another chirp, a smile slowly develops on my face. I take in a deep breath, all the while trying to make out the various smells the ocean brings.
Images of you are still flashing in my mind. Coherent or not, they are wonderful. A breeze gently pushes a few strands of my hair sideway; somehow, it feels like your hands are caressing my face. I dare not open my eyes, for the fear reality will shatter this imaginary moment.
My feet stop in the water, yet my mind continues wandering to the east, where it feels the most complete. Maybe it’s because I have forgotten something there. I don’t know what exactly, but at this moment, I know I have forgotten to say “I love you.”
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cloudy
Alabama Slammer
- Joined
- Mar 23, 2004
- Posts
- 37,997
North
I wake thinking that he's there in the room with me. I heard his voice, I know I did, but of course, he isn't there. Still, he calls to me silently, insistently, and he knows that I'll answer his call once again. It would be impossible for me not to.
My car limped along until yesterday. It made it's valiant last stand somewhere in the middle of Ohio. I know it made it that far because the sameness of the flat landscape lulled me into a false sense of security. I didn't hear the last gasps of the engine until it was too late, and then I had to abandon my traveling companion on the side of the road, and continue on foot until the white-haired woman with the kind heart took pity on me, and drove me to the next exit that held a hotel.
Ah, well. I'll get there. Riding, running, walking, it doesn't really matter. I'll still get there.
A quick shower and then I shoulder my pack, and leave the shelter of the hotel room. The sun at this higher lattitude is kinder, more forgiving that that I am used to. It's warmth is welcome here. I know it will be even kinder the further north I go.
Again, his voice says my name within my thoughts, within my memories. I could convince myself he's not really calling me, I suppose, but I know he does. He always has.
The pavement of the road is warm beneath the thin soles of my shoes. They weren't really made for the serious walking I have ahead of me. I climb the ramp back up to the interstate, and the hope that I may not really have to walk that far creeps into my mind before I chase it away with reality: I am at least 400 miles from home, and no sure way to get there but the way my ancestors used to traverse this land.
Not even a dog travoise in sight. The thought brings a smile. I can amuse myself so easily.
His voice floats by on the early spring breeze, reminding me to get down to business, and come home. I adjust the pack on my shoulder so that it is more comfortable, place a hopeful non-threatening smile on my face, and stick out my thumb.
I wake thinking that he's there in the room with me. I heard his voice, I know I did, but of course, he isn't there. Still, he calls to me silently, insistently, and he knows that I'll answer his call once again. It would be impossible for me not to.
My car limped along until yesterday. It made it's valiant last stand somewhere in the middle of Ohio. I know it made it that far because the sameness of the flat landscape lulled me into a false sense of security. I didn't hear the last gasps of the engine until it was too late, and then I had to abandon my traveling companion on the side of the road, and continue on foot until the white-haired woman with the kind heart took pity on me, and drove me to the next exit that held a hotel.
Ah, well. I'll get there. Riding, running, walking, it doesn't really matter. I'll still get there.
A quick shower and then I shoulder my pack, and leave the shelter of the hotel room. The sun at this higher lattitude is kinder, more forgiving that that I am used to. It's warmth is welcome here. I know it will be even kinder the further north I go.
Again, his voice says my name within my thoughts, within my memories. I could convince myself he's not really calling me, I suppose, but I know he does. He always has.
The pavement of the road is warm beneath the thin soles of my shoes. They weren't really made for the serious walking I have ahead of me. I climb the ramp back up to the interstate, and the hope that I may not really have to walk that far creeps into my mind before I chase it away with reality: I am at least 400 miles from home, and no sure way to get there but the way my ancestors used to traverse this land.
Not even a dog travoise in sight. The thought brings a smile. I can amuse myself so easily.
His voice floats by on the early spring breeze, reminding me to get down to business, and come home. I adjust the pack on my shoulder so that it is more comfortable, place a hopeful non-threatening smile on my face, and stick out my thumb.
