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That summer night, she learned that supermoons were not auspicious omens.
She had been sitting at her desk, the overhead light on, her laptop open and playing quiet classical music in front of her, her statistics textbook open on her lap, her head bent as she read the most recent chapter on confidence intervals. Gray sat next to her, hands folded across his lap, eyes closed. Then she heard her father call her name from downstairs.
"Did you see the supermoon?" he called.
"The what?" she called back. Gray opened his eyes.
"There's supposed to be a 'supermoon' tonight," she heard her father say. "Are you able to see it?"
She glanced at a window behind her and saw only darkness. "No," she replied.
"Let's see if we can find it!" She heard her father get up.
"No, I'm fine," she called back hastily, but the stairs were already squeaking. He entered the room and walked over to the window, craning his neck.
"Did you see anything?" he asked.
"No," she said. Gray was sitting completely still, but his eyes followed her father as he walked around the room, looking out the other windows. He continued watching from beside her as her father left the room--below her music, she listened to his footsteps as he checked the other windows in the house. Eventually, he returned.
"Can't see anything," he said. He was frowning. He started towards the stairs, but stopped. "Why are you using the overhead light?" he asked.
Gray moved his hand. It tightened over hers. "The lamp is broken," she said. "Something with the switch. It won't turn on."
Her father's frown deepened. He walked over to the lamp and twisted the switch. It remained off. He twisted again, and again. The lamp remained off. The switch came off in his hand.
"How long has it been like this?" he asked.
"A few weeks, I think..."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Because... "Because the overhead light works all right."
Her father walked out of the room. She listed to his footsteps. He came back with another lamp, and slapped the overhead light off on the way in. The lamp jingled as he slammed it down next to her and clicked it on.
She refocused on the music that still played softly from her laptop. She tucked her arms in closer and squinted at a formula on the page. She bent down closer to the page.
"Don't do that," her father said. "That's uncomfortable. Move somewhere else if you can't see."
"I'm comfortable, and I can see just fine," she said, not lying, as she straightened back up. She knew without looking that Gray was still watching her father, his eyes slightly narrowed.
"Move somewhere else."
"I'm fine," she said, and immediately knew she had said the wrong thing--if there even was a right answer.
Her father's face became horrible. "Sit up straight or move elsewhere!" he yelled. "What is wrong with you?!" He began stalking toward the stairs. Gray watched him, then looked at her.
She began to let out a breath, but it was too early--her father stopped at the entrance of the room and wheeled around. "And close that computer!" he yelled. "Why do you always need that stupid thing?!"
"Music helps-"
"Turn off your music and close your computer!"
She hesitated. Her father remained there, huge against the door. "Close it NOW!" he yelled.
She had no choice. She closed her laptop. The music went silent. She felt Gray squeeze her hand--out of the corner of her eye, she saw that his eyes were still fixed on her father, an unreadable expression on his face. Her father shot her one more dirty look, then left. She heard his footsteps heavy on the stairs.
The moment they ceased, she grabbed the lid of her laptop. That ass- He thinks he can-
She stopped. No. He had keen hearing--he had heard her laugh before, even under her breath. The risk of him hearing was too great.
She stared at her laptop. The silence was unbearable. At the edges of her mind, she felt it pulsing. She felt a horrible energy pulsing. She stared at her textbook. None of it made sense. The pulsing turned to burning.
At ease, she heard Gray say. At ease-
She gripped her desk, she tried to listen to Gray, but she couldn't-
-couldn't control it-
-she needed to scream, she needed to break things, but he would hear-
-burning burning everything burning-
-it needed to be released, she needed to release it before-
-she was screaming inside-
-it needed it needed she needed release anything anything-
She grabbed her pencil in her right hand, raised its sharpened tip above her exposed left arm-
-then felt a hand grip her right arm, firmly, before she could bring it down.
No. Gray's voice was a whisper, but she heard it clearly, above the roaring, above the screaming: a bell carrying through a clear, crisp night. Don't.
She hung there, struggling against him and herself. The pencil wavered. Then she saw Gray place his own arm above hers.
You will have to cut through me first before you can do that, he said, quietly.
She trembled. A moment passed. Then she dropped the pencil and burst into terrified, muffled sobs. She tried to weep as silently as she could, to listen for footsteps on the stairs, but she was tired, so tired. Gray let go of her arm. He laid his arm across her shoulders, hand on her far shoulder, tightly.
Every day, every day, she said to him. I'm not sure how much longer I can take this.
Neither am I, he said. But we can do our best.
She sniffed. Thank you, she whispered.
