And in the night sky were stars, as if God had sprinkled them so sugar-sweet upon the most perfect of black birthday cakes.
Autumn had finally decided to come around. The leaves had changed colors, lining the trees with speckles of orange, red and yellow. When the wind blew they came down, breaking delicately off of tree branches and fluttering down to earth like a colorful rain.
Moss-laden bricks of grey-orange, fitting as guards on the threshold. Behind the fool’s-ancient wrought-iron gates. Where rows upon rows of crumbling mounds stood in various interpretations of upright, their pores bathing in light from an ill moon, ailing. Porous trees hunched over most of the void spared by the sickening light’s expanse, plunging the rest in healthy shadow. The place echoed.
To enter, I must skirt around a pile of wet leaves. Today there is no weather; there is no wind, just howling. The temperature is of a mild apparition and so I hear the winds company more so. The leaf barbs that bar nefarious entrance are of little consequence to my apt overage and the grey-orange guards do little but deposit their dust upon me and my cloth.
I can name all the colors of rainbow before you can finish counting to seven. I can name all thirty-two colors of Nate's striped dirty blanket. I know the names of all shades of orange, each faded differently from washing.
I can tell what the color of the slide was when Nate and I played there the last time as normal elementary school kids. I remember what color I was wearing when I was first stripped down, or when Nate first showed up covered in blood. I can even name all the shades of red there was on my pants, on his shirt.
When I shoot up a firecracker, colors become just a conception, not a real thing. Even the sky looses the name for its color. I wish I knew what those colors were called. The only thing I know is it will not fade away, but it will spread into infinity, each tiny bit taking a part of me, flying me through different galaxies.
But then, those little firecrackers don't go far before falling back to the ground.
She has a wonderfully wicked grin, did my Irish Nana, more than a few naughty secrets she kept I'm sure. Perhaps that's what we all need in our old age, some sparky memories to keep our soul-fire burning within.
The North Pole Rebellion, sometimes called "Santa's Rebellion," was the day the North Pole stopped making toys and declared it would send out food and medicines, meet basic needs of the poor, until everyone had good health. They could no longer stay in their icy towers and pretend that all the world needed was toys and merriment. They decided the world needed to grow up and their rebellion was just the ticket.
A silver beam of moonlight walked toward the window, entering in pristine silence, igniting every corner. It was not enough to devour the darkness that had been residing in that room longer than she cared to admit, yet was enough for her eyes to bathe in it and momentarily expand her perception of her surroundings.
In terms of pure concept, the monotheism of Christianity and polytheism are identical. If God is father, son and holy ghost, and those are separate entities and yet one united whole, then there are already three deities that are one deity. In terms of concept, there is no difference between God being able to take three forms and three hundred forms, or three thousand or infinity - and to say that God could not would only limit the power of the divine spirit creator. And what is more, God is still one, regardless of numbers of "forms" in the same way a sports team is one unit that strives for one goal - in this case - a heaven on Earth, a healthy creation and a healthy humanity that puts love as its supreme first principle. Thus, what is there to argue over? Names? Human given names and human given mythology to communicate the will of the divine spirit, our creator? Surely the message in all cultures has been to love one another and love creation, to act as good caretakers of Earth for future generations of all species.
Devil: "You appear to want to get rid of your forests and fuck up your atmosphere, it's a strange way for a species to go, but sure, I'd be only to happy to assist. Fire and chainsaws are listed in my tinder profile turn-ons. Apparently humanity swiped right..."
There is no red as red for me as that of the poppy amid the green. There is no blue as blue for me as that of the cornflower dancing free. I cannot be in love with any yellow as much as the golden daisy or dandelion petal. These wildflowers are the palette of my dreams, the palette of my world - the real and the fantasy.
The first thing you'd see is a typical honors kid - large dark eyes behind blue rimmed glasses, holding all the bookish knowledge. The girl's curious eyes asking for more, conflicted with the tight smile silently begging to be left alone.
She'd wear her dark straight hair up in a ponytail, with a pink baseball hat. With the pink sports backpack, she'd deceive anyone. But her scrawny figure in an over-sized men's sweatshirt, underneath a denim shirt from Goodwill, with a pair of jeans ripped from overuse - told a different story. So did her punk boots picked from garage sale.
She hid her scars under thick spike bracelets, another piece that did not match with the silver heart locket hanging from an unusually long necklace.
Even with all the pieces roughly glued together, she had yet to find out which was her real face.