One.

It began with one.
One night,
alone in the dark,
no tears left
on salty cheeks.
Sitting in silence,
drugged by our fears,
we looked
past each other
with cataract eyes,
waiting for morning.
It never arrived.
One by one,
in slow, hopeless line,
we rose to our feet,
and made for the sea.
The first one,
a man,
lost in his grief,
breached the first wave.
Left in his wake,
we followed the tide,
besieging the ocean,
one at a time.
We swam for the stars.
As we felt the cold
grow,
an ache
in our bodies,
a hymn
in our souls,
we joined hands
under water,
and chained to our brothers,
sank
singing,
as one,
serenading the deep.

Beggar's Wish

I created this image from a pencil sketch pulled from my notebook and overlaid with textures in Photoshop. Please don't take it, try to claim it, or use it for profit. Thank you so much!

Hope for Snow

I watch myself. Leaning against the railing, wisps of brown hair trailing across my cheek. Dull, brown eyes staring emptily into the gray, cloudy distance. I look down, at the endless run of railroad track that cracks the campus in two. I look up at the sky, where lonely birds circle in wide arcs of want, searching the frozen ground for life. There is none, but me.

I sigh, and watch the steam from my chapped lips drift away. I think maybe it will snow.

I watch. I bend my head, like an old leaf curling its brittle spine. My chin hollows my chest, my shoulders hood my ears, my stomach caves, my knees drop – curled and limp as a newborn, I tumble over the railing, off the side of the bridge, down onto the tracks below just as a black, smoking engine surges under the overpass, and wipes the world clean of me.

I hope it will snow.

I sigh again, and watch the train surge along the tracks under my feet. Boxcars, conflats and hoppers, in endless metal stream, rush into the fog and vanish. The railing is cold under my arms and the wind bites through my clothes, but I wait. My eyes trail listlessly toward the buildings to my right. My mind shutters, and I stare without comprehension at the lighted windows offering their warmth and protection, an iron fist clamped around my stomach. Nauseous, the heaviness that binds my waking thoughts does not ease until I return my gaze to the endless stream of boxcars and hoppers flying out of the mouth of the overpass.

I watch myself, considering. Thoughtfully, I lift a foot. My hands arch, fingertips pressed onto the frosted metal rail. I balance, in a moment thick with certainty. Frozen on the edge in the sere, winter twilight of my thoughts, I watch. The cars race by, and the lonely whistle blows. The bells in the tower begin to ring the hour. I rise, and the wind strikes my face. Stinging, small bits of ice bite my cheeks and melt into my eyes, blinding me. I drop, bent, and loose, to the train below, my arms spread like a lover’s. My feet hit the flat top of a boxcar. I scratch the air -- I bend, I balance! -- and catch a firm footing on the icy metal. I straighten, facing the distance as it presses toward me. I raise my fist, toss back my head, and howl, teeth bared.

Free.

I watch myself leave, straddling the train, strong and defiant, resolved.

I watch, as I stand on the bridge, leaning on the railing as the snow lightly descends, and finally curtains the tracks in a flurry of night.