Sitting behind me, as fate would have it, as you drag your finger across my back, I know it’s you. The faintest touch of a dizzily dragging finger that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck like you knew it would. But we were just children.
And you were still just a child when you passed to the other side; when you knocked on my door and asked to come back. It was too late. I felt a guilt it my heart I didn’t know was there, like you knew I would. But we were just children.
I tagged you first as the rain fell. You chased me through the umbrella-d drones: scared of shorting their circuitry. The rain fell on us.
I looked back at you when you stopped smiling to blow the wet hair off your face. I didn’t notice wet socks in new shoes while I stopped you in your tracks with a puddle splash. We circled around lampposts and street signs, cutting through drizzled grass back to the car. I jumped in to lock the door from you, but you were too close behind. You tagged me in the passenger seat the night the rain washed away our age.
Am I to believe all these circumstances? Have I been bred to be so naïve?
Sometimes it feels like platforms are falling into the path of my steps, and I get to where I’m supposed to be. This calculated fate designed for destiny; premeditated not by me. Do they think that I don’t see just because I’ve always been here- that my sheltering would leave me transfixed?
To hear all my life the beauty of the painted skies, but when I finally reached out for them, my knuckles resounded a knock!
I beseech you the truth. Lies forevermore, nevermore.
A hand outstretched, in hopes of partnership to rebuild the lost: from a dissed utopia to a dystopia. Annexation of their civilization was just conservation. No one can make it alone anymore. Not him. Not them. But together, their survivability increased exponentially.
But his hand shook.
He was nervous. No, he was thirsty. He was hungry. They had run out of food that wasn’t radiated, outdated, or emaciated. They needed to be satiated.
Dirt rested in the creases of his palm. A thin layer of sweat coated his hand. Blisters were at the base of each finger.
Before my story, I just wanted to apologize for not being around as much (writing, reading others, commenting, etc). Just got a new job and started summer classes! Things have been a little hectic! I’ll be around more when things settle down. Thanks for everyone who keeps coming by anyway!
It wasn’t luck.
He had spent too many years needled to a hospital bed in debilitating pain; he had spewed too many piles of puke; he had swallowed too many pain pills for it to be luck.
He had spent too many years fighting; he had spent too much time honing his craft; he had spent too many resources in blind hope for it to be luck.
It wasn’t definitive.
It wasn’t complimentary.
It wasn’t devised.
It was a sign. A sign that didn’t tell him he’d be rich, or appreciated, or loved, but a sign that he would be successful in what mattered.