The Rock

   She sat on the rock, their rock.  The rock they had sat on together.  The rock no one else knew about.  Everyone knew about the river, it ran straight through town, but no one knew about their rock- except them.  It was not a very big rock, and it wasn't anything attention grabbing, but it was enough... it had been enough for them.  Their first kiss had been on this rock, this is where they came when they resolved their arguements, this is where they had come to sit quietly next to each other.  Just the river singing its song, the birds singing theirs, the trees reaching for the sky, and their rock.
   But it had stopped being enough.  She could no longer make him happy.  She willed herself to cry, but she couldn't.  She could feel the tears waiting to come out, but they couldn't.  Every time she heard his voice, or heard his name, or dreamed of his arms around her she only wanted to laugh.  The thought of him still filled her with a joy she could not quench.
   She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the rock, reliving every conversation they had had together.  She had never felt so comfortable.  And she didn't regret opening herself up to him.  She could never regret those hours of her life she had given freely to him.
   What hurt her the most, is that she doesn't know what he thinks of her now.  Does he regret her?  The unanswered questions she has are the things keeping her up at night.  The moments she wants to run to him about she has to keep quietly to herself.
   And when she's scared, there's no one to tell her everything is going to be ok.
   She let her fingers drop into the cool water of the river.  She closed her eyes and felt the sun on her back.  Then she stood and walked away.

   Leaving everything but his memory behind.

B!tche% and @ueen%

   The story of my life is not worth telling, but my counselor wants me to write out “all my life experiences”.

…What?!

   But my parents have bribed me with a car if I continue to go to my “counselor” and do everything she tells me to.  So, I’ll give this a shot, can’t hurt to write about my mundane life in hell.

   I was born August 3^rd in the small town of Calemsville, population 3,225.  My mother always complained I had a big city attitude, which was true.  My whole life this whole town has been too small for me.

   Most of the things I found amusing included: painting park benches without telling people, putting glue on toilet seats at school, taking all of the pencil sharpeners out of the walls, breaking the taillights on every car in the town, smashing mailboxes, and other such things.  Needless to say most of my adventures ended with me in handcuffs, sitting in the city jail, and my parents getting to be on a first name basis with every police officer in the small town- all 8 of them.

   Now, I’m not a bad kid- just bored.

   And idle hands are the devil’s handiwork, my mother always likes to tell me that when she picks me up from the police station.

   I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I got blamed for the Shaler barn catching fire 2 summers ago.

   That’s when the whole counseling thing started.

   It was July- hotter than hell.  We’d gotten no rain in weeks and everything was hurting from it.  Every surface was covered in dust, you breathed in more dust than air.  Everyone parked themselves in front of a fan with a huge glass of cold ice tea.

   Even I was lying low and staying out of the sun, except when I was taking my four wheeler through the desert sands.

   But I wasn’t even doing that the day of July 24^th.

edges and scraps.

everything i need to say
to you
is written on the edges
of scraps of paper.

everything i ever needed
is your eyes
and the way you look at me.

i could drink in
that look
forever, and ever.

that look,
is my happily ever after....

but that's on the edges of scraps of paper.
those words are the ones i can't find
when i'm near you.

those are those the words i try not to hear
as i lay alone in my bed,
wishing for your arms around me.

because you aren't my happily ever after.
you are only a dream,
written on
the edges of scraps of paper.

What I was Writing

The perfumed air is the first assault,
followed closely by a bombardment of color.
The sound of this war is water,
and the air is still,
yet not heavy or oppressing.
The air clears away all other thoughts
and you are only left with the peace
this war has won.
Because this war, is the war,
to show how wars are won.
Without guns or oppression,
but rather with perfumed air,
explosions of color
and the peace water brings
as it washes away
   all the hurt
   we have ever known.

         And our hearts
          are restored.

A Highway is a Wonderful Metaphor for Life

Sometimes
you will live
in the fast lane.

Sometimes
the road
will be rough.

Sometimes
you will be
stuck in traffic.

Sometimes
there will be
sudden turns and stops.

      And sometimes
       you'll have to abandon
   your car on the side
      of the road.

                    But eventually,
           you will reach
                         your destination.

A Thought....

   He swept her off her feet and spun in a circle, she was laughing when he set her back down on the ground; her cheeks rosy and her smile lighting up her eyes.  It was the smile he had been waiting to see since he was away.  Her smile was the one that kept him going, that smile kept him alive.
   She stepped back as the others gathered around to greet him, he could feel her eyes on him.  Those bright, curious eyes that were always searching for his.  He met her eyes and she looked away, laughing.
   She was forever laughing.
   He gathered his bags and allowed himself to be swept into the Great Hall where his parents waited for him.  She followed the group quietly, staying to the edges of the room, near the shadows.
   "My Son," his father, Lord Mirchtan, was standing on the dais at the end of the Hall, his mother, Lady Finyala, standing beside him.  "Edard, my son," Mirchtan continued, embracing him.  "How was your journey home?"
   Edard smiled, "Lady Fortune granted me a speedy return Father.  Truly your great forces have changed the tide of the war in our favor."

Written in the Sand

There is a line,

A line no one is supposed to cross.  That’s the way it is, that’s the way it has always been.  But I have crossed the line; I looked at the small town fading away into the background in my review mirror and gunned my engine.

My getaway car was a ’89 white Chevy pick-up truck, the paint was peeling and the gas pedal stuck, but it took gas and went moderately fast… it went fast enough to get me out of this forsaken hole of a town.

Away from the family owned grocery store, away from the bait shop, away from the school and everyone I’ve known for my entire life.  Away from everyone that knows my whole life.

I only stopped for gas, I wasn’t hungry and there was no one to force me to eat.  The highway stretched before me. 

Night.  I was one of the few cars still driving, even the truckers had stopped for the night.  But I wasn’t tired, and I still wasn’t far enough away from that town.

The highway stretched before me in a vast, empty plain.  The stars shone above, and the moon kept me company as I drove.

Maybe I was being unfair; maybe I should give that rotten hole another—

What am I saying?!?  I’ve given that place enough of my life.

I drove.

And drove.

And drove.

And drove.

I sang along with the radio, got some more gas and drank 5 cups of coffee, black.

The sun rose in a pale pink and golden cloud.  Mist covered lakes and the world was waking up.

I drove without a thought.

Without a worry or a care in the world, except where the next gas station was.  The highway was home to me, where I belonged.

I reached the ocean some time the next evening.  The waves were crashing onto the shore.  It was rhythmic and soothing, like driving on the highway.  I parked my truck and got out of the cab.  It felt good to stretch my legs.

I slipped off my shoes and buried my feet in the warm sand.  It was quiet, only the waves and the distant yells of a neighboring beach.  I crossed the sand and went right up to the tide line and watched the wave’s crash onto the shore.  The foamy water splashed my toes, and buried my feet in the cool, wet sand.

I freed myself form the sand and bent down.

I wrote the familiar letters into the cool wet sand, I wrote the name of the stupid town.

I formed the letters quickly, and neatly.

The next wave came,

And the word washed away.

And all that was left was the smooth brown sand.

And there was nothing left of the chains that held me.