On the Shores of the Hudson

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
#flashy. Written in 15 minutes.

"It was the kind of sky to frame and keep for a thousand year, to live one’s life in a day."

Submitted: December 16, 2011

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Submitted: December 16, 2011

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On the shores of the Hudson he jogged, and he ran. And he came to ledge and peered underneath.

The sky above was a gallant ship, sailing from the Eastern shore. With yellow billlious clouds and Cumulus clouds and dainty satin white and light blue.

Oh, to jump in!

He ran. Completely quiet in the morning. The chirping birds - faintly, - and small pockets of small people. Businessmen in suits and blue pleated ties eating a small quick breakfast, and simple young couples and rich young couples and a profusion of life, teeming quietly below the surface.

It was the kind of sky to frame and keep for a thousand year, to live one’s life in a day. And on hard green steel benches the homeless sat, staring into dread infinity.

To hop in the water and join the fish. What else was there to wish? He ran and he ran and presently the sky subsided and the sea was left behind. There were shining tall ‘scrapers and silent helicopters gliding above, and the laces on his Nikes bobbed up and down. And he thought, of women, of life. Disappointment, and vice. And he ran back towards the Hudson.

The sun warmed his shoulders.

And on the Shores of the Hudson a sailboat sat. Sailboats pierced the roiling sea. And where the sun met your eye it sparkled a smile, a promise of summer to come. And through the dread infinity and small cares of life, come marching winter soldiers. In blankets of brown and a coffee-smeared frown, it’s - the winter soldiers, marching through life, paused in their labor and watched.

On the Shores of the Hudson a small boy sat, seeing his life in a glance. And he sat and he saw his lovers and fighters and rivals and friends, shining sleek upon the living water.

He leapt off. And kayaked to the distant. And he put his ear towards the wind. For - he thought he heard - the echo of a distant tide.

Oh wally, wally, Wally, the water is wide. Running a hand through the deep. And he turned towards the sun.

And it was as if the sun had swallowed him whole and filled his whole vision and mind with crimson, burning glory. He couldn’t see. He turned behind him and saw nothing - his friends were on the distant shore. He rowed alone towards fate,

late.


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