_Lynn_
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2006
- Posts
- 49,504
East ---a city street
Horns blared from every direction. The crosswalks filled up with the lunch crowd, all trying to get somewhere before the others did. Delivery trucks were parked wherever the drivers could find a spot. Shop owners stood in their doorways, keeping guard on their wares. The heat was oppressive.
Every time I looked to the sky, another building blocked my view. Made of cement and windows, the colors all blended together. Pigeons perched on the window ledges, just waiting for the right shoulder to drop their days' filth on.
Taking a street map from my pocket, I stopped to check it, only to immediately get hit in the side by someone running in their work attire. Slumping my shoulders, trying to think, the odor here is unbearable. Wrinkling my nose, I look around for the source. The heated grate under my feet is an easy place for the homeless to urinate in at night, the flower shop clerk tells me as she leans against her doorway.
I want to burn my shoes now. The thought of what she told me is making me ill. I have to go back to my hotel and shower, right now. I can't continue East. Looking for the street signs, I match it to the map. Running, I zigzag between people as if the devil is after me. Three more blocks yet, but the traffic light is red. Hurry, please. I try to catch my breath as I wait for it to change.
Off once more when it goes green, I finally take the corner for the hotel. Gasping, running through the lobby, I hit the elevator button to go up. Riding to the 10th floor, getting out, I find my door and unlock it. Before I enter, I take the nasty shoes off then dump them in the trash can nearest the doorway as I walk over to the bed.
Dejected, I sit with my head in my hands. Why was I so excited to come to the big city?
Horns blared from every direction. The crosswalks filled up with the lunch crowd, all trying to get somewhere before the others did. Delivery trucks were parked wherever the drivers could find a spot. Shop owners stood in their doorways, keeping guard on their wares. The heat was oppressive.
Every time I looked to the sky, another building blocked my view. Made of cement and windows, the colors all blended together. Pigeons perched on the window ledges, just waiting for the right shoulder to drop their days' filth on.
Taking a street map from my pocket, I stopped to check it, only to immediately get hit in the side by someone running in their work attire. Slumping my shoulders, trying to think, the odor here is unbearable. Wrinkling my nose, I look around for the source. The heated grate under my feet is an easy place for the homeless to urinate in at night, the flower shop clerk tells me as she leans against her doorway.
I want to burn my shoes now. The thought of what she told me is making me ill. I have to go back to my hotel and shower, right now. I can't continue East. Looking for the street signs, I match it to the map. Running, I zigzag between people as if the devil is after me. Three more blocks yet, but the traffic light is red. Hurry, please. I try to catch my breath as I wait for it to change.
Off once more when it goes green, I finally take the corner for the hotel. Gasping, running through the lobby, I hit the elevator button to go up. Riding to the 10th floor, getting out, I find my door and unlock it. Before I enter, I take the nasty shoes off then dump them in the trash can nearest the doorway as I walk over to the bed.
Dejected, I sit with my head in my hands. Why was I so excited to come to the big city?
TE999
How 'bout a kiss, baby
- Joined
- May 4, 2006
- Posts
- 30,088
East--Busy City Street
Jack stepped back from the curb, coughing as the stench of the diesel fumes assailed his nostrils. He watched the bus lumber away,then lifted his gaze to the towering buildings. Rivulets of sweat from the oppressive heat trickled down his face and dampened his shirt and jeans. He could feel it pooling in his boots. Unsure as to which direction to take, he headed east, away from the afternoon sun.
His guitar thumped against his back, as he threaded his way along the crowded sidewalk, keeping a sweaty grip on his battered suitcase. "Lots of thieves in the big city, boy," Grandpa had told him, "Keep a sharp lookout."
So many people, hurrying who knows where, faces devoid of expression, eyes looking straight ahead, colliding with him and moving along without a "Pardon me".
And the women, so many pretty women, all dressed up in fine clothes, lips shiny and hair in all colors. Nothing like the girls back home. He smiled at them, but they paid him no mind. His feet were burning by the time he found a bench in a park, greatful for the shade of the towering oak trees. A wayward breeze felt cool on his skin as he rested his guitar on his lap and relaxed for the first time since he had alighted from the bus.
