1
0 0 0

Chains, Windmills, and Other Things to Watch Out For While Moving

The week before I moved up north was without a doubt one of the strangest I’ve ever had.

I was one of the last of my friends to skip town. I saw a lot of people leave for a lot of different by a lot of different means. Some by car, most by plane, at least by way of railroad. And in the days that they left, I walked outside to the damnest sight for six days.

Iron chains draped from the sky and lingered over all of the old haunts, me and my friends used to hang. At first I thought it was a trick of the light, or maybe a really weird flash of lightning, but the day before I moved out I realized I mistake and sought to visit all of this places.

To this day, I can only speculate what they were anchored to in the clouds, but I know for a fact they were tethered by all of the places where I became friends with strangers. Lampposts, street corners, classrooms, metro stops, the comic book shop, the revival movie theater, a staircase where I swear you could see all that mattered in the city. Maybe I swear by that because of the people I was with.

I thought about collecting those chains, tying them to the roof of my car, but I had feeling if I were to make the drive with something linked to the sky I wouldn’t be able to get very far.

And when I make that decision, I saw the chains retract to the heavens. I looked up to see a clear horizon and readied myself for the next day. It was a strange day, but not the strangest.

The day I skipped town, I went north via highway. I was told a more apt name was an alleyway for tornadoes and waking up to a thunderstorm, did nothing to assuage the fear. I used to think the rain as the city’s tears. I wasn’t sure if it was crying to make it easier for me to leave or more difficult for me to stay, but I hopped in the car and made my way with all that I could carry.

By the time I reached the city limits, the rain stopped and the road was sunny and dry. And of course, this would have been a fairly uneventful day, but that wasn’t to last.

I have driven this stretch of road from St. Louis and Madison two times before. About half way, there is a farm of windmills seated to the right on top what I assume is one of the few hills in Illinois. I was looking for these windmills the day I moved. Instead of seeing them, I saw abandoned cars with people running from the hill. I parked on the side and climbed the hill to sight I could barely believe: seven windmills uprooted from the ground.

The largest, facing the hill, saw me, and the other six made way for its slow, solemn slumber towards me. I was so down being afraid so I let it get close. It bent its cast iron back down, the turbine turning sails, the windmill slinging dirt as it spoke in whispering swirls to me.

It asked “Where is Don Quixote?  He killed our father and I wish to speak with him.”

And in this moment I wondered if other windmills had risen and why today. But as the winds moved by the wind, and I just spoke as honestly as I could.

“I am sorry for you lost, but Don Quixote, he is dead. I am a sorry his mistook your kind for fire spitting dragons, but it is clear that you do scare us. I am one of his disciples and like him, I see your terrifying majesty clearly, so let me offer recompense on his behalf. If you do not wish to take my apology, please take my head instead.”

We stared at each other, and somehow it signed and motioned for its companions to settle back down. I hopped into the car. And this was a strange day, but it was still not the strangest.

No.

The strangest was the day after I moved. I sat in my apartment, no chains binding me down, no winds to push me forward, just a quite place I would learn to call home.

And I, looking back over the horizon to see the chains and windmills still there, smiled.

0
0 0 0

Rhythm and Prose: Poe

(Prompt: Ulraviolet by ~MythNymph, via A Writer's Inspiration. I had a moment of existential disgust after watching the worse section of the fandomverse drool over questions of rape and 'eventual' consent. So I worked out my still-not-published-author issues in the usual way...)

With a flicker of her eyelashes, the lights went low. With a tapping of her fingertip, the box started to blow. She loved the way their scintillating eyes drew in the elevating amplifiers waiting in the wings for her to go.

And so... she it flow.

A word, a rhythm and a beat manifest, hit their chests like a bullet and nobody bought a vest. In come lyrics, a message wrapped in narrative and metaphor, her heart and soul erected into rhyme.

Over time, she sets the record straight, she puts her sorrow on the screen and digitized sensations into syncopated screams. She redefines her time of tragedy and cuts it into dreams. She checks her baggage with her luggage, making music with a theme.

But here's the scene.

In the back or at the bottom of the pack, there's a buster, breathing heavy, getting worked up on her raps. Where she sings sorrows of abuses, he gets flickers on his fuses. It infuses him with feelings contradicting all of that.

And in his mind? His way is fact.

Well, look at that. People are crap.

But did she stop her movement methods? Did she recoil from him in shame? Did she feel sick at the sensation of his eyes upon her frame? Of course it bugged her as he body-mugged her, drooling at her style, but all the while, she kept the rhythm rocking, locked in on her music files.

He doesn't own her fucking music. Or her body. Or her fuses. She made lyrics for the needy. She made beauty with her muses. And in the end, it's us who chooses if we hear her or his lies. She'd made her palace from her burning truth. Will you open your eyes?

She welcomes you. So come on through.

It's just the haters we despise.