Last Writing Practice of the Year

In the spring we watch flower buds erupt from the dying snow. Low in the air, hung tiny sparkles from the morning sun, catching the drifting dew from the swaying trees that sing with the tide of the wind. A cat walks by. It purrs and stretches on the sidewalk, and when you go over to pet it, it scratches in the air and you pout as it runs off, hiding in our neighbor’s bush. You wave for me to come over, and when I do, a leaf crosses my eye. I stop, the air stinging across my ears, and as you wait, you point, and a storm of falling leaves surround me. Everything turns to green, and I can hear you rustling laps, breaking leaves in your wake, and when it all stops, a cat watches. You try again, before it runs away, and then you pout, and I wait as another leaf falls. But then, in a glimmer, the morning sun fades away, and a small droplet of snow dances for us. And you stop. You stop, and you watch, as our morning grows a little brighter.


The snow cracks, a lack of rain yesterday, but it did rain, for a bit. It thundered, but no one saw the lightning. We went on the news for walking by a shopping mall, an interview happening, we listened, as they swung their fingers to the camera, telling them they’ll be right back with the weather report. Turning on our phones, they told us clear sun and a heat wave warning. The cicadas don’t stipulate summer, we do. It rained, for a bit, in June, soft drips oozing off of our skin, and no one really said anything about the news being wrong, it only drizzled for a few minutes. Then the skies cleared, and the sun was down, humid, hues rolling down the melting puddles, a rainbow wanted to form, and the thunder lingered in the air. Tracking down the echo of the thunder, we held our chests and felt our pulse. We were beat down by the sun as it beat down on the earth sizzling the evaporating rain drops for tomorrow (today). Yesterday it rained for a moment, and the drips that found its way on buildings, in sewer drains, on the petals of flowers, on the leaves of trees, in our bodies, became snow. Now, in the beating sun, it’ll float into clouds, back to where it came. No one will see the blanket of white over the earth, not from space, or from the moon, and even the sun will have trouble. But, the clouds will be there, not rain clouds. Piercing rays lay on our skin, burning snowflakes, icicles haven’t formed in years. Today the weather report says it’ll rain.  


The fog clears, for another day, and in the fog, the city lights blare, poking towards the stars, grabbing hold of their shine, smothered by electrical malfunction. The city sleeps, for a night, it rests. The noise from engines whir gently as the feet from crowds still, waiting, a window sill holds a man leaning outside, his smoke nearly singes his cheeks as he looks up to the sky. A gentle breeze wafts over the buildings, weaving through the ascending odor of sewer bars and a bottle thrown from a bar cracks as a fight breaks in the dark. A man runs off without paying the tab, and a child looks, watching the pockets glow. The headlights of passing cars are bright, earthly stars, blending into one another, over one another, together. In the distance, the man who smokes brings his head down, and watches as the cars move, as those earthly stars bridge in and out, drawing attention to them as the only source of light in the city. He takes his lighter, brings it close to his face, and wonders if anyone will see him.  


 

 

 

Writing is fun, it’ll always be fun, no matter what year it is, for me, no matter where I am, it’s fun, and lately I’ve been writing better. I know so, my writing’s a lot better and I’ve been writing different things, all sorts of things, and doing these  micro/flash/ writing exercises is fun. It’s nice. It’s closer to what I want my writing to be, these tiny snippets and moments that can be grasped at, while attempting to be beautiful, or something. I don’t know, but I’ll be writing still, in 2019. That’s the only guarantee I can give. 

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