It looks Ominous up ahead...

Perspire, as the envelope stays jarringly on the rug. I have waited for months to know, but it seems daunting, it lying there, taunting my resolve. My mind wonders, what is it going to say? Its odd, how this weigh his placed upon a simple sheet of paper. It determines where I will be when the snow falls. Anywhere but here! I perceive the possibilities of other worlds, gaily looping through scenes that resemble change. Beaches, shores, towns, cities, and all the nostalgia of capturing the places within my eyes. Locking on my goal haunts my bones. What if I stay here? I will try again. I won't stop trying to push my pen across canvases, creating stories, magical phantasms, until the final note falls from my lips. But, I believe in myself. My back aches, I have been here too long, my head hurts, its barring down on my soul, my arms are tired, I've run out of time, I need to know. It makes no difference between now and then, since I will still be alive. I take a breathe, eying the envelope, and reach down to grasp it. What ever it says, I will be ready.

Aftermath

I want to do a detective type of tale soon, so here is my first attempt.

It’s midnight. The staggering moist summer air creeps in through the broken window as he stares below. No sign of forced entry, he thinks as he bends down over the corpse—the window was broken from the inside, probably from the struggle. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and rubs his blue eyes—a few tears fall through his fingers. Some police officers scour the small one-bedroom apartment, poking through drawers, shuffling through photos, moving precious objects, and dusting the remnants of the naked body. He has only been in the city for two weeks and he already has a serial killer on his hands.
“What do you think, Turner?” a policeman asks silently,
“How’d you find her?”
“Neighbor called in a disturbance.”
“And this is what you guys saw?”
“Yep, she was lying here dead, fucking crazy right?” The lieutenant takes off his cap and shakes his head, wiping his forehead gently, then continues, “So what do you think?”
“I think it is going to be a long night…”
Turner peeks into her light brown eyes, they stare up as though in awe of what happened, she must have gotten a glimpse of him before he did her in, he thinks. Her blonde hair is sprawled out on the wooden floor by each strand, her pale body is exposed with a jagged cut across her throat and under her breasts—blood drips sullenly down, her thick red lips are still vibrant, with a few freckles over her cheeks and a bruise on her left jaw that has molded purple with a few green marks around it. I must have just missed him, he thinks. He reaches over and pulls her eyelids down with his fingers gently, covering his mouth as he does.
“Did you know her?” The lieutenant asks.
He journeys his eyes around the room. He notices her red dress is thrown on the floor, the crease that exposed her breasts, the two thin strands that revealed her naked shoulders, and the soft silk of the bottom hiding her sensuous legs. Her large brown bag is hung on a chair near her bed. Her bed is ruffled, the soft white sheets torn off by force or through a struggle and her crimson pillows are muffled by slight black spots—he attacked her while she slept, he thinks. Her pink silk gown is cut down the middle and placed at arm’s reach from her body; he feels a warming sensation as he touches it. He rises and turns away towards the broken window, the city is hazy, and a few streetlights glimmer from the road. The buildings are black, rusted, and are blinded by shades pushed far down. The police lights cycle below casually. He pulls out a pack of smokes and lights one. His hand shivers and he takes a deep breathe.
“Turner, did you know her?” The lieutenant reiterates nervously.
The only sound he hears is a motor in the distance. The trees rasp against the window. He must have knocked her out with chloroform, which explains her stunned state, after he raped her, he then proceeded to cut her body apart—he is almost unable to continue his thought. He adjusts his gun holster, his finger itch for a chance to pull the trigger on this monster. His lips quiver, but not wanting to show remorse. He was supposed to stay the night, but was held up. He covers his eyes and digs his fingers into the side of his head.
“Yeah, I knew her…”
“A Are you going to be alright?”
“After I catch this bastard I will be.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to follow his trail.”
“What trail?”
“On the desk he left a thumb mark, probably due to the struggle on the bed; which led to the ground before she was knocked out. It wasn’t till then before he ravaged the body with his knife and probably pleasured himself before he left. I noticed, under her finger nails, some fragments of blood, hopefully it is his. He seems to target blondes, in single apartments, and who work in banks—due to the previous two murders. I wasn’t sure if those were accurate assumptions until this case. There are bite marks on the body around the neck, and some blood on the window seal—he might have been thrown into it as she tried to fight him off; which might offer some insight into who he is.”
The lieutenant shakes his head with bewilderment in his eyes. He takes off his cap and rubs his head. The other officers begin to leave the room as a corner comes in to bag the body.
“Well, looks like you got more than we did. Do you need any help?”
“No, I will only be a few minutes more…”
“Alright, man. Sorry bout’ the broad.”
He reaches out his arm to place on his shoulder, but stops halfway and leaves. Turner finishes his cigarette as the body is zipped up. He turns around and sees the apartment as though it were a ghost town. Emptied, ravaged, and torn apart. He slowly walks out; his head is low as he closes the door behind him.

