Clocks - Word War - 5 min.

The clock ticks on my desk. Well, no, I take that back. It doesn't tick at all. It's pixelated numbers flash every sixty seconds signaling the passing time. Minute after minute after minute. No noise is emmited whatsoever, but I can almost hear the faint ticking in my head. Call me crazy. There is no notification of the seconds passing, though, so it's really all based on my inner metronome. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Sometimes the non existant noise drives me batty. The insane thing is, it's my own mind doing it to..well..myself. And it's the worst kind of annoyance, because it's the kind that you create...and yet can't stop. This said 'personal metronome' does me some good, though. When I go to violin recitals, I look at the playlist and evaluate each player, whether I know them or not. Each boy and girl, kindergartner, middle schooler, or highshooler, steps up to the front of the room to play their piece. No matter how decent they actually know the song, or how on tune they are, the majority simply can't keep time with the piano. And it gets really old really fast. We all want to yell 'slow down!' or 'speed up'! Now the pianist is an old lady whose been around the block a few times, so she does her best to make the violinist look good. She speeds up when the player does, and slows down when the player does, and changes without hesitation when the player fumbles or goes to an entirely incorrect section of the piece with profound patience. However, the audience watching holds no respect for these sorts of players. They certainly hold their breath and urge the novice violinists on, or those who are shy or have by chance mistakenly forgotten their musical notes, but by golly those who can't keep time are simply shunned. It's all a lame joke if you know the piece but don't play it right! I too play the violin, but the reason I do well is because of this said inner metronome. Time coupled with beauteous sound equals a joyful sound to listen to. Even those who forget their piece - if they keep time, their dignity remains. Time in itself is ever fleeting. Ever forgotten. Ever sought to be saved and recycled and traveled! Pitifully the human race seeks to achieve those uses of time, to generally no avail. But loved is the one who _keeps_ time, and uses the time present to the greatest benefit. Tick, tock, tick tock. Oh, shut it!

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The Fall of A Titan

He stood there, hunched over the railing of Gapstow Bridge, dropping sticks into the water below. He watched them laying there, half submerged, as if they were not quite sure whether they should float or sink into the cold green pond. The stillness and silence was only disturbed by clouds of gnats, humming madly over the surface of the murky water. The boy seemed encased in his thoughts. The only thing moving about him was his hands and eyes. His hand would reach and fumble for another stick to drop into the pond, adding to the mass that lay limp in the water. His distant grey eyes were open wide, blankly staring ahead except for a periodic blink. They seemed to be glazed, concealing all thoughts and feeling. The boy's only companion was a small brown toad that sat on the peaty bank, absentmindedly flicking his tongue. Then suddenly the autumn wind grew cooler and ruffled the boy's black hair, bringing him back to his senses. He looked around for a few seconds, and then dropped the remaining stick into the pond. He zipped his coat up and slowly walked away, as if his purpose there had been defeated.

The letter stared up at his face and burned his eyes, like a harsh glare from a trusted friend. He knew it'd be here, waiting to tease him into frustration. His eyes drifted hesitantly towards the first line. He had no reason to read further.

He took a match out of the drawer and proceeded to ignite the paper. The flames consumed the letter with adamant pleasure. He opened the window to relieve the apartment of the pungent smell; but the door opened suddenly, and a weary small tottering figure emerged from the dark hallway. He ran to his room and shut the door. He fell onto a faded pink floral futon and closed his eyes, the moon shining through the windowpane, leaving a hazy strip of white on his back.

He awoke instantly, jumping to his feet with a start. The dark blue sky gave the appearance of early morning. Through his rain splattered window he saw the corporates heading to work, black umbrellas bobbing in the air. He stretched, grabbed his tattered sneakers, and pulled them onto his feet. He opened the door and ran down the dark hallway, praying that he wouldn't hear his mother's suspicious call.

He sprinted down the apartment building steps and onto the wet street. He scuffed his shoes against the wet concrete walk and asked to the skyscrapers, face in the rain,

 "How do I look from up there?"

but there was no response. He glanced down at the curb and saw the soggy remains of a frog, crushed by some unsuspecting car.

"Found a way out?" he asked the skeleton.

The fractured eye sockets stared silently back at him, and he felt compelled to keep on walking.

Walking to get away from the mess he'd gotten into

He watched cars fly past.

Two hours passed. It was now around seven am. He glanced around for a moment, and then turned and started home. The rain was pouring now. He quickened his pace. Just as he neared his apartment, he once again noticed the smashed frog in the street. He stopped and stood staring at it intently in the heavy rain for a long time. Suddenly, he turned and ran across the street. Feet pounding on the pavement. Rain splashing at his clothes.

N.Y. Chronicle, Wednesday, 11.12 - Young boy, unidentified, announced dead yesterday morning. Police reports have not been made public, but sources say the boy ran into oncoming traffic on the interstate. He had no identifiable items, and contact has yet to be made with his mother. 

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Love, Always

our feet run

we feel the grass

no thinking

no turning back

bright lights glow

in the dark night

illuminate

our smiling eyes

our hands clasp

we fall laughing

just stay awake

and sit with me

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