Friday, June 12, 2009

lay where you're laying.

Ignoring her mother's yells and screams, she ran towards the storm clouds. The gray/black encompasses the sky beyond her outstretched hands, and she yells happily at the powers above. The field explodes into a blaze of fresh green color.There is no repair here. There is no remorse, no lonely men with cigarette butts to talk to. There is a fantastical being present, ominous, bright and full of peace. She hugs herself as she twirls around, waiting for the baptistical rain to fall on her shining face, windmills far into the east turning faster and faster as the storm approaches. Her torn summer dress fades as the colors of nature take over.


Then she hears the rumble of the worn red truck, and her brain pops itself. The sparkle is gone, the twirling stops. She quickly looks back, no summer clouds, no windmills, no nothing. Just the average summer evening on a farm. Her father is home, and before he discovers her standing carelessly, she runs as fast as she can through the (first non-existent) corn field. She hears him yelling for her in the broken windowed house, and she keeps on running. She runs where the field connects to the forest and climbs the nearest tree. Then she quickly jumps out and hides into a bush. She recalls him having found her in a tree once, and how he had tied her to his bed with his belt and held her down with one arm while he did what he always did. Her eyes were blindfolded that time, but it didn't matter. Its not like she wanted to see what was happening anyway. Its times like these when she thought of her mother. How she would much rather prefer that yelling than this yelling.
'Come home', she whispers into the bush leaves. 'Or take me with you'.

2 comments:

Ubaid said...

this is seriously well written!

Opinionated Jaahil said...

Write a book. You've got a beautiful book in you.