Your pencil, he said, motioning towards where it lay on the ground. She bent down, picked it up, and stared at it, turning it over and over. She felt a pulsing at the edge of her mind. Her hands began to shake again.
Easy. Gray rested a hand over hers. Easy.
Well, it looks like I won't be doing any more studying tonight, she said, and laughed bitterly.
Perhaps not, he said. But you can do this instead.
He pointed. She followed it, and picked up the object he had pointed at. My notebook, she said.
You already understand what to do, he said.
She did, and as she began, Gray settling down beside her, she thanked her father for helping her overcome writer's block.
She had been sitting at her desk, the overhead light on, her laptop open and playing quiet classical music in front of her, her statistics textbook open on her lap, her head bent as she read the most recent chapter on confidence intervals. Gray sat next to her, hands folded across his lap, eyes closed. Then she heard her father call her name from downstairs.
"Did you see the supermoon?" he called.
"The what?" she called back. Gray opened his eyes.
"There's supposed to be a 'supermoon' tonight," she heard her father say. "Are you able to see it?"
She glanced at a window behind her and saw only darkness. "No," she replied.
"Let's see if we can find it!" She heard her father get up.
"No, I'm fine," she called back hastily, but the stairs were already squeaking. He entered the room and walked over to the window, craning his neck.
"Did you see anything?" he asked.
"No," she said. Gray was sitting completely still, but his eyes followed her father as he walked around the room, looking out the other windows. He continued watching from beside her as her father left the room--below her music, she listened to his footsteps as he checked the other windows in the house. Eventually, he returned.
"Can't see anything," he said. He was frowning. He started towards the stairs, but stopped. "Why are you using the overhead light?" he asked.
Gray moved his hand. It tightened over hers. "The lamp is broken," she said. "Something with the switch. It won't turn on."
Her father's frown deepened. He walked over to the lamp and twisted the switch. It remained off. He twisted again, and again. The lamp remained off. The switch came off in his hand.
"How long has it been like this?" he asked.
"A few weeks, I think..."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Because... "Because the overhead light works all right."
Her father walked out of the room. She listed to his footsteps. He came back with another lamp, and slapped the overhead light off on the way in. The lamp jingled as he slammed it down next to her and clicked it on.
She refocused on the music that still played softly from her laptop. She tucked her arms in closer and squinted at a formula on the page. She bent down closer to the page.
"Don't do that," her father said. "That's uncomfortable. Move somewhere else if you can't see."
"I'm comfortable, and I can see just fine," she said, not lying, as she straightened back up. She knew without looking that Gray was still watching her father, his eyes slightly narrowed.
"Move somewhere else."
"I'm fine," she said, and immediately knew she had said the wrong thing--if there even was a right answer.
Her father's face became horrible. "Sit up straight or move elsewhere!" he yelled. "What is wrong with you?!" He began stalking toward the stairs. Gray watched him, then looked at her.
She began to let out a breath, but it was too early--her father stopped at the entrance of the room and wheeled around. "And close that computer!" he yelled. "Why do you always need that stupid thing?!"
"Music helps-"
"Turn off your music and close your computer!"
She hesitated. Her father remained there, huge against the door. "Close it NOW!" he yelled.
She had no choice. She closed her laptop. The music went silent. She felt Gray squeeze her hand--out of the corner of her eye, she saw that his eyes were still fixed on her father, an unreadable expression on his face. Her father shot her one more dirty look, then left. She heard his footsteps heavy on the stairs.
The moment they ceased, she grabbed the lid of her laptop. That ass- He thinks he can-
She stopped. No. He had keen hearing--he had heard her laugh before, even under her breath. The risk of him hearing was too great.
She stared at her laptop. The silence was unbearable. At the edges of her mind, she felt it pulsing. She felt a horrible energy pulsing. She stared at her textbook. None of it made sense. The pulsing turned to burning.
At ease, she heard Gray say. At ease-
She gripped her desk, she tried to listen to Gray, but she couldn't-
-couldn't control it-
-she needed to scream, she needed to break things, but he would hear-
-burning burning everything burning-
-it needed to be released, she needed to release it before-
-she was screaming inside-
-it needed it needed she needed release anything anything-
She grabbed her pencil in her right hand, raised its sharpened tip above her exposed left arm-
-then felt a hand grip her right arm, firmly, before she could bring it down.
No. Gray's voice was a whisper, but she heard it clearly, above the roaring, above the screaming: a bell carrying through a clear, crisp night. Don't.
She hung there, struggling against him and herself. The pencil wavered. Then she saw Gray place his own arm above hers.
You will have to cut through me first before you can do that, he said, quietly.
