Fire Drill.I met a great man today.
He was handing out papers on Jefferson, he looked like he could drop dead at any moment.
I didn't want the paper. I don't like the feel of newsprint.
He told me God holds no grudge through snares of gift.
I told him I was just following white lines.
His ashy eyes coerced me to move. His clumsy shuffle stuttered my feet. I walked away in contempt of his prejudiced limp.
Homebound, I spearthrust my way into the local library.
The communal collected mind.
There were young boys swimming in virtual mischief.
A fat kid jabbed his sweaty finger on the keys -TAT TAT TAT-
I tip-toed through Mapmaker's Isle.
Sprinted across rows of Houseware.
Tumbled over a tale from Transylvania.. Dracula and his overbite..
But I don't remember getting there. Huddled in a dark corner of the old library, holding a thick book with gold-trimmed pages.
Over and over again I read the lines:
"Glow in the wealth of others, if by your hand they hath become."
I stole boxes of old Newspapers from the library that night. They dated all the way back to the late 1800s.
Headlines: "Dead in the Streets" "WAR!" "Crisis in the East"
"... Could This REALLY be the End?"
I placed them at the corner of Jefferson with a note.
The History of the world belies your sense of faith, but you glow in the wealth of others.
I smiled at the old man huddled atop his Newspaper bed and followed the white lines back home.
I like the two pieces of yours that I read, but since I'm still trying to fully understand what you were trying to say, I'll have to hold off on the comments. I'll come back when I can.
Keep it up; you're off to a great start.
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"to communicate heartbreak in writing takes talent," she whispers, her fingers in his hair. "a good writer can make her readers cry."
And thanks, I've actually been a dA member for five years now under a different name - riddance to that.
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