He watched a wizened old woman on a bench across from him feed the birds and squirrels from a dirty brown sack held in her wrinkled hands, crooning softly to them as she threw peanut after peanut on the asphalt path. Jack's stomach growled as he realized he had not eaten since the bus stopped for lunch, many hours ago. He smiled at her and she smiled back, showing a mouth of blackened teeth. Reluctant to leave the shade, he walked slowly to the parks entrance and along the hot sidewalk.
The flashing neon of 'Samme's Restaurant' caught his eye and he went in. He saw no one eating or behind the counter, but the cool air felt good on his damp skin so he sat on a stool and began reading a food spattered menu. This place was nothing like the one restaurant at home; all chrome and vinyl, smelling vaguely of burned grease. "Whatt'l ya have, hon," said a short, fat woman in a once-white waitress uniform, her dark red hair pulled back in a bun.
"I'll have the Number Four Special," Jack replied, startled by her sudden appearance, "Sally," he finished, reading her name tag. "You got it, hon," she replied, waddling up to the serving window and bawling, "One Number Four. Al."
As he waited for his meal and sipped a glass of water, Jack read the advertisements on his place mat. One read 'Parkside Hotel. Reasonable Rates. Rentals by day, week or month.' "I'll try there," he muttered, " I gotta get some rest, I'm beat." His mouth watered as Sally brought him his dinner and he devoured the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans, mopping up the gravy with a large, fluffy roll.
Paying the bill with a sweat soaked Twenty he extracted from the waistband pocket sewn into his jeans, he asked directions to the hotel and was told it was three blocks up the street. Stomach full, he hummed an old Muddy Waters tune as he walked along the garishly lit street, swinging his guitar and suitcase. Tomorrow, he would go to that talent agency he saw in his music magazine and sign up. Once they heard how he could play and sing the Blues, they'd find him a job right away. He just knew he was gonna be a star.
On Broadway.
Jack stepped back from the curb, coughing as the stench of the diesel fumes assailed his nostrils. He watched the bus lumber away,then lifted his gaze to the towering buildings. Rivulets of sweat from the oppressive heat trickled down his face and dampened his shirt and jeans. He could feel it pooling in his boots. Unsure as to which direction to take, he headed east, away from the afternoon sun.
His guitar thumped against his back, as he threaded his way along the crowded sidewalk, keeping a sweaty grip on his battered suitcase. "Lots of thieves in the big city, boy," Grandpa had told him, "Keep a sharp lookout."
So many people, hurrying who knows where, faces devoid of expression, eyes looking straight ahead, colliding with him and moving along without a "Pardon me".
And the women, so many pretty women, all dressed up in fine clothes, lips shiny and hair in all colors. Nothing like the girls back home. He smiled at them, but they paid him no mind. His feet were burning by the time he found a bench in a park, greatful for the shade of the towering oak trees. A wayward breeze felt cool on his skin as he rested his guitar on his lap and relaxed for the first time since he had alighted from the bus.
He watched a wizened old woman on a bench across from him feed the birds and squirrels from a dirty brown sack held in her wrinkled hands, crooning softly to them as she threw peanut after peanut on the asphalt path. Jack's stomach growled as he realized he had not eaten since the bus stopped for lunch, many hours ago. He smiled at her and she smiled back, showing a mouth of blackened teeth. Reluctant to leave the shade, he walked slowly to the parks entrance and along the hot sidewalk.
The flashing neon of 'Samme's Restaurant' caught his eye and he went in. He saw no one eating or behind the counter, but the cool air felt good on his damp skin so he sat on a stool and began reading a food spattered menu. This place was nothing like the one restaurant at home; all chrome and vinyl, smelling vaguely of burned grease. "Whatt'l ya have, hon," said a short, fat woman in a once-white waitress uniform, her dark red hair pulled back in a bun.