Epiphany

What is such an instance as this? As I approach the path in such a dreary night I recollect the departure stricken by fright; caped by a sullen loss tonight. I must gaze into nature’s free will for answers to my quandary; conscious voices echo off the buzzing screens lurking at every corner—might take hours or days for such ways to decipher my soul. Whole purged beams gleam onto the solemn sidewalk; cracks display the brittle skin it was corrupted with from birth. The burning poles offering warmth in the chilly summer’s air, the lilac scent prancing without care from fair fluorescent friends aware of the winding road. Past the globes of conformity, in the distance behind the shading tree, previous memories hold well—the lake parted into infinity—dwells the body of water for which answers can be found. Lying on the cold concrete, looking out onto the thick lake dwelling below me; I was free, seeing the water in a new light. The bright Moon offered tranquility during the hours spent in contemplation; pondering the piece of wood between my fingers as the night hides my plight upon my soul.
"We are parting ways," I said to the ominous sea which offered its ear to my plea, "but I must know why such feelings exist..."
Whispers though the ripples lead my eyes high, above thin specks of clouds trying in vain to disguise the gazing white eye; I replied,
"What is it then I seek?" Speaking in a different tongue, "What is true happiness in my heart?"
Again the twilight reflecting from the calm water guides my palm through the piece of wood. Shaping and molding it to my will, but what makes each piece unique? I peek into my thoughts to convey an answer, is it the value we place upon each piece or perhaps once the part ripped off from the original copy it become a new piece of a whole idea? The wood has spoken truths not found elsewhere, for the value comes from what we give it, and no matter how similar each may seem; some difference lies. Apply this knowledge to the final shape which my hands command of such a divine artifact. Is it fate that delivers such a profound message, or perhaps chance? For now lies a boat in my hands, its rough form resembles a bird from within my chest; trapped in a makeshift metal cage, hoping to one day breathe new air. Despair grips my soul at first knowing far too long that my nature is one that must be free, yet I know it's me who steers such sails on its course.
"I know now my goal," I say satisfied, yet hungry for more, “for its clear I must steer through treacherous seas and not fear, but what is it that I seek?"
The dense waves crash upon the gravel under me, angry that my curiosity still lingers, but still offers a voice. I spot a piece of paper drifting in the sea, its words dripping into it, becoming one. My ponderous mind obviously seeks truth, for it will quench its unlimited thirst. First, though without saying, such brown eyes must be of some importance if they cause such pain. Perhaps the pursuit of love can purge it, a catharsis in this endless abyss which persists without end. Her presence brings a song of comfort, a breath of new, a brew of elixir that once you have tasted its sweet aroma you are forever in a trance. Alas it is there! The answers spoken through natures language, all along were they available if one would have just listened. Repose controls me now, but one last task must be done. I will allow my boat to travel through these waters alone, yet I will not offer a farewell. For it is destined that someday I too will venture off, yet I know our paths will cross. It is not fate but my will, so I offer no goodbye, at least not yet...

Sand Castles (second draft)

Here's a story in its first stages of development, I will post the next version soon.

