Post by Stormsong~ on Feb 17, 2018 2:02:44 GMT -5
This is a dabble that my boyfriend and I created from a random word generator.
I remember the day that I found out. The air smelled of Spring; new beginnings and storms. The sky was a slate gray with little pockets of light breaking through the monotonous rainy under tones of Britain in April. Large, sloppy drops of precipitation splattered against the cobblestone streets, twinkling sounds of silver spoons against the sides of teacups at noon. The large drops were Heaven’s heartbreak, as I would come to find, little beacons lamenting the melancholy of the day. Despite the fact that people rushed around outside of the disheveled, sad telephone box, I felt more lonely and hollow then I had ever felt before. The clear panes were more like brick walls- trapping me in the moment that was decaying my soul.
“Ma’am?” The voice on the other end of the line inquired, showing a sign of worry for the first time. A solemn silence lingered in the air, neither of us willing to speak. The tea drops kept falling, a ghost of you invading the scene now. You loved tea. Had loved tea. A small sob falls out of my throat at the thought of you taking a sip from the blue porcelain cup you were so fond of and looking at me over the top of the rim. It had always been the plain types of tea with you- simple, with just a pinch of honey to chase away the bitter taste you never could quite stand. I tried to brush of the ghost of your smile that creeped into my memory away. Tthe smile that I would never see again.
Outside, the winds had died down, but inside they were just picking up- tossing my mind and throwing my heart around until it threatened to break into a million tiny pieces. It was like I was Dorothy and the world was going to Oz. But then again, you were already so far down the Yellow Brick Road that I had no chance of finding you. “I want to go home.” I mutter softly into the receiver, hardly speaking, but hearing the desire howling in my ear like the sirens that so often woke me up at night. The sirens you promised to protect me from. The sirens that took you away and drug you across the ocean and under the waves of the blood I suppose you died drowning in. How could you forget that without you to steer my ship, I too would be nothing but a wreck upon the shores? It was raining outside, as it always did this time of year, but you had left me high and dry.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We did everything we could for him. He fought bravely, made more of an impact than most in this war. His body will be returned home soon, and a major honor has already been arranged at his service. I can give the number of our support center, if it would help you.” The young man on the other side of the line didn’t sound a day over 18, and the thought squeezed my heart.
We were all just children weren’t we? Young lovers swept up in the ideals of revolution and change. Exchanging letters cultured with Shakespeare quotes proclaiming bravery and star crossed lovers.
I suppose we really did end up like Macbeth- cursed by the witch to be lost adrift at sea. All those nights we stared at the stars under our “same sky”, crossing our hearts and preparing to die for each other and the future we were building together in patience and in being. All those times I clutched your letters to my chest, a parchment blanket imbued with the warmth of your words, I was really just praying to a couple of twisted, lost stars; the Romeo and Juliet constellation we never realized until it was too late that we were following.
At what point did you realize we were following it? When you walked onto the ship? When the barrel kissed your temple? When the bullet passed through you, and you passed beyond? Beyond to that place we always dreamed of waiting for our children in? The place where, as of now, I can’t reach you?
How long until I reach you? The rain has come inside of the box now, little droplets that have no chance of even making a dent on the conditions of 5th Street. But inside the box? Inside the box, those little specks are just the precursor to the storm that threatens to drown me.
Fist meets glass, soul meets sound, both shatter in the midst of the other. I long to throw all the tea time memories brewing in your earl grey eyes into the rain outside, let them wash down the drain until everything fades to black.
The truth is that the world is narrow- narrow in being, and narrow minded. We only see what is in our scope, and never realize just how deeply one can be effected until they are in the eye of the storm. How many times as a child had I watched a lady sink to her knees in a booth and thought nothing of it? And how many little people would scurry by today without a care in the world? You always called my a cynic, and I always called you a dreamer. The scary thing is that the world will never know either of thing those things. That is the reality of it all. You told me to smile, and so I finally manage to put on your favorite outfit, hanging up the phone with a smatter of metal clinking and finality- my last tribute to you.
Just like tea down the drain, the river of time will flow and take everything away. It may be slow and erode away at you bit by bit. But, methodically, in time, I know it will remove all of your features and make you smooth. I fear that it will even take the memory of your smoothness when it sweeps every single particle of you away into the current. It is funny how the river is arbitrary, uncaring in its removal of all- cleansing every speck without hesitation or prejudice. The more disturbing thing is that the world as a whole is affected by this stream, but people only feel its effects in retrospect of their own misery. Perhaps that negligence to our neighbor is why the current can run swift and pull us into the sea, where the troubles of men fester, all together, yet not at all aware of one another.