"I'll have the Number Four Special," Jack replied, startled by her sudden appearance, "Sally," he finished, reading her name tag. "You got it, hon," she replied, waddling up to the serving window and bawling, "One Number Four. Al."
As he waited for his meal and sipped a glass of water, Jack read the advertisements on his place mat. One read 'Parkside Hotel. Reasonable Rates. Rentals by day, week or month.' "I'll try there," he muttered, " I gotta get some rest, I'm beat." His mouth watered as Sally brought him his dinner and he devoured the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans, mopping up the gravy with a large, fluffy roll.
Paying the bill with a sweat soaked Twenty he extracted from the waistband pocket sewn into his jeans, he asked directions to the hotel and was told it was three blocks up the street. Stomach full, he hummed an old Muddy Waters tune as he walked along the garishly lit street, swinging his guitar and suitcase. Tomorrow, he would go to that talent agency he saw in his music magazine and sign up. Once they heard how he could play and sing the Blues, they'd find him a job right away. He just knew he was gonna be a star.
On Broadway.
_Lynn_
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2006
- Posts
- 49,504
North--to the snowy forest
It has been snowing for days here in the forest. Everywhere I look I see the powdery white stuff piled up against the stark tree trunks. Josie wants to make a snowman, so she hauled a bag of stuff along to make him look “super ‘stinguished” as she told me.
So here we are, making a snowman in the middle of the afternoon deep in the forest. By the time Josie has the head ready to go on, the rest is finished as well. Lifting her up, she plops the snowball on top of the body, patting it down a bit, then wriggles to get down.
“Mama, we need to put his face on now. Here, mama, you do the eyes. I brought a carrot for his nose, mama, just like you said. Help me do it, please?”
She is so excited to poke the carrot in, I don’t bother to point out the carrot is more in his cheek than the center. Next we do his mouth with the assorted toy blocks Josie took with her, making sure they form a smile.
“See, mama, he’s happy now. I heard him say thank you when we got done.”
Thinking how only a five year old with an active imagination would say that, I took Josie’s hand as we turned back to home. Something whispered to me that I had to look behind me, right then. Not to wait, but right then.
Josie’s snowman has a huge grin on his face, winking at us, as a snow-woman cuddled up next to him.
It has been snowing for days here in the forest. Everywhere I look I see the powdery white stuff piled up against the stark tree trunks. Josie wants to make a snowman, so she hauled a bag of stuff along to make him look “super ‘stinguished” as she told me.
So here we are, making a snowman in the middle of the afternoon deep in the forest. By the time Josie has the head ready to go on, the rest is finished as well. Lifting her up, she plops the snowball on top of the body, patting it down a bit, then wriggles to get down.
“Mama, we need to put his face on now. Here, mama, you do the eyes. I brought a carrot for his nose, mama, just like you said. Help me do it, please?”
She is so excited to poke the carrot in, I don’t bother to point out the carrot is more in his cheek than the center. Next we do his mouth with the assorted toy blocks Josie took with her, making sure they form a smile.
“See, mama, he’s happy now. I heard him say thank you when we got done.”
Thinking how only a five year old with an active imagination would say that, I took Josie’s hand as we turned back to home. Something whispered to me that I had to look behind me, right then. Not to wait, but right then.
Josie’s snowman has a huge grin on his face, winking at us, as a snow-woman cuddled up next to him.
Stella_Omega
No Gentleman
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2005
- Posts
- 39,700
Wow. That's all I have to say- Wow. 
These are simply wonderful!
These are simply wonderful!
fcdc
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2007
- Posts
- 491
The next piece will be a comedy. I am totally gloomy at the moment, due to finals!
-----
I'm already far enough north that everything comes in much more clearly and sharply. Up here, in Barrow, colors are few and far between. Everything is white, muted, still, and as my dad shovels the four-foot snowfall out of our doorway, the only thing worth staring at is the red wall next to the bookshelves. Dad said he painted it so that we would have something to remind us that there was more out there than the bleached-bone landscape we live in, and I guess I believe him. I don't have a choice.
