They attacked with banging guns and booming rockets, an unnecessary commotion, striking as though we were leaves on an autumn tree awaiting winter winds. Perhaps we were in our russet way?
Fall, some called it, the time when one generation made room for the next. Whether or not the giant oak wished it, all it had nurtured, its beloved children, were expunged.
We fell tumbling to the ground in swamped screams. They heard us though. Everyone heard us. And like the tree that bore us, our country, we’d be reborn. For leaves die in silence but their rustling echoes forever.
Author's Note: A Drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
"I'm a kangaroo," he said.
I looked at him strange and replied, "No, sir, you're a man. A troubled man, but a man nonetheless."
He didn't like that.
Reaching into his frontpack, he hauled out a young baby dressed all in brown, passed me it, then hopped off the roof without another word.
They called me a hero, the cop who'd saved baby Joey. I wasn't. I'd made a grown man feel stupid enough to jump, that's all. If he'd wanted to be a kangaroo, I should've let him. His kid could've at least visited him in the zoo.
I’d dreamt of gold and glass and colour and light and beauty and women with smiles on their faces and love in their hearts. The city I stood in was none of those things.
Was a lie a lie to everyone or just the person who’d envisioned it? Was it wrong to have thought only the best and ignored the unashamed truths? I supposed I’d never know as I wiped the detritus from my shoes and tears from my eyes.
Another city another day would become my motto. I lived it. I hated it. Those imperfect dreams, they haunted me.
Golden light filtered through the aquamarine water casting opaque, rippling shadows across the seabed like clouds in a clear blue sky. The sun’s rays were never the same, always beautiful, a living, moving tapestry that rolled across the coral and kelp in endless cycles of underwater perfection. Turtles dove for it, sharks hunted for it, yet she of the periwinkle skin and lavender eyes wanted nothing more than escape. That’s what she told them when they caught her in their net, hauled her into the light, although all they heard was mindless bubbling. Dreams aren’t always worth a held breath.
I waited with trepidation for the dandelion seeds to take flight, I always had. There was something about them, something intangible almost like ghosts holding parasols with a license to roam both day and night. Ethereal in their opalescent beauty, the seeds appeared from mass, golden deaths to haunt the fields, roadsides and gardens for scant days each year. I imagined them drifting off into a pale nowhere that I alone would one day find. It saddened me that I didn’t. I’ve dreamed of that place where the dandelion seeds lie for so many years. One day, I’ll find them.
I feel Her. Lady Death stands at my shoulder sheltering this shivering form with a swept up cape. Cosseted by Her darkness, cold but comfortable, I wait to the ticking of my pocket watch. I hear Her. Her breath grazes my neck like that first Autumn frost. Beautiful in its own way. She moves closer, whispers in my ear, then all is night. I touch Her.
Peace sweeps over me like celestial night the sky. Awash in sparkling obsidian, I revel in this eternity as I would an iced tea in Summer. I am Hers now and She is mine.
This bar by the beach doesn’t lessen the heat, it amplifies it. I no longer drip with perspiration, but something else, something feral. There’s a cool breeze blowing off the ocean, a beer in my hand, condensation taking a slow tour of the glass, but every second I’m sitting here, I’m getting hotter. Why? This isn’t me, I don’t get sweaty and nervous and out of breath. Then again, I’ve never sat next to you before. I’ve never been this close to a woman so hot I could fry an egg on her skin. This heat, it’s getting to me.