Zed

I know what it is to scream in desperation at the dark. I have felt the flood of foolishness backfill my gut even as my rage dries impotently at my feet. I've kicked and scratched at death only to huddle near the ground like a whimper. Yet here I am. More baggage, more responsibility than I could have ever conceived. Around me shakes and topples towers on seemingly firmer foundations. 

Responsibility (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

There is a reason I’m up. Yet I’m looking everywhere else to deter the formulation of the reason. It’s still soft and in pieces. I woke early before the sun to expand the time before I have to lay my hands on it. Somehow waking early turns back time. In the quiet and stillness there is a sense of pre-birth, a comfort from the world’s slumber. The chilled air pushes me back into my cocooned mind. My neck missing, limbs somehow shorter, I am compact. Later the warmth of the sun, the waking air will unpack me. I’ll be held accountable. Not now. The warm grays are the closed eyelids of more vibrant, active colors.

I’ve come to the edge of the land or to the tip of the water. Its lapping does not expand its breadth. It only signals a deep, deep weight along the horizon. It would blacken and freeze my world. I almost wish it would rise up as if on a hinge and fold down over me. But that is its draw, its magnitude is unmovable, always in motion onto itself. It will not come to me.

Standing still, then stamping my feet, then receding back into the edge of my warmth—I stare past the scene. I note the tight shadows underneath the tumbling froth of droplets falling from the top of the rhythmic laps. I note the smooth shifting contours beneath the water as ambers, greens, blues slink in stillness under the cold wet.

Turning my back to the breeze landing ashore, then standing still, then stamping my feet, then adjusting my shoulders to press my neck to the fibers of my collar—I stare past the scene. I note the soft feathers of the reeds huddling into one another as the chilled blow of the breeze slides along their necks. They lean away. Their stiff stalks unwilling to lie down.

Standing still, then stamping my feet, then squinting and feeling the cold of my eyelids press—I stare past the scene. I note the heartless forms and slabs that lean together as structure; they too seem compact in the morning chilled air. I note slender knotted fingers frozen in a stiff perch; their black silhouettes yearn to curl back towards the ground if allowed only to recoil at the touch of the cold earth.

While noting these things it has taken shape. While throwing my gaze as far and deep as I could it has come into focus. I can no longer stand still. I stamp my feet. Jut out my neck. Walk towards the waking world. I pull myself towards the warmth and color and fear and worry.

Don't Eat the Paste (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

Sun is peering through high set windows. Its rays stretching across a floating lattice of dust particles. The furthest extension of the light spreads across the surface of thick wood varnish. I suspect it is here, and elsewhere, where the smell originates. I’m alone as I walk the interior hallway, but it is full of thoughts. Sprites of my distant past are caught in periphery and lost just as quick with the threat of my focus. The smell of the place pulses with each inhale and the vapors grow in vibrancy and detail. There is a blurring swirl and a muffled cacophony wrapping around my head. With each step I’m slowing my pace becoming more lost in the hallway. And now I’m standing still, unable to reach the end, to enter back into real time.

I came here for a game. My son’s game—he is playing in the large gymnasium at the other end of the middle school facility.

There is a voice speaking. It’s familiar. There is authority and uncertainty in it. I’m obligated to listen. I’m scared of being found out if I don’t. What are its words? I can’t make them out, but I owe it something. With each inhale my sense expands making my eyes widen. It’s so familiar. I’m a child hiding inside this shell. The warmth of the light is gone. Or it never made it in. The cold rises from the floor and bakes my discomfort.

My wife is elsewhere chatting with our friends. My younger sons are hunched over their tablet and my daughter is exploring the insides of bleachers.

I take a step. I stop as if corrected. I can’t make out the words. What didn’t I do? Will I be confronted about what I did? Smiles and eyes and then more indiscernible words tighten around my head. I’m confused. What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to try.

There is a smell of craft materials, wood, and industrial cleaner. Every school I’ve stepped into seems to have this smell. The chipping steel lockers, the worn commercial-grade wall tiles and speckled linoleum floor tiles, the hooks and cubbies, benches and stackable plastic chairs, and wire-reinforced glass panes all exude this smell.

In front of me is a boy. He is general round and soft. His eyes are hesitant. He is standing still but I see him fidgeting inside. He is jumping, laughing, shouting, waving, punching, acting, watching, all while standing still. It’s me in fact. That stupid mess of hair and stripped shirt stained with juice–I can feel the cheapness of the clothes. They fit all wrong. I… he doesn’t like it here. Why here?

They want something. They want something. What is it that they are asking for? I don’t know what the task was. Is it due today? It’s not fair. I didn’t know. I wasn’t listening. His brow is tight. My brow is tight. He is physically shrinking. I’m pulling into myself. The more he becomes still, the more my energy coils.

Steps behind me evaporate my state. I’m staring down the hallway towards small metal doors propped open. A warm yellow fills their frame. The steps are closer now. I hear a mother’s voice, a child’s voice. I hear a baby’s noises.

I step forward and walk. I pace with the steps behind me. I don’t turn. Now the sounds of the gymnasium are pulling me forward. Soon I’m walking into the sounds and warmth of the gymnasium. I see my family and I decompress. My shoulders smooth and my neck extends. I quicken my pace across the open court. I see smiles and eyes and I say “Hello my dears!”

The boy is gone away.