The days are getting shorter and shorter, and the winds whip around our little house hard enough that sometimes I'm surprised it doesn't topple. The government built it, and assured us it would be sturdy enough to withstand just about anything. I'm not too sure, particularly late at night when the wind tears through the cracks in the place hard enough to douse my blanket with ice crystals.
I eat the oatmeal that my dad has cooked up, chewing mechanically, my spoon clinking against the ceramic surface. It's tasteless, but I'm used to bland porridge and Arctic fish by now. I'm almost used to the faint tinge of cigarette flavor in it. He starts chain-smoking as early as possible, every morning.
"Hey! Sonny."
I look up, swallowing the mushy spoonful of breakfast.
"You should come hunting with me today." It's an order, with all the force that an ex-Army officer can put into it. He has the day off from his job as a Prudhoe oilman today, and I guess this is his way of spending time with me.
I barely have the stomach for his oatmeal, let alone gunning down something for its fur. I can already feel the warmth of the blood splatter, and the scent of a gutted beast. I don't like either, but I don't have the stomach to tell him that. I nod instead.
Dad fixes me with an approving look. "You like being up here with your old man, eh? Better than when you were down in the Rockies with that whore of a mother."
I wince. He doesn't notice. He likes talking ill of the dead, at least where his ex-wife, my mother, is concerned. A grin splits his leathery face, and he waves a dismissive hand.
"You're up here now, George, and you'll stay up here with me. You'll get a better education this way than out of any of the books you could be reading instead. This -- this is life."
I'm nine years old. How can I hope to debate him? I shrug, and slink away from the rickety breakfast table, starting to snap on the small pair of snowshoes he fashioned for me. He's so proud of those, and I like wearing them because they make him proud. The coat follows, filled with goose down, and the mittens tied to the coat so I won't lose them. I feel cold already, despite getting dressed up to go outside.
He opens the door, and the wind howls in hello. It's morning still, so it will be light for at least another six or seven hours. Outside, illuminated as best the cloudy sky can do, is white, is blanketing, smothering cold. Somewhere out there lurks a creature that doesn't know it's going to be shot dead, by a kid too small to even lift the rifle on his own. I turn back to look at my dad, and he gives me a little shove outside, as if I'm too stupid to move otherwise.
I nearly fall flat on my face, but the idea of planting myself face-down in ice and snow doesn't appeal to me, so I right myself, arms windmilling, and press on. Whatever color that red wall had afforded to me was gone, as all I can see is the broad expanse of the North Slope, the few houses between it and us set in the side. They look like snow-forts I might have built as a kid in Montana.
My father is carrying a gun. My gun, as much as I don't want it. I look at him for a long moment, and he smiles at me, hefting the piece in his own mittened hands. "Kill something good," he says. I don't know how to reply.
We start into the wilderness, blinded like two scent-dogs tracking their prey, and in a few moments I can't see our house at all. I can only tell my dad's there by the sound of his snowshoes and the smoker's cough.
-----
I'm already far enough north that everything comes in much more clearly and sharply. Up here, in Barrow, colors are few and far between. Everything is white, muted, still, and as my dad shovels the four-foot snowfall out of our doorway, the only thing worth staring at is the red wall next to the bookshelves. Dad said he painted it so that we would have something to remind us that there was more out there than the bleached-bone landscape we live in, and I guess I believe him. I don't have a choice.
The days are getting shorter and shorter, and the winds whip around our little house hard enough that sometimes I'm surprised it doesn't topple. The government built it, and assured us it would be sturdy enough to withstand just about anything. I'm not too sure, particularly late at night when the wind tears through the cracks in the place hard enough to douse my blanket with ice crystals.
I eat the oatmeal that my dad has cooked up, chewing mechanically, my spoon clinking against the ceramic surface. It's tasteless, but I'm used to bland porridge and Arctic fish by now. I'm almost used to the faint tinge of cigarette flavor in it. He starts chain-smoking as early as possible, every morning.
"Hey! Sonny."
I look up, swallowing the mushy spoonful of breakfast.