Sand Castles
June awakes in her satin cerulean gown slouching. She rubs her weary eyes gently and then notices the hotel’s red laced curtain in front of her letting in the velvet sunlight. One is up to the very top of the ceiling revealing the crisp sky and the pearl beach, while the other is still down masking it, as if the world is still half-asleep. A young man is attempting to pull his faded jeans above his dark ass at the edge of the bed. He lifts each leg into the leggings very quietly, so not to awake her, until he sees she is up already—the white sheet covers her body up to her neck. He glances back and offers her a careless smile. She ignores him, pulling the sheets off her and stretching her exhausted arms way above her head. She rises and walks in front of the mirror near the bed. She stares, noticing a few more gray hairs extended from the blonde bunch. She pulls at them, one by one, and then rubs her skin. A few wrinkles appear in-between her fingers. She gasps as she notices her eye color fading, pulling at her cheek to get a better look.
“Did you sleep well?” He asks curiously.
His voice startles her. His tanned chest is tight as he pulls his thin white shirt over it. She nods, walking causally towards the television, slapping the on-button, and then creeping towards the large windows looking out towards the beach. The newscasters’ voice scratches the room while she leans her wrinkled face on the cool windowpane.
“It is so beautiful today!” He continues, “I am so happy to have run into yesterday at the bar, you are not too big of a drinker though.” He says, with an ignorant smile.
Her eyes gaze out onto the lush sand. It resembles a golden quilt extending towards the aqua, clear water in the distance. A lone palm tree meagerly sways as the breeze pushes it north, then south. A couple quickly chases each other towards the ocean from another hotel room, laughing gaily, playfully batting their hands away from each other, kicking up chunks of the ground, and then embracing lovingly as they collide into the waves. The tide sloshes onto the yellow rug as a few jet boats skid across in the distance. A towering dark hill looms drearily to her right.
“If you want, I could show you around.” He comments slyly, “There are tons of things we could do, like scuba dive, or jet-ski, or…”
He goes on as she decides to concentrate on the news. She has been away for some time, so it would be nice to see what is going on in the market. She turns up the dial as he is still changing and talking.
“Looks like it is going to be another cold winter in Chicago, Jim! Thanks, Mark. This just in! There was a terrible car crash on I-59 today, twelve people were killed in the mass pile up. One is being identified as 35 year old Mason Waters…”
The name causes her eyes to bulge and her mouth to drop. She stares stunned at the television. Tears almost exploded from her eyes as she watches the camera man weave between cars. They were just sitting out on Twelfth Street beach, resting on folded chairs, holding each other while sipping on Pina-Coladas not too long ago. The camera trembles as it quickly attempts to capture the tragedy. They met at Columbia University, going for the same business degree. A Honda Civic turned over on its side is revealed, another car is collapsed at its tail. He thought she was going on a business trip.
“Or watch a cock fight! Or check out the slums around…” He continues, but then finally realizes something is wrong, “Hey, you alright?”
She hazily backs away from the television, phasing out the rest of the report, and leans on the edge of the bed. Mason had a vivacious personality, but could be austere when the time came. He helped her cope with the loss of her mother, start her small business, and they owned a house together. The sex was great, but she was collapsing. The grains are falling on her head everyday and she feels the lapse of time in her limbs. Her head feels faint and her heart thuds tremendously, knocking her further on the bed. She resists crying, not wanting to. Mason kissed her goodbye at the airport. He held her bag for her, and then when they reached the terminal he gave her the most loving smile. His green eyes glistening with youth and his smooth pale skin gleamed off the sunlight. He still had his brown curly locks. His broad shoulders and strong hand waved as she slowly treaded onto the plane.
She rubs her forehead—her skin feels dry, trying to get hold of her thoughts. She glances outside and notices a woman lying on a sharp crimson towel, naked, basking in the Sun. The sand surrounding her almost engulfs her into a barren desert. Her stomach turns, causing her to cringe, she can’t believe he is gone.
“Are you alright?” He repeats, placing his hand on her back, massaging it placidly, “are you sick?”
His voice mirthlessly appeases her contempt. Vomit seems to be vehemently stirring in her stomach, trying to spill out of her mouth. Their wedding was beautiful, she remembers. She wore a long pearl gown tight to her slim figure, cut at her shoulder as her breast peeked a bit from the low curve. She jocularly stepped down the aisle, in the church she got baptized in; his smile in the distance made her whole body tingle. The bouquet and the thin veil colored the scene, as her cheeks grew red. He held her hand and kissed her lips—he wrapped his strong arms around her—swearing an oath of love and loyalty. A tear escapes her as she pushes him away, tumbling towards the screen door that leads to the outside deck. She rests her arms on the railing and then regurgitates the nachos she ate late night onto the sand below her. She wipes off the liquid on her mouth and spots the pack of cigarettes she smoked yesterday, one left, she quickly places it on her lips and lights it. The soothing smoke relaxes her body, but her soul trembles. He slowly steps outside with her, smiling with a child’s innocence. A few clouds guard the sunlight from them. The warmth wraps her gently as the light peeks back through. The shade relaxes her.
“What’s wrong? You pregnant or something?” He laughs.
Her hand is shaking. Her eyes begin to water, but she resists crying. The cigarette exhaustedly rests between her thin fingers as she turns away from him, her aged hair sways as the wind sails through it, and she taps her left foot vigorously against the old wooden deck. She finishes her cigarette, tosses it with a flick of her finger, sniffing the cool breeze as her elbows rest on the railing. A few seagulls cry from the beach. An older couple kisses in an open window near them. A man is buried underneath the sand, his head is the only part exposed, as his wife jocularly pats at the coffin she built for him. Waves tumble onto the exposed rocks and dirt, eroding the surface each time. The noon comes and reveals the whole beach.
“Get out, I’m heading home.”

