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... by crylorenzo, literature
Literature
Some Days the Difference...
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.