"You should come hunting with me today." It's an order, with all the force that an ex-Army officer can put into it. He has the day off from his job as a Prudhoe oilman today, and I guess this is his way of spending time with me.
I barely have the stomach for his oatmeal, let alone gunning down something for its fur. I can already feel the warmth of the blood splatter, and the scent of a gutted beast. I don't like either, but I don't have the stomach to tell him that. I nod instead.
Dad fixes me with an approving look. "You like being up here with your old man, eh? Better than when you were down in the Rockies with that whore of a mother."
I wince. He doesn't notice. He likes talking ill of the dead, at least where his ex-wife, my mother, is concerned. A grin splits his leathery face, and he waves a dismissive hand.
"You're up here now, George, and you'll stay up here with me. You'll get a better education this way than out of any of the books you could be reading instead. This -- this is life."
I'm nine years old. How can I hope to debate him? I shrug, and slink away from the rickety breakfast table, starting to snap on the small pair of snowshoes he fashioned for me. He's so proud of those, and I like wearing them because they make him proud. The coat follows, filled with goose down, and the mittens tied to the coat so I won't lose them. I feel cold already, despite getting dressed up to go outside.
He opens the door, and the wind howls in hello. It's morning still, so it will be light for at least another six or seven hours. Outside, illuminated as best the cloudy sky can do, is white, is blanketing, smothering cold. Somewhere out there lurks a creature that doesn't know it's going to be shot dead, by a kid too small to even lift the rifle on his own. I turn back to look at my dad, and he gives me a little shove outside, as if I'm too stupid to move otherwise.
I nearly fall flat on my face, but the idea of planting myself face-down in ice and snow doesn't appeal to me, so I right myself, arms windmilling, and press on. Whatever color that red wall had afforded to me was gone, as all I can see is the broad expanse of the North Slope, the few houses between it and us set in the side. They look like snow-forts I might have built as a kid in Montana.
My father is carrying a gun. My gun, as much as I don't want it. I look at him for a long moment, and he smiles at me, hefting the piece in his own mittened hands. "Kill something good," he says. I don't know how to reply.
We start into the wilderness, blinded like two scent-dogs tracking their prey, and in a few moments I can't see our house at all. I can only tell my dad's there by the sound of his snowshoes and the smoker's cough.
Last edited:
TE999
How 'bout a kiss, baby
- Joined
- May 4, 2006
- Posts
- 30,088
West--Deserted Village
Sunset cantered his horse along the dusty street, searching for a sign of life in the seemingly deserted town, peering in vain in dozens of grimy shop windows. He reined the Apaloosa mare to a stop in front of the only saloon and swung easily from the saddle, dropping the reins knowing she would be patiently waiting for him when he returned.
Spurs jingling, he walked across the wooden sidewalk, hand resting easily on the Navy Colt revolver in it's low-slung holster. Ever since that dust-up in Abeline, he learned to have his gun handy in a strange town, especially one as quiet as this one was. Raucous laughter and the tinkle of a piano met his ears as he stepped through the swinging doors, and he saw no one.
Puzzled, his grey eyes swept the dimly lit interior, chairs and stables were placed haphazardly about, a thick patina of dust covering everything. Bottles and glasses stood behind the bar, their faded labels barely revealing what liquors they contained. Gilt was peeling from the discolored mirrors that ran the length of the bar, their freckled surfaces reflecting the morning sunlight and the dust motes dancing in a slight breeze from somewhere.
Reaching behind the bar, Sunset grabbed a dusty half-full bottle of whiskey, plucked the cork out and lifted it to his lips. The raw liquor burned it's way down his throat as he swallowed repeatedly. He set the bottle on the bar and gazed about him, thinking he saw shapes moving from the corner of his eye, but when he turned to face them, they were gone. For a moment, he thought he heard the laughter and the piano again, but then all was quiet.
