Falls of the Storm

It was melting for this entire week, and I remembered how warm 50 degrees was. So now it is Sunday, and I remember how quiet snow falls. In early January, I started this story. I got the idea when I was in the car with my mom. We were driving somewhere to get something. There was a sentence she said, the kind that strikes you inside, but they would never know unless you mentioned it.

I came home and in dark hours I wrote half. The sudden flakes that fall now reminded me of my unfinished work. I felt like sharing it. Somewhat wordy, but I like it that way. Sentences should not follow structured rules. They should be written as they are thought and said.

Without further ado: Falls of the Storm

There it was. That evening hustle. The former day was brisk and red scanned the spotted horizon. People waited for the evening into night, for they have developed a misunderstanding toward the sun. The connection was dilated by harsh vandalism.
Tags scattered across the floor that I walked over as the working teen led me to a table for two. A white collared shirt contrasting velvets and shimmers. But it was much needed. Everyone had too much desire to be left out of the cast. Smoke haze kept the voices insulated yet distracted all the same. Our lying ringed fingers grazed each others. Hers in bloodied red crisp and mine thawing paste. Slowly she sat, elegance held firm. I barely stumbled, missing the gentleman’s step.
The drinks ordered were of berry decent, to start the night out right and flirtatious. Oh the laugh struck me as transparent, and I hesitated as whether to laugh along. Which I did, and she bathed in the movement and almost connection. Chalices shown in shaky hands table to table. The original glasses, I’ve heard, been exchanged for the flash of the evening. It was a holiday. A holiday for the universe, but I wasn’t quite sure why I was in celebration.
Lights flickered from top hats and feathers. An illuminating scene it truly became. A third cup, and even the delicate shells of cooked sea could not break all the pauses. She often looked to couples surrounding. They overflowed the closed space. The space of wooden pilers and satin cloths. I even thought she had gone once, but only sat still for the blink.
Imagination plays with the older fellows who used to be leading characters of the testing game. It’s snowing. Those were the first words I heard from the walk in. The first falls of the storm. The gaze was immense. Too much to handle, so I flinched. But the gasp was met by many more. Someone had broke the gold chalice. It was only a matter of time and sudden emotional letters thrown upon each other in a carelessness overbearing the dizzy of alcoholic minds. The gasp was not against my being, and I slouched at the discovery.
Twice she had excused to see for herself the dane of being she dreamed. It was a zigzag route she would take. Both the same, and I would lose sight after the bend of the plastered walls. In her absence, I thought of escaping. Hustling was not an attribute of mine, in all circumstances. My legs were stiff as cold hay, and the polished leathered soles were glued to the dusty tiles underneath.
I am not entirely sure if her lips gazed mine at any point during that chilly midnight hour. And I was glad, for guilt is a murderous beast that I would like not to endure the pains of again. Grab your coat. She said it only once, and it was easily forgotten on the back of the hanging rack.
The heels made an unrhythmic beat in the floury white that still speckled south. A sliding step grazed the wetness of the suit, and it tampered the mood a slight further downward. The lights became murky and blended with the dead life settled around the glare. A gratified contrast from the fireworks of the heated dining place that I had too many occasions at in this recent span of era.
If there were goodbyes, let them be quiet and breathless. The apartment was tall and ancient. But an ancient that was recommended. She had reminded me she would sew the slit, but I did not care to see that dress once more. A silly breed we are.
The way back, I had miscalculated, was excruciatingly lengthy. The yellow taxi cabs had coiled up in small hives, waiting for drivers to turn grim keys in ignition.
The world didn’t let me fall off the edge. It kept bending circular in fast twirls, and I swore I had seen that building before. Extra Extra! Little Charlie yelled off the corner. The grey ink indicated it was the morning. That is where those hooded men came from. The headline was drippy, and I asked him to read it for me. A quarter sir, only one quarter. My quarters had gone to that someone with the torn folds.
His voice was small and unnoticeable a half mile past. But the winter dandelion fluff, that had collected on the shoulders of a hide-away button up, screamed loud. It was a whisper still, The last falls of the storm. And then I had noticed. It was never really snowing at all during that fatal night and morn. By then I was much weather worn.

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