Category: creative writing

Bundled in our winter jackets with cold ears and gloved hands, we walk along a dark trail beneath an obsidian sky scattered with twinkling stars. The brightest in the sky is twinkling green, blue, and white like a twisting prism suspended in space refracting its light to earth.

Walking past ominous buildings, we approach a lifeless, towering structure. Cold hands grasp a chain-link fence: metal rattles. Broken glass cracks beneath our feet as we descend the concrete stairs and water droplets form at the ledge of the roof twelve stories high. I gaze upward at the building’s silhouette: water splashes across my forehead.

I feel eyes pierce through me from a distance as my imagination runs wild: a group of survivors, unnoticeably finding sanctuary in the darkest of night, ascending to the roof to scout its surroundings – a green ominous light appears on the third floor: a glowing exit sign.

I grasp a pipe and lower myself into the damp basement as the sounds of nature grow quiet and the sound of silence becomes deafening. Water pings off a pipe as a door in the hallway creaks from a faint breeze. Stepping over insulation, I fumble into the hallway, past the door and up the steps toward the roof.

With tired legs and a runny nose, I grasp my hand around a ladder’s rung and climb twelve more rungs. As I reach the roof, I pull myself through the hatch onto the tarred surface. The cool breeze from the Hudson River swipes hair across my face – I remove it from my mouth and swipe the sides of my head with my gloved hands while watching a scene of small cars move across the bridge in the distance as scattered porch lights twinkle in the dark hills.

While laying on my backpack, I watch the sky with intent as hotdogs cook on an open flame. Laughter, fire and cigarette smoke ascend into the sky with good intent. The black sky in the east transforms into a light shade of blue as the sun slowly rises above the horizon.

Soft footsteps creak the wooden floors of the hallway.

I awake in a room with bodies scattered upon the floor – we are sleeping heavily beneath our jackets, snoring. There was a man standing in the doorway, but now he is gone. I quickly fade back into sleep.

I rise, hovering above the bodies curled up within their warmth. I bend over, grab a shoe, and while balancing, place it on my foot as the bodies stir.

I wander down the white hallway, looking over my right shoulder at the patients freshly awakened for breakfast grub and pills in decorative paper cups. I hallucinate the aroma of maple pancakes and freshly squeezed orange juice and the dirty, paint-chipped floors beneath my feet become clean and waxed as a nurse in white shoes scuff past me.

My eyes are blurry – I’m in a daze; surreal. I reach out in front of me and place the palm of my hand upon the surface of a small white door while stepping on the small white tiles and enter the small white bathroom.

Walking toward the window, I lean on the sill while shielding my eyes from the low-hanging sun as I look upon the overgrown courtyard of the asylum.

Leaning against the side of a cold car outside a gas station, I watch snow fall heavily from grey clouds on a white field. Small, brick homes with frosted windows are pushing smoke from chimneys. The air is quiet, and the roads are empty. The wind whips my hair across my face as I brush it away to watch a clunky, old truck slowly drive by, changing gear as it goes up the hill. The sound of warm gas streaming into the tank of the car intensifies as the old truck draws out into the distance. The handle clicks as the pump shuts off.

I turn around and see a deli and pizza place, the only two places in town that are open for business. “It’s not a bad combination,” I think to myself. I suck air in-between my teeth as a headache forms and I drag my feet toward the door of the deli. Reaching for the handle, I pull the door open as bells jingle against the glass.

Inside, it is cold and dimly lit and the wall to my right is lined with refrigerators stocked with juice, soda, tea and milk. The ceiling is patterned with various shades of white tiling, some stained.

Behind the counter is girl who is cleaning, and a young man is arranging items. I ask, “Do you sell aspirin?” He hands me some extra strength tablets in a square tear-away packet. I walk toward the refrigerators, glaring into each door because the lights inside are turned off. “I wonder if they’re on,” I think as I open the door.

I feel a cold coming over me as I walk to the meat-counter with an unopened can of iced tea. “Can I order something?” I ask. “Sure,” The attendant responds. “Hmm, turkey and cheese on a roll,” I say.

Three shelves are stocked with snacks, beef jerky, canned food, disposable bowls and magnets. Near the register were gum, candy and ChapStick. Between them are four small tables and chairs beneath a television set and antenna extended to the ceiling that is airing a daytime soap opera as an old woman sits below reading the newspaper.

I clear my throat and look at my shoes. “How are the roads?” a voice asks. Flustered, I look up at the attendant. “They’re fine,” I say. “Someone drove off the road. Be careful driving, there is a lot of black ice,” He insists. “Oh, that’s not good,” I say. Bells jingle and a man walks through the door toward the counter. “Can I get twenty on pump two?” He asks the attendant by his first name. “Does everyone around here know each other?” I think to myself. I look down at my shoes.

“Turkey?” A female voice asks as if there are others waiting. “That’s hers,” The guy says, pointing at me. “Thanks,” I say, grabbing my plate. I sit down at a table with my friends as they take their last bite.

Picking up my sandwich, I notice a pattern on the plate. “Is this a ceramic? They give their customers real plates?” I ask out loud. The old woman mumbles something unpleasant to herself as she hastily flips the page of her paper. I rip open the plastic packet beside my plate and swallow two white pills.

I wonder if this were the place I would visit for my gas and lunch if I lived nearby and if the frustrated old woman, dining alone in a gas station would be me one day. I wondered if the attendants knew her name or if she were a recluse and if they knew we were not from around here.