Mopping his sweaty, dust-covered face with his neckerchief, he felt a chill go through him despite the rising heat from the morning sun. "Sumthin' ain't right about this place," he murmured, his callused hand caressing the well worn grip of the Colt. A quick search of the saloon's upper story revealed no one, only dusty furniture in several small bedrooms. "Whorehouse," he muttered, descending the creaking stairs.
Feeling uneasy, he walked into the bright sunlight, suddenly greatful for the light and warmth. Picking up the reins, he vaulted easily into the saddle, whistled sharply to the mare and galloped down the street, leaving a plume of dust behind him. If he hurried, he could meet the other hands and the herd as they crossed the river before nightfall. He could already taste Cookie's pork and beans.
With a hiss of air brakes, the bus stopped in the street before the saloon. "Now this is the last ghost town on our tour", the driver said, "It was abandoned in the early 1800's when the rairoad decided to run twenty miles west. The residents just packed up and moved and left it as you see it here".
"Are there any ghosts here now?" a small boy asked. "Could be," the driver replied. "Some folks claim to have seen things from time to time. Now watch your step folks, we'll look at the old saloon first..."
Sunset cantered his horse along the dusty street, searching for a sign of life in the seemingly deserted town, peering in vain in dozens of grimy shop windows. He reined the Apaloosa mare to a stop in front of the only saloon and swung easily from the saddle, dropping the reins knowing she would be patiently waiting for him when he returned.
Spurs jingling, he walked across the wooden sidewalk, hand resting easily on the Navy Colt revolver in it's low-slung holster. Ever since that dust-up in Abeline, he learned to have his gun handy in a strange town, especially one as quiet as this one was. Raucous laughter and the tinkle of a piano met his ears as he stepped through the swinging doors, and he saw no one.
Puzzled, his grey eyes swept the dimly lit interior, chairs and stables were placed haphazardly about, a thick patina of dust covering everything. Bottles and glasses stood behind the bar, their faded labels barely revealing what liquors they contained. Gilt was peeling from the discolored mirrors that ran the length of the bar, their freckled surfaces reflecting the morning sunlight and the dust motes dancing in a slight breeze from somewhere.
Reaching behind the bar, Sunset grabbed a dusty half-full bottle of whiskey, plucked the cork out and lifted it to his lips. The raw liquor burned it's way down his throat as he swallowed repeatedly. He set the bottle on the bar and gazed about him, thinking he saw shapes moving from the corner of his eye, but when he turned to face them, they were gone. For a moment, he thought he heard the laughter and the piano again, but then all was quiet.
Mopping his sweaty, dust-covered face with his neckerchief, he felt a chill go through him despite the rising heat from the morning sun. "Sumthin' ain't right about this place," he murmured, his callused hand caressing the well worn grip of the Colt. A quick search of the saloon's upper story revealed no one, only dusty furniture in several small bedrooms. "Whorehouse," he muttered, descending the creaking stairs.
Feeling uneasy, he walked into the bright sunlight, suddenly greatful for the light and warmth. Picking up the reins, he vaulted easily into the saddle, whistled sharply to the mare and galloped down the street, leaving a plume of dust behind him. If he hurried, he could meet the other hands and the herd as they crossed the river before nightfall. He could already taste Cookie's pork and beans.
With a hiss of air brakes, the bus stopped in the street before the saloon. "Now this is the last ghost town on our tour", the driver said, "It was abandoned in the early 1800's when the rairoad decided to run twenty miles west. The residents just packed up and moved and left it as you see it here".
"Are there any ghosts here now?" a small boy asked. "Could be," the driver replied. "Some folks claim to have seen things from time to time. Now watch your step folks, we'll look at the old saloon first..."
Stella_Omega
No Gentleman
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2005
- Posts
- 39,700
A ghost story!
_Lynn_
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2006
- Posts
- 49,504
South to the Ocean
The next exit was mine. My hands were sweaty, my heart was starting to race and my thoughts were flying all over. I had been down this road before, in my dreams. Up ahead was a stop sign, in the little town of Sparkle. I knew that if I turned the wrong direction I would be end up alone. But if I chose the correct road, it would mean happiness and true happiness forever.
