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| Sly Test by mrs. johnson 07/18/2003, 6:28pm PDT | ||||
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| All comments welcome.
Brake lights brighten all over the city. Hundreds of pedestrians become less wary and strut between drivers that stand on the razor thin border between bleakness and anger. The city begins to thicken, the clouds begin to darken, and the wind sends chills down unsuspecting spines. Broken hearted insects retreat into the warm foundations, rude to the last. Some just begin to enter their residential prisons; others open their eyes for the first time in hours and begin thinking about breakfast. Creatures of the night they are, able to live fully only in the dusk that remains after the homeward bound rush has ceased. They seek cheap foods and organic mirrors with whom to speak. Sexual gratification is the penultimate quest underneath most pretenses. Every word either carefully calculated or exuberantly spent, thrown into the wind, as if fishing for passing birds, foolish enough to grasp onto a blackened, suffocated worm. Looking down a suburban hill, Benny sees an arch of trees as far as his sight can carry him. A holy procession of cement, carrying tons of machinery. In his reverie, he does not hear the questions that stem from his companions. Some wish for food, others for entertainment. A few are still and indifferent, and a few are too terrified to speak. All somehow getting along. Benny’s gaze is now focused on the light itself, as it dims slowly. He cannot discern its too gradual movement and stares in wonder as time is marked with shades and colors. Often times, he stares at the shuffling of trees, and is comforted by the sound. He begins to walk slowly to the nearest tree. A few questions arise from the roughly circular congregation, but the words mean nothing to him. He approaches the tree and experiences something entirely new. A great urge suddenly presses down upon him. Benny wishes more than anything to touch the tree. A request so easy to satisfy, that he is suspicious of himself. He raises his hand and gingerly places it upon the bark. He strokes it, and lets out a heavy sigh. The second hand is approaching the tree now, about to be placed onto a low branch. Quickly, without thought, Benny begins to climb. With each passing second, he is higher and higher. Never looking too far down or up, he does not know where he is on the tree, or how much is left to climb. Both his bare legs are cut up, and his right elbow is bleeding. He is unaware. Fifty feet up, Benny needs to hug the tree to be able to climb higher. His need for personal contact is not yet expired, so he dirties himself thoroughly but still scales the object of desire. Questioning shouts rise from below. His head emerges from the top of the tree, 75 feet above ground. He surveys the surroundings and notices the faint glimmer of a nearby lake. There, the sun is setting, a golden orb being slowly suffocated by the trembling waves. Benny lets go and waits. He does not fall, as he is entangled. A great relief spreads throughout his body, and he carefully climbs back down. He takes nearly an hour, testing every branch. Upon touching the ground, he glances at the faces of confused and worried youths and says nothing. They leave together; him tired, and them already forgetting the recent past. the mrs. |
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Sly Test by 07/18/2003, 6:28pm PDT  |
