The fair came to town again today. From my window, I see the ferris wheel glittering against the sky. It’s a beautiful velvety night, just like the one last year when we rode the wheel together. But you’re probably with a new girl now, living in the present, making promises you don’t intend to keep. I hope you don’t push her out of the car. A terrible accident, they said, as I lay broken under the wheel. I’ve made great progress though and someday I’ll get out of this chair, walk freely again, and take my revenge. Beware the clowns…
I heard a song today that reminded me of you. It was about a man who collected hearts then ran… eventually he’d return for a second chance. When he kissed a girl, he stole her breath away, but he had ice in his veins. He remained unmoved by love and pain. I cried like I haven’t for a long, long time, my sadness reflected back at me from the ruins of my mind. Eventually, the song ended and I could breathe again. All was tranquil grey, clouds retreating to their space. The water may have rippled across a ghostly face.
She caught a glimpse of him slipping indoors, and she followed, suspecting he was evading her. Barefoot, she padded softly across the cool floor in the dimly lit room. It smelled of oranges in here. Soon there was light again, coming from the top of a staircase. There was also a darker set of stairs. Which was the right way to go? Her instincts told her to head for the light, but she began to worry that it wasn’t the path he’d choose. As soon as she reached the bright staircase, she impetuously turned and headed into the deeper darkness.
The holidayswere always problematic here in the Plutonic Zone. Folks expected a feast, but you couldn’t feed them mutant turkey. Stan the Retired Lieutenant had passed around a writtennotice forbidding the use of the two-headed birds as people food. So annoying.
She woke early and began to creep through the old garden, collecting colorful pebbles for her soup. Some of them had little bugs clinging to them, which would add protein. After a while, her wristbegan to ache from the bitter cold, and she wished she had worn the gloves she’d taken from that dead spaceman.
He paused beside the smooth, towering trees, touching one tentatively as if for balance. The ground was spongy cool beneath his bare feet, but nothing hopped or crawled. Golden light poured in from the north and he slowly turned toward it, shading his eyes. He’d been away for a long time and moved hesitantly, not knowing what dangers lurked. Was his nemesis still hunting him, or did she die in the explosion along with the prototype humans? He needed to find out and began to jog toward the light.
“Cut!” yelled the director. “We’ll do the eyeball scene after lunch.”
I dreamt I was the moon, distant and translucent, and you were my divine horse, my Pegasus. You sailed over the pink pearl seas, steady as a heartbeat. Lavender dawn enveloped the earth as you flew on, silken wings tirelessly playing the rhythm of our love song. You never left me crying in the mortal night, not when I was the moon, surrounded by eternal skies and tended to by stars. You forgot to bring lightning to the gods; that’s how enraptured you were. Your devotion drifted through me like a cloud, angelic mist, but no use to me now.
They wandered the garden in silence, for they had already said goodbye the previous night. The sun seemed in no rush to rise this morning, considerately giving them a few more moments together. He briefly debated asking her to pick a bouquet, to see if a handful of blossoms could bring a spark to her eyes one last time. But what was the point? Why go backward now? Leave the flowers in peace. They’d be gone soon enough, like everything else. The warship was in the harbor, and the secretary had given everyone their final orders. Today was the day.
The bee buzzed a secret to his friend the rose, who swore she’d never tell, but the days grew cold and her head drooped low, the burden too heavy for her withering petals; she whispered the words to a vagabond crow–what could it hurt, this wandering bird–but he sold the news for a scatter of seeds, the tree promising to keep the secret to herself, which she did until the sweet southern wind came around once more, tapping at her door, and her blushing leaves gave it up to him, which is why there’s no honey this sad, sad spring.