In a panic, I sat at the corner, deciding. Which way was it again? Where was the map? All of a sudden the empty streets were filled with cars and people, all staring and screaming at me to get out of the way. Putting on my signal, I maneuvered my car with its’ precious belongings to the right.
Unsure, yet feeling this was the way I needed to be going, I slowly proceeded. Sitting up straighter in the seat, I opened the window to breathe in the now fresher air. The road was full of twists and turns, but I continued south, knowing in my heart this was the right way.
Minutes passed by without any signs. But I could smell it, sensed it was there. Excitement began to build inside me as each mile passed by. The little town of Sparkle was now in my rear view mirror, just another part of the past now.
Then when I thought things were going to smooth out and take me right to my destination, the road came to a split. I had choices to make again. There was a higher road, which looked pretty smooth but really was boring. If I wanted to see interesting things, then there was a path I could take that was low but really bumpy.
Did they each end up in the same place though? Would I still be going south no matter which one I took? Pulling over to the side, I got out of my car to look around. When I looked to the higher, easy road, the air felt heavy and gloomy around it.
But turning to the bumpy path, there was sunshine at the end. That was the south road, I just knew it. Running back to my car, I took the low road. Everywhere I went on the little path there were bumps, but each time I looked up I was closer to my destination. The sun was shining brighter, the air was fresher and my heart was freer.
Without realizing it, the path soon became smoother. When I rounded the last curve, the view in front of me was gorgeous. Everywhere I looked was wide open space. Smooth as glass, with not a ripple on it, the ocean lay directly in front of me.
I had made it. Through all the twists and turns, over all the rocks and bumps, I found the solitude of the ocean by going south. All the times when I had thought it might be the wrong way, yet instinct told me to continue on, I had found where I needed to be. I wasn’t stuck in the tiny pond anymore. Now I was free in the huge ocean.
The next exit was mine. My hands were sweaty, my heart was starting to race and my thoughts were flying all over. I had been down this road before, in my dreams. Up ahead was a stop sign, in the little town of Sparkle. I knew that if I turned the wrong direction I would be end up alone. But if I chose the correct road, it would mean happiness and true happiness forever.
In a panic, I sat at the corner, deciding. Which way was it again? Where was the map? All of a sudden the empty streets were filled with cars and people, all staring and screaming at me to get out of the way. Putting on my signal, I maneuvered my car with its’ precious belongings to the right.
Unsure, yet feeling this was the way I needed to be going, I slowly proceeded. Sitting up straighter in the seat, I opened the window to breathe in the now fresher air. The road was full of twists and turns, but I continued south, knowing in my heart this was the right way.
Minutes passed by without any signs. But I could smell it, sensed it was there. Excitement began to build inside me as each mile passed by. The little town of Sparkle was now in my rear view mirror, just another part of the past now.
Then when I thought things were going to smooth out and take me right to my destination, the road came to a split. I had choices to make again. There was a higher road, which looked pretty smooth but really was boring. If I wanted to see interesting things, then there was a path I could take that was low but really bumpy.
Did they each end up in the same place though? Would I still be going south no matter which one I took? Pulling over to the side, I got out of my car to look around. When I looked to the higher, easy road, the air felt heavy and gloomy around it.
But turning to the bumpy path, there was sunshine at the end. That was the south road, I just knew it. Running back to my car, I took the low road. Everywhere I went on the little path there were bumps, but each time I looked up I was closer to my destination. The sun was shining brighter, the air was fresher and my heart was freer.
Without realizing it, the path soon became smoother. When I rounded the last curve, the view in front of me was gorgeous. Everywhere I looked was wide open space. Smooth as glass, with not a ripple on it, the ocean lay directly in front of me.
I had made it. Through all the twists and turns, over all the rocks and bumps, I found the solitude of the ocean by going south. All the times when I had thought it might be the wrong way, yet instinct told me to continue on, I had found where I needed to be. I wasn’t stuck in the tiny pond anymore. Now I was free in the huge ocean.
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