Young Writers Society

It starts a nameless drop on the wind. Slowly, gently spreading through the sky. Winding in and out of woods, stretching over rolling hills.

It touches softly, the wind tailing behind. In its grasp is a blue eye. A gray eye. Five fingers. Five lifetimes. Nine billion hands clasped warmly together, so we may never know loneliness.

Through graveyards, iron barbs, brick chimneys, nestled in hearths, and setting suns and stars scattered with abandon so we may never know darkness.

It reaches the cities now. Wanders through parks and glass spires. Here it pauses, waiting for a passerby to begin its race, the man on the park bench who’s been there for three years. Or the woman fifty stories up who would gladly trade places if it meant she could take one more step forward. In each of them, something is rekindled. She takes a step, and he catches her. Together they step forwards, lightness in their walk, so we may never know loss.

And those who have seen such majesty nod knowingly. So it begins again. Weaving in and out of glass towers. Dancing with trees, rustling shutters, to another time. Sewing stars together, paving each step forwards, tripping over itself with ecstasy so our eyes forever twinkle.

And soon it is time enough. Somewhere its pace slows , lost in the fabric of dawn or soft waves lapping on shores. Its eyes close for one second, and then one minute, and then eternity. Suddenly stars flee from the night. Darkness shines, and the sun stays through dusk and the moon reigns at dawn. These warm hands bring tears. Those eyes, gray and blue, close.

Yet we still feel warmth by our side. And we know no nights, and loss is a phantom; one we cannot follow. And our eyes still twinkle, shrouded by starlight lids.

For we know nothing but we have happened before, nothing but the eternity standing before us and what we know is caged within it. There is no release now. Not yet. Only a sigh amongst those iron barbs, smoke black hearths:

“I am prosper. Righteous, unrepentant prosper. For all alive and all that have yet to. If there was ever a voice on the wind. Or a rhythm in the leaves, it was mine. It beckons, a sound to the lips, a voice for all.”

“Before me lies the world. I see there hurt. On the tips of sharp tongues, and the tears and the blood and the fear that come with it. I see here flights of fright, words with uncertainty clashes and creeds and coffins. I see tears here and smiles there. For yes there is rain. A dark day when we will know fear and we will know the night as it is before us. And the sky will flee behind its cloudy curtain and the black barbs will loom over the sky and the cold hearth will weep, for surely there will be no dawn, for the naked eye cannot see an end on the horizon. And perhaps they are correct. Yet still I see a brilliant light heralding the new day and the blue sky smiling down on us and the smell of sweet grass around those black barbs. I hear all too well the beating of nine billion hearts and I know they hold me within them. I see there the children of that darkest night. They are happy, and years later their children. They too, are happy. I see they carry a piece of me, and they see the black barbs and they run and they hide and they fear and they cannot perceive of an end to this suffering life and so they sleep. And when the next sun rises, still they remain. For they are happy, for they are in the light. And no night can take the stars from their eyes. I know this, and I am happy. For I see a glorious people who run from the shadow, and fear their end, and fight and strive and thrive and crumple. And I smile, for I see myself in all of them.