Start of Nathan

Nathan sat transfixed on the skyline after it was over. He gazed for hours out into the distant city from his windy high grass hill. He took the lantern from out of his pack and set it next to him, afraid of turning it on. As the last sliver of rays melded out he decided to go as well but his legs would not carry him back to his truck. Instead, he pulled a camouflage jacket out and rolled it neatly under his neck. Sleep never had come easily when he thought of her but tonight, for once, it was swift.

When he did open his eyes again it was the sounds of nature that greeted him. He could hear the sharp throaty call of pheasants eating their breakfast of seeds and grains. Crickets cricked, twee tie birds tweeted, and a flight of blackbirds screeched they’re annoyance from high above. Nathan saw the sun nