“Dark, toothy things.” She said it matter-of-factly, not looking up from her reading. “You should write about dark, toothy things. Things that go bump in the night, winged horrors… night terrors.”
I chuckled nervously and waved my hand as if to shoo away the idea. “What do I know of things that go bump in the night? I can barely sit through a spooky movie without getting jittery.”
She closed her book, and looked thoughtfully out the window. The coffee shop was well-lit and warm, a distinct juxtaposition to the cold, gloomy street outside. “We all know that there is something to be feared in the night. Everyone is at least a little afraid of the dark. It is instinctive, to be wary of the shadows. Isn’t that inspiration enough?”
Birch, July 2016
“Did you hear that?” He asked softly, staring over the campfire into the dark forest. We were quiet for a moment, listening to wind whistle eerily through the trees.
“Nevermind!” He laughed. “I thought I heard growling. It must have been my imagination- wait, are you leaving?”
I stuffed my sleeping bag into my backpack and grabbed my car keys. “I saw a hotel at the base of the mountain. I am NOT getting eaten by a sasquatch tonight. Good luck!”
I lost a character today.
We had just met, I don’t even know her face.
She winked into my life, and blinked right back out.
I know her hurts, her wants, but I don’t know her story.
I know where she is headed, though she doesn’t know the destination yet.
A little piece of me is out adventuring.
I guess I will write her story when she gets back, if she comes back.
There are many kinds of loss, and this one has a particular kind of ache.
This fragment of my soul is missing, and it hurts.
I hope she comes back, and her story is magnificent.
The sand is hitting my face and bare forearms. I can feel each individual grain sting lightly against my skin, and I can feel the heat from the sun.
I slowly open my eyes, fully expecting to see miles of sand in every direction.
I am still on the plane.
I close my eyes again, try to recapture the feeling, but it is gone.
Why do I feel so detached from my body when I am on an airplane? Disconnected, almost disoriented. Time moves differently in flight, slower or faster, sometimes it ceases all together. The longer the flight, the greater my bewilderment, paralyzed in my seat. Barely able to focus enough to read or watch a movie.
I remember a red-eye flight a few years ago, I was too tired to sleep and felt vaguely euphoric. The lights were low, and most people were sleeping, and then I saw Death. Death was walking down the center aisle, hood dark and masking its face. As Death drew near, it smiled, and leaned in close.
“Would you like any peanuts?”
I had confused Death with a flight attendant.