"Hey, wake up"
Arling waved her hand wafting the particles of dust. Soft little stars stir in the ray of daylight. I almost wonder what they feel like. Would they have the same solidity as flour but then be much lighter? Concentrate the pores and then find transcendence within the mote upon your hand. In the Kogane district, rust eats at the corrugated awnings like viral bacteria on television. My hands are spotted with only a finger or two becoming host to the above street light. The bubble of her finger blue or red in front of railway crossings that ring the incoming train. They look smooth above the discarded junk heap now crowding on the ground. Arling and I would sneak out to the lake and tumble down a hill where we'd see an expressway high above us. We can see them and I look at my hands and their scrapes and stains cleaned by the night. She lifts off her tank top and seizes as she floats in the lake, a little cold, her arms wade making ripples among the surface. I only lower myself to the earth with the crumbling dirt whose folicles bud at my fingertips. Arling pouts a little before pushing herself up to float around in the glossy water, her stomach surfacing before dressing herself once again in the lake. She beckons me towards the lake, diving in until the water is calm, slick with moonlight until she bursts forth with her forehead gleaming, a damp streak of her hair drips behind her. I put my finger into the lake and my finger is clean. It feels like nothing, almost naked. The remaining grease sculpts my hand leaving my fingertip as if it had just been cut off.
YOU ARE READING
concourse
Short Storyphotographs and snapshots are all that remain in the urban square, haunted in geometric designs now almost without reason, no baroque pedestal that upheld severed marble heads. only forming ledges to compose stairs and boxes containing soil. somehow...
