the waves crash white-tipped on the shore birthed from tealmilk crests powdered turquoise mixed with pearl where the sunlight rests. the ocean deepens: metal green by the horizon’s line. above, blue-purple storm clouds rise like incense smoked from wine. the clouds obscure but half the sky the rest is naked day I sit on yellow sand and wait for rain to turn us grey.
[Featured Image: wave, public domain]
I have to write something The way ink runs off the porch, sprayed from the hose When I wash green algae away with black night. I have to write something The way the bird must flit away at the slam of a door But always return to her nest With a twig or a worm. I have to write something The way the headache presses behind my eyes And sleep drags at my chin And the foam sticks too hot at night against my back. I have to write something The way the bones in my ankles pop When I fidget, restless, on the couch in yellow light Nobody else awake, my fingers drunk on words. I have to write something For all the universes I will never know For all of the people I could have been All of the people I am, through time and space The same soul clinging to itself in a thousand different forms A worm, a bird, a magical waitress, A sorcerer, a scientist, the one who discovers the portal between worlds Only to find herself the same everywhere although the endless reflections in the green mirror are nothing alike. I have to write something I have to read something I have to read everything Nothing more devastating than a library Balustrades, gold on the book spines, a millennium of human thought Capsules, caterpillars in cocoons, Words on the eyes on the wings of the butterflies Flying away I know I could never read it all Not in one lifetime Not in all the lifetimes of my soul It’s not right And so I have to write.
[Featured Image: quill and ink, Creative Commons license]
Her voice was almost spent; this was her final performance. Her silk dress waterfalled to the floor, glittering with stars. She meandered across the third-floor interior balcony of the mega-mall, watching the people below speed around like a bunch of bag-laden beetles. Too many Christmas presents to buy. She passed the pianist, a man she had never seen before. She was so happy that she kissed him on the mouth, just before he began to play. The conductor raised his eyebrows at her but he understood; she had nothing left but her fame at this point.
The last performance began. “O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining,” she sang, purifying the air with her lungs. They had given her permission to wander while she sang, carrying a microphone that gave her a portal into every shop in the mall. She headed down an escalator. “Long lay these words, in sin and darkness pining…” Some people waved excitedly at her from the opposite escalator. “To find a day when my soul felt its worth.” From this point in the mall, she saw escalators ascending and descending between all six floors. She loved open space. The glass roof afforded a wonderful view of the evening sky.
“A thrill of hope, the weary mind rejoicing.” The lowest level was empty. She stood on the smooth white tile, a beam of light against the storefronts, and sang the highest note to a bedraggled homeless person covered in red rock powder from the quarry. “O night, diviiine; oh night; oh night divine.”
He clapped for her and she smiled, then took the escalator back to the top for the reception. There was a third verse that she had not bothered to learn the words to; it was written by some modern person with no taste. She sang, “I don’t know the words, so I will sing the first verse; it is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.” Nobody would care at this point; the pianist was also improving; they were already clapping from upstairs. “Oh, night, divine.” Pure and clear till the end. She had calibrated her reserve exactly.
She stepped onto marble. Cameras flashed. The conductor was crying. The pianist she had never seen before saluted her. Her sister came up and said, “That was wonderful!” and she croaked her last words, a shallow rasp so quiet only her sister could hear: “Thank you.”
After the farewell, they took her by the arm and led her into a side room. Before this moment, she had prayed that the next model would enjoy the newer version of her larynx as much as she had enjoyed her outdated one, so she was at peace as she caught her last glimpse of Venus through the ceiling glass: the brightest evening star, and it wasn’t even a star.
[Featured Image: starry night, drawing, public domain]
balladrael 