Air-Balloons

She wakes up suddenly. Her drowsy eyes struggle to open; she rubs her eyelids, and hears a loud wailing coming from outside. Her nightgown is a purple frill; she searches under her bed for her soft slippers, and opens her large window to see what is going on. A cool summer breeze hits her, waking her up more, as the full moon sprinkles the houses around her with a white coat.
“All aboard!”
She hears it again, but doesn’t see where the sound is coming from. Her short curly hair bounces as she motions her head to gaze around the neighborhood. All the houses seem tranquil like every night; no motion at all, not even a lone light is on inside any of them. She knows there is no train nearby, nor is their any other type of transportation—or at least that is what she thought.
“All aboard! Last Call!”
She is compelled to find out what exactly is going on, so she climbs out her window, landing on soft moist grass, and runs in the direction of the voice. A piercing whistle burst through the night. She runs down the cobble streets, noticing no one is out tonight, and still seeking the source of her waking. Finally after a few blocks she sees it; a gigantic white hot air balloon, bigger than she has ever seen it—even though she has never actually seen one close-up—is parked on a hill near by. She can see an endless amount of people steaming out from the balloon like a fuse waiting to be lit. She walks closer and eventually reaches end of the line of people that await departure. She is nervous at first—she is not sure what she is witnessing, and neglects to converse with anyone. The people seem calm and don’t bother to even glance at her while they wait.
The line moves quickly. In the seconds that she stood in line, she closes her eyes—tiredness hits her, and when she opens them she notices she is next.
“Name!” A hefty man, with a circular brown beard, and large cheeks asks her loudly.
“Huh, what?”
“Name please!” He repeats, not even glancing at her, only the piece of paper on a wooden clipboard that he holds.
“Cyndia Cummens?” She replies, unsure of who she is at the moment.
“C, C, Cyndia…” He slowly pulls down the clipboard and stares down at the young girl in front of him, she smiles cautiously. “Are you supposed to be here Cyndia?”
“I am not even sure where here is.”
“Why this is the express balloon to heaven!”
She tilts her head in defiance of that idea. She has never known there was actually a heaven—especially that to get there you have to ride an air-balloon. She looks around her and doesn’t see anyone, she is alone; everyone is on the balloon already.
“There is a heaven?”
“Why yes! But it isn’t the same type of thing that you people tend to believe in.” He explains, smiling warmly.
“Were all those people dead?”
“Some.”
She isn’t sure what to think at this moment. She has always had a fascination with the afterlife—if there is one—but never expected to be presented with an actual answer.
“Can I come?” The words escaped her before she even realized she was going to say them.
“Why no! Of course not! You are not on the list!”
“But, you just said that you don’t have to be dead to go there.”
“I did, but you need to be seeking death to.”
She has never sought death—has she? Even so, if there is a heaven, why not kill yourself now to experience it? She doesn’t have a bad life, but it is not entirely good either.
“What if I am seeking death?”
He laughs loudly, holding the top of his head.
“Child, you have no idea what it is like. How could you possibly seek death?”
“I have seen a lot in my life.”
“But not enough.”
“I have experienced a number of sorrows.”
“But, you don’t truly understand what those feelings mean.”
The whistle blows again. The husky man glances back and notices another person gesturing his hands to come aboard. He gazes back at the young girl and pats her head playfully.
“When it is your time, you will see it. Not tonight though child. Till then…”
He swooshes her hair in front of her eyes and as she recovers he is gone. The balloon is already lifting into the air. Dust and grass begins to fall off the wicker bottom of the balloon. She sits and watches it float into the sky and as she does she notices more balloons rising into the air from different places. Each has a distinct color; sharp red, light blue, bright orange, and lime green. There are hundreds of them! She sits and smiles as the sun journeys upwards over the horizon. After a few minutes the balloons all vanish from sight.

Life and Times: Working Shift

Did you start working at 16?
I hope not, cause then you were stripped of your youth. Instead of figuring out your life, and your world, and your future your were trapped within a food store getting paid 5.15 and hour. Is it worth precious time spent living? No, but it is a fundamental quandary we face when in the throngs of this world. Being forced to smile and conform and agonize over a few cents a minute in order to fulfill a worthless material that offers monetary comfort within our bubble. No, it isn't worth chasing a love, interest, or friend. Making mistakes, gaining scars, or causing trouble throughout your neighborhood. It is then that we discover ourselves, instead of wishing we were home dreaming. Being active is better than not living. Being blinded by consumerism. It is hypocritical! I won't allow my life to be sapped of glorious time! We don't have much. That is something that we owe ourselves. Just to try to live and learn and love the earth and all that dwell on it. Create, prosper, and relax. It is a better life, one that can smile at a disaster. Now, excuse me while I clock in for the day...