She trembled. A moment passed. Then she dropped the pencil and burst into terrified, muffled sobs. She tried to weep as silently as she could, to listen for footsteps on the stairs, but she was tired, so tired. Gray let go of her arm. He laid his arm across her shoulders, hand on her far shoulder, tightly.
Every day, every day, she said to him. I'm not sure how much longer I can take this.
Neither am I, he said. But we can do our best.
She sniffed. Thank you, she whispered.
Your pencil, he said, motioning towards where it lay on the ground. She bent down, picked it up, and stared at it, turning it over and over. She felt a pulsing at the edge of her mind. Her hands began to shake again.
Easy. Gray rested a hand over hers. Easy.
Well, it looks like I won't be doing any more studying tonight, she said, and laughed bitterly.
Perhaps not, he said. But you can do this instead.
He pointed. She followed it, and picked up the object he had pointed at. My notebook, she said.
You already understand what to do, he said.
She did, and as she began, Gray settling down beside her, she thanked her father for helping her overcome writer's block.
Literature
the world doesn't need beauty sleep
mother earth is pregnant;
her curves yawn -
molasses stretches of dark,
dank night freckled with
streetlights sparkling.
i yearn to rest in the cradle
that the small of her back
has become.
the roads untangle like
veins unto her skin
after being held so long
in the fist of pre-dawn.
drunk in slumber, red-eyed,
beautiful - morning will
come yet, the small child
born in the rafters of
catastrophe, aching;
but before her date,
mother earth shifts in her sleep,
love settling in the wing
of her hip -
exhaustion dilutes her blood,
consciousness touches her golden
shoulder on his way out the door.
Literature
Small Talk
It's dripping with logic and reason
the question you let gently drop
onto the table between us,
“So, tell me about your life.”
And I'm watching it carefully
telling myself it won't bite
it's more scared of me than I am
and I can capture it with glass.
And I can't rest the answer there
because it's bigger and scarier
and this one will bite will sink
will tear apart the careful stitches.
It's too big for this table
and I can't put it onto you
so it weighs heavy on my neck
and the silence stretches further.
Literature
welcome to the real world
1. if someone invites you back to their place
for coffee, and you only drink tea,
don’t stress:
you probably won’t actually be drinking coffee.
2. when the creepy guy from work asks you out
again and you think about accepting for the first
time because you’re sick of going home alone and
you have never learned how to say no, don’t. learn.
stand in front of the mirror until you love yourself
enough for your skin to fit snug on your body. read
about the hundreds of millions of planets out in the
hundreds of millions of galaxies and feel so crowded
that you’re about to burst all over again.
3. you’re gonna
Suggested Collections
About: For my Camp NaNoWriMo project this month, I'm not trying for a word count--rather, I'm hoping to write thirty at-least-semi-coherent flash fictions with an at-least-semi-coherent common thread, collectively titled Cycles of Calm.
I plan on posting the more readable drafts to my account under a separate folder specifically for Camp NaNoWriMo. A few things of note:
All of these postings are drafts. I am allowing myself to break the golden rule of NaNo and edit my work as I go (including -gasp- deleting words), but I still consider them to be in a rough, unfinished state--as such, I am not looking for critique on my NaNo work. Hopefully, I'll be able to revisit each of my NaNo stories after the event ends and finish polishing them, in which case they will then be open to critique.
Why am I posting these if I consider them unfinished? Motivation, partially--a log of sorts for myself, and another way to hold myself accountable if I don't keep up with my goal. I'm also posting them in hopes that someone will find the contrasts between the drafts and the polished pieces interesting.
About Camp NaNoWriMo and NaNoWriMo
--
Day 8: Aspiration
Archive for Cycles of Calm
I plan on posting the more readable drafts to my account under a separate folder specifically for Camp NaNoWriMo. A few things of note:
All of these postings are drafts. I am allowing myself to break the golden rule of NaNo and edit my work as I go (including -gasp- deleting words), but I still consider them to be in a rough, unfinished state--as such, I am not looking for critique on my NaNo work. Hopefully, I'll be able to revisit each of my NaNo stories after the event ends and finish polishing them, in which case they will then be open to critique.
Why am I posting these if I consider them unfinished? Motivation, partially--a log of sorts for myself, and another way to hold myself accountable if I don't keep up with my goal. I'm also posting them in hopes that someone will find the contrasts between the drafts and the polished pieces interesting.
About Camp NaNoWriMo and NaNoWriMo
--
Day 8: Aspiration
Archive for Cycles of Calm
© 2014 - 2024 Falareste
Comments1
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This made me cry. God bless Gray.