“I don’t think I like it here,” I say. “Why?” my friend asks as I think for a moment. “It’s a small town and people know each other – they know each other’s names,” I say. “I’m used to it – doesn’t bother me,” he says.

“What do I do with my plate?” I ask. My friends look around as I gather my things and walk to the counter placing the plate down gently and walk toward the door. I feel compelled to say goodbye as I pull the door.

It’s a hot summer night and we’ve just embarked on a road-trip in a Volkswagen bus into the Finger Lakes of New York near Lake Ontario; our east coast version of Napa Valley. I’m sitting on a log with my friends poking a dwindling fire in a small camping commune. Someone roughs up the fire as it roars into the dark sky. “Ouch,” I say, brushing an ember off my thigh. I’m wearing a thin pair of jeans with a long, flowing sundress that I paired with a thin zip-up jacket in case I feel cold.

We are discussing the existence of objects in nature, such as fire, as a piece of wood burning brightly appears translucent. “I feel like if I poke that thing, the stick will go straight through it,” I say as I poke it and the stick breaks, “It looks like lava.”

In the near-distance, campers move around the field with flashlights and small campfires are scattered along the rolling hills just beyond a bathhouse. The environment is still and quiet except for distant echoes of a fast-paced samba beat. Distracted, our heads turn toward a large shadow projecting upon the side of a white camper. We look at each other in confusion and turn our attention toward the fire as an acorn, flung from a tree, lands at my feet. “Angry squirrels?” I ask. “It’s the shadow-man,” my friend says.

We tilt our chins above the blazing fire to gaze upon a wooden picnic canopy as a shadowy figure on the roof ducks. We quickly turn our heads toward each other and back up again. While sitting frozen with all our senses tuned into the disturbance in the force, another acorn lands at my feet. I imagine a South American gremlin about three feet high with gnarly teeth casting shadows on camping equipment, vanishing into rows of pine trees, and scaling roofs to play tricks on us. “Sometimes these things just have a way of knowing” I say. “Knowing what?” he asks as I gaze at him in a serious manner with firm eyebrows and pupils wide as dimes. The gremlin moans. “He’s spitting at us – what do you think that means?” I ask. “Let’s just ignore it and it will go away,” he says.

Our friend, who was missing in action, suddenly appears by the fireside as if he never left. We stare at him blankly as he attempts to join the conversation. I wait a moment and say, “It was you.” “It was me what?” he asks. Confused I try to explain, “Well, there was a- just a minute ago- never mind.”

We take a walk down the hill to a small pond following the sound of ducks. As we approach the pond overgrown with lilies and cattails, the ducks quack louder. I stop and squint at the empty pond, “Where are all the ducks?” My friend laughs and says, “Those are frogs”. I laugh at nature’s trickery and at my own ignorance as we sit on a bench facing the pond at the base of the hill and close our eyes.

“What is that glowing blue light hovering above that house?” I ask. “Wi-Fi,” he says. “Why is wireless internet on an antenna above a house? What if you need to reset it?” I ask. “With a remote control,” he says. I laugh in amusement at his quick and confident responses to my bewilderment. “I don’t understand the concept.” He responds with, “to show its signal.”

We turn our bodies to face a flashlight fumbling outside a tent. We’re in amusement and stricken by bafflement at the sight of a dozen garden lights and bulbs dangling on a string beyond a welcome sign. “Do they live there?” I ask.

Walking down the center of a dark, empty road we are quickly enveloped in a misty fog; the trees grow larger while reaching for the sky. It feels like we are walking for an eternity into nothingness, I thought. “Maybe we should sit down.” I suggest. “It’s just up here – there must be something good at the end,” my friend says. The fog clears as we approach Cayuga Lake. This must be what it felt like for ancient explorers to reach land, I thought. He points and says enthusiastically, “There’s a dock over there.” We walk onto the dock and sit at the end, dangling our feet in the cool water. “It feels like watery Jello. I don’t like it,” I say despairingly as I pull my foot out and pat it dry, “It feels wet from within.” We flip a switch on the wooden peg of the dock as the lake lights up around us and we giggle like children as we pick up our shoes and run barefoot to the entrance of the dock.

Walking by the lake on the concrete road along a blossoming gardened hillside, we sit down. I take a deep breath and stare at the flickering lights on the other side of the lake. “I wonder if they ever visit each other,” I ponder. I lie down and outstretch my arms along the concrete feeling its rough surface, rubbing gravel between my fingers. Boats rock back and forth in the docks and the water dances with the reflections of the moon and a dimly lit light-post.

I close my eyes and listen to the scenery: water lapping against the bank, boats rocking in the docks, crickets chirping, frogs burping, birds grunting in their nest, a cat stretching its paws on a porch, ants crawling in the dirt – the sounds of nature flood my eardrums, carrying me deep into my imagination.

I am sprawled out on a plush forest floor and bend my chin to look down at myself. I am wearing a shimmering green outfit and my belly is exposed. My pale skin and long, red hair are glowing as a small braid wrap around the crown of my head. The warmth of the sun shines upon my face and the illumination grows brighter as the ball of fire rises higher into the sky above the trees. I turn my head to the side and watch bugs crawl up and down the stems of plants as a macaw pick at its orange and blue feathers with its beak.

…and just like that it’s gone, and I am starring wide-eyed into the cosmos on a concrete road along a gardened hillside.