Movement

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
No reality like one's own.

Submitted: January 30, 2008

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Submitted: January 30, 2008

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Adverse effects with the bone-cold air seeping from damp insides, decreasing by the minute, like something coming closer. It already had forced me to slip on a cotton sweater and hood from the shirt under, the thin fabric surprisingly succeeding in heating my ears.

In my focused effort at writing, I warm, and the chill retreats back to its cavernous chambers. Though on my face, I can still feel the cold pace like breath, the tunnel sighing sadness. There's exception of working legs dosing off and the rippled tunnel metal embedding its collected dirt in the seat of my dark jeans.
A careful obsessing begins with the aluminum...how I can make the caked clay-dirt out in the gutter light. I can figure the dusty leavings, and the effect when brushed off, a fade in.

I move to the concrete enclave where I can stretch my legs out and bathe in the subdued past-noon sunbeams. And its better, the dust now somewhat replaced with scattered trash within fallen leaves. Mostly comprised of candy wrappers, as I can see around me, but to my left leg there lay a crushed-down tuna can and a strange green mass of leaves wrapped in to a one-inch-around ball that may have been a fine brussels sprout in its day. It sits on two leaves topping a piece of brown beer bottle, broken to hear its shatter, the scream of its form combustion. Water begins to pour from the side I faced; it cascaded and flowed directly down a slope in to a maintained puddle.

With cautionary mind, I'd return back to the bitter tunnel mouth, knowing a good day to be outside when there was one and that when people see their neighbors out washing their car or simply watering, it encourages them to do the same. When I sit back to sponge dirt, I remove my headphones in order to listen to the streaming trickle. It's rushing, the sound of a small spring that you would find if you peeled your ears to a walk's nature. The puddle becomes soapy, foam forms in to swirling patches, creating bubbled islands enveloping floating leaves and an empty twizzler wrap.

Voices hail from above, a pair of boys peeking through the gutter, having probably followed the water, hearing its triumphant babble. I'm sighing relief, grateful of my return to the tunnel maw, an otherwise risk of discovery.

I bet the light peeks just enough to reflect the spray-painted neon in to their wanting retinas.
"Why'd you think people do down there and write?" Prepubescent chimes, and I smile, praising verbal irony, while the other speaks up.
"Don't know. Let’s go get Eli and your basketball."


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