crylorenzo

 The fog was the least of my problems going home. As part of a club in high school, I'd gone over to a friend's house to go sledding along with the other club members. I had an enjoyable time, but it was getting late and I was ready to crawl, exhausted, into my own bed. I was saying my goodbyes to the others, when a friend asked me if I could give a sophomore named Joseph a ride home. "Who brought him here? Can't they take him back?" I asked. "Joseph's dad dropped him off thinking that André would take him home, but André never showed. Everyone else's car is packed." At this moment Joseph came up. I knew him a little bit. I was tired, b

Thomas sagged against the inside of the elevator as it went up, one hand holding a cell phone to his ear, and the other wiping sweat from his cheeks. "Don't worry, Natalie," Thomas was saying, "I will get a chance to see you this week, I promise." "That's what you said–" she began. "I know I couldn't make it last week, but it wasn't my fault; the work kept piling up and–" Thomas paused as the elevator bell rang. "Listen," he continued, "I just got back to my apartment and I have to take a shower. I was jogging before I gave you a call and dinner's soon, so I have to hurry." "Okay," she said, "but you're spring break doesn't last much long

EXT. WHITMAN HOME – NIGHT WINSTON (age 10), stands on the steps of a dark house with an British POLICEMAN (age 43), holding an umbrella over the both of them, as it is raining. There is also some luggage that WINSTON holds in his hands. Winston cries to himself as the policeman stares towards the road. Some bicycles go by, light shining from dangling gas lanterns. Slowly, one bicyclist comes into the yard and gets off his bike, putting it in the shed as he speaks. This is SAMUEL (age 25).     SAMUEL  Good evening, officer. My apologies for making you wait out in the rain.     POLICEMAN It's my duty, sir. Now, you don't mind me leavi

I. Beforehand Before night can come the fire is tended to illuminate green leaves and comfort the sleepers who soon shall lie down beneath father trees Beneath mother trees before day is done the fire begins as a new guiding light to comfort the weary who rest on their way Far off into night gaze dancing flames Asleep are the dreamers knowing they are safe II. Afterwards When the fire ends when the wind blows strong where will the campers go where will the ashes fall when the fire fades when these woods are alone where will men seek shelter where will the starlight shine will smoke rise into paler heavens will warm

The trees are shadows; the lake reflects shifting light. A star falls down the sky as here we spend one final night. A man beside me starts to cry. There are many reasons why, but I know he felt at home. I wish I could cry, but instead I breathe in and search for constellations while others sleep. Tomorrow we shall part before the sun can sit on the horizon and go from this home to the next to the next.

Some days the difference comes by night: A subtle glow behind deep shades of blue. Wish a star to bless you with its light. Always, it has been, the end is right Though most complain and wish it wasn't true. Some days the difference comes by night. It may be dark, but you retain your sight; With ease look up, and find yourself a view; Wish a star to bless you with its light Or take the moon and bathe yourself in white, Else we should sleep and find we've missed our cue Discovering difference came by night. Thus wait and see, the darkest dawn is bright; Lift yourself to dream what you can do; Wish a star to bless you with its lig

There are storms in the west and the setting sun may never find its way home again to the eastern dawn where fire and smoke fade gray. There are storms in the north and southern skies rage and there's nowhere safe to stay, not even home where the ashes burn and men have feet of clay. Try to hold on and the rising sun will make it back, we pray; there are storms in the west and all we can do is await the coming of day.

The gray and cloudy skies bring the world to still 'til past the windowsill there is no motion but my eyes these things are different than they seem for wind breathes where it will and in the air's a chill that keeps me from my dream and yet I sense the stillness grow as the light fades sadder and the dead leaves scatter floating for a time before they slow sky is darkening and grass grows black with shadows while the air moans now in despair calling for the autumn to come back trees without their leaves now little sway the snow begins to fall but I only recall the motionless and eerie gray these things are different than

When I was five, or six, my friend and I ventured into the backyard beneath the care of a live oak tree. Shovels firm in hand, we delved into the dirt wishing to reach another world and dug a pit deep into the ground until we reached damp soil. He and I were friends, both five or six, both looking for something, new and strange, profound and deep. But as we were digging, I don't believe we cared, for we were happy then just looking ahead. We never found answers. It filled with water from the earth and rain from the sky.

A child in the cold plays basketball with a father who isn't there. The wind skirts by him like a stranger, or his mother who isn't there He stops to breathe the air: cold, as is his stare when he looks at you, as you walk on by.