This is a race, not only for land and honor, but for the freedom that comes with the love of ones people.
Hope has always lived inside me, and one must see farther that the storm ahead to lead, but now that I am the storm– the public is trying to see past me.
They circle me like hounds with a taste for something they long missed, and now seek again.
How can I speak to them? When they fight my every word–even before my wishes leave lung for lip.
I can see repression coming to the surface…its so very clear now. The opposition doesn’t need to beat me to win,
they only need me to run, because they know its for my life.
Leaping are our hearts, as the race begins.
This moment has been itching at my heels for a decade, how much longer would I have waited?
Time is the natural equalizer–raising me to be brave and strong enough to race.
Weathered are my opposition, the time I took did that to them.
Waited, they have, to lap me and to break my crown.
Their hate spreads like fire on dead brush, touching my people, and replacing pride with disgust.
I see it in their gate, their art, and most of all their progeny.
No longer am I their Queen.
I grabbed the usual sun chips and power-aid and went to meet my new admirer. His beard was as patch ridden as his coat, and to put it simply he “belonged” with the rest of the place. I must have been staring with some intent, because he gave me the full up down and made a distinct pop noise with his lips. Since confrontation is my lifeblood– I was mentally gearing up for a small victory. Before I could speak the sky opened up with a resonating crack, sending the hair on the back of my neck up and a tremor down my spine. I clutched my drink a little too tightly and the plastic label came unglued. It looked like I stepped into a crime scene–the sports drink ran a cross the tile. I stepped over the mess and laid down a ten dollar bill. A barely audible sorry to the cashier left my mouth as I hustled for the exit.
I grabbed the usual sun chips and power-aid and went to meet my new admirer. His beard was as patch ridden as his coat, and surmise to say he fit his surroundings. He gave me the full up down and made a distinct pop noise with his thin lips. Since confrontation is my lifeblood. I was gearing up for a small victory when the sky opened up with a thunderous crack, sending the hair on my neck up. I steadied, paid the surly cashier and hustled to my car.
I finished the last of my gas station reserves and took the next freeway exit to stock up again. Just off the road I pulled into a little stop n’ go like gas station, no frills–just the way I liked it. There was even a dull sign above the door that read ” fresh chilly dogs 2 for a dollar!”…it was the word fresh that gave me pause, but then I smiled to myself and went in.
The cashier eyed me for along time after his eyes met mine, he must have thought me out of place. Which was understandable since I was dressed in mostly black leather–but nothing kinky, I promise.
It looked like a man, but it moved like a toad.
Izzy flattened herself to the grass outside the Buttons backyard, hoping to see and not be seen. The crouching toady man, as she rightly dubbed him, he was looking up at the stars with big glassy eyes, filled with sadness. She almost asked him “what was the matter?” but then she thought better of revealing her hiding spot.
The toady man reached his impossibly large arm up to the McFinn’s front door, and angrily knocked with a thwop! thwop! thwop! ——-There was silence, and not a so much as a porch light flicked on. Unsatisfied with this response, the toady man began whaling on the door with all his might–so long, that the door began to splinter like a boardwalk.
Being the only witness to this fury made Izzy pee her favorite pair of jeans. Her soiled pants depleted what little courage she had left, so, slowly, she began crawling on all fours back to the safety of her yard–hoping to pull the gate closed behind her, but as she pulled, the hinges squeaked their rusty coils.
New Haven salmon pink house (with aqua steps) by brookewill
Izzy didn’t sleep after her mother tucked her in bed that night, because she got that feeling again, right between her toes, the one that wakes her up and moves her to action. Sometimes the feeling leads her to sleep walking, up and down the hall, but not tonight–tonight she had a mission.
The neighbors next door had a pool, with a little frog swimming through its chlorine tides that croaked all night long, and Izzy wished to rescue it. The little girl planned to return the small wonder to the lily pond three blocks down the road, and she planned to visit him there every now and again under the moonlight.
With her back pack and a tiny yellow flashlight, she tiptoe out the kitchen sliding door. Izzy pushed a lawn chair up to the gate and unlocked it, there was a squeak as the door swung open. She froze with her tiny flash light in hand, hoping her parents were soundly sleeping…no booming voice told her to come back inside, so she assumed that their was still freedom to be had by her tonight. Making haste to the pool, Izzy noticed a dark figure squatting near the window in front of the house across the street.
House On the Hill – City of Ventura, California by Rockin Robin
“There are somethings that go bump in the night, some of them wriggle and some of them bite.” Click. Her mother had entered the room moments ago, and as quick as a hare she turned off the t.v, and Izzy was left staring at the off black screen.
“That’s enough t.v for tonight little lady, I don’t need you having nightmares.” she said with her bony hand on her hip. Their tiny little neighborhood had gone to bed, and that meant that they should too. They had just moved here, but Izzy quickly noticed that the night had a strange effect on this place and its people–would simply turn off and kind of hide when the sun withdrew. Little Izzy was always curious, and full of restless interest about everything around her living and dead alike. Her latest investigation was her new home town, Windswept Renieer, she has been slowly making her way around on her bike. This perturbed her mother. Since Izzy was always poking something, with the scraggly little stick she carried with her in a book-bag. her mother believed this would lead to misinterpretations by nosy adults. Izzy began by poking it and then taking a picture of whatever sad subject lay beneath her stick, all for her collection, which was more like an anthropological en devour. Her mother prayed that this phase of behavior would pass, but it only grew more bothersome with age…
Rock Wall by Chris Campbell
I built these walls, one by one. Strong enough to break Atlantic waves, and taller than a California red wood tree. There’s no way inside, I made sure, I double checked—there have been brave souls who dared to try, but I still stand alone. Some bellow and cry out, they just want to see, they just want to look. I turned my back to muffle the cries, I don’t hear them anymore, and now, sometime later I’m not certain if their still out there. I shut out the light above me that colored my skin, I’m cold, but its better this way, safer. My humanity makes me weep from loneliness, but I know soon that will pass, just like the cries.
Some days I try to climb them, when my imagination lets me…dream, hope that I can turn back, that the walls can be brought down. I pound my fist, kick my bare feet, and then lean against the cool stone of my walls—I built my own grave, stone by stone. Though it’s not perfect, I can see a crack in one of the rocks, I think there’s hope in it.
Fire in action by square_eye
Have you ever come to the ending of something awful?
Her bare feet where stained a dull earthy red from heel to toe. The sting of the rocky soil didn’t matter, because her motives were worse than the pain. Knowing her future made more of a difference than ever before, and her fate was sealed, it was all falling into place. This time she wouldn’t, and run there’s no fighting it anymore, she cannot turn back–the pain grew more intense, but she wouldn’t let herself feel it. The house is burning and she must save herself. Though time bleeds in front of her, the past is seeping from the walls to the skies–the future was broken and smoldering on the front lawn. Her ice-cold eyes burn, and her stolen lungs choke.
Her broken hands, cold eyes, and weak lungs–will feel whole, warm, and strong again.
After she burns the fields.