I remember the day that I found out. The air smelled of Spring; new beginnings and storms. The sky was a slate gray with little pockets of light breaking through the monotonous rainy under tones of Britain in April. Large, sloppy drops of precipitation splattered against the cobblestone streets, twinkling sounds of silver spoons against the sides of teacups at noon. The large drops were Heaven’s heartbreak, as I would come to find, little beacons lamenting the melancholy of the day. Despite the fact that people rushed around outside of the disheveled, sad telephone box, I felt more lonely and hollow then I had ever felt before. The clear panes were more like brick walls- trapping me in the moment that was decaying my soul.
“Ma’am?” The voice on the other end of the line inquired, showing a sign of worry for the first time. A solemn silence lingered in the air, neither of us willing to speak. The tea drops kept falling, a ghost of you invading the scene now. You loved tea. Had loved tea. A small sob falls out of my throat at the thought of you taking a sip from the blue porcelain cup you were so fond of and looking at me over the top of the rim. It had always been the plain types of tea with you- simple, with just a pinch of honey to chase away the bitter taste you never could quite stand. I tried to brush of the ghost of your smile that creeped into my memory away. Tthe smile that I would never see again.
Outside, the winds had died down, but inside they were just picking up- tossing my mind and throwing my heart around until it threatened to break into a million tiny pieces. It was like I was Dorothy and the world was going to Oz. But then again, you were already so far down the Yellow Brick Road that I had no chance of finding you. “I want to go home.” I mutter softly into the receiver, hardly speaking, but hearing the desire howling in my ear like the sirens that so often woke me up at night. The sirens you promised to protect me from. The sirens that took you away and drug you across the ocean and under the waves of the blood I suppose you died drowning in. How could you forget that without you to steer my ship, I too would be nothing but a wreck upon the shores? It was raining outside, as it always did this time of year, but you had left me high and dry.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We did everything we could for him. He fought bravely, made more of an impact than most in this war. His body will be returned home soon, and a major honor has already been arranged at his service. I can give the number of our support center, if it would help you.” The young man on the other side of the line didn’t sound a day over 18, and the thought squeezed my heart.
We were all just children weren’t we? Young lovers swept up in the ideals of revolution and change. Exchanging letters cultured with Shakespeare quotes proclaiming bravery and star crossed lovers.
I suppose we really did end up like Macbeth- cursed by the witch to be lost adrift at sea. All those nights we stared at the stars under our “same sky”, crossing our hearts and preparing to die for each other and the future we were building together in patience and in being. All those times I clutched your letters to my chest, a parchment blanket imbued with the warmth of your words, I was really just praying to a couple of twisted, lost stars; the Romeo and Juliet constellation we never realized until it was too late that we were following.
At what point did you realize we were following it? When you walked onto the ship? When the barrel kissed your temple? When the bullet passed through you, and you passed beyond? Beyond to that place we always dreamed of waiting for our children in? The place where, as of now, I can’t reach you?
How long until I reach you? The rain has come inside of the box now, little droplets that have no chance of even making a dent on the conditions of 5th Street. But inside the box? Inside the box, those little specks are just the precursor to the storm that threatens to drown me.
Fist meets glass, soul meets sound, both shatter in the midst of the other. I long to throw all the tea time memories brewing in your earl grey eyes into the rain outside, let them wash down the drain until everything fades to black.
The truth is that the world is narrow- narrow in being, and narrow minded. We only see what is in our scope, and never realize just how deeply one can be effected until they are in the eye of the storm. How many times as a child had I watched a lady sink to her knees in a booth and thought nothing of it? And how many little people would scurry by today without a care in the world? You always called my a cynic, and I always called you a dreamer. The scary thing is that the world will never know either of thing those things. That is the reality of it all. You told me to smile, and so I finally manage to put on your favorite outfit, hanging up the phone with a smatter of metal clinking and finality- my last tribute to you.
Just like tea down the drain, the river of time will flow and take everything away. It may be slow and erode away at you bit by bit. But, methodically, in time, I know it will remove all of your features and make you smooth. I fear that it will even take the memory of your smoothness when it sweeps every single particle of you away into the current. It is funny how the river is arbitrary, uncaring in its removal of all- cleansing every speck without hesitation or prejudice. The more disturbing thing is that the world as a whole is affected by this stream, but people only feel its effects in retrospect of their own misery. Perhaps that negligence to our neighbor is why the current can run swift and pull us into the sea, where the troubles of men fester, all together, yet not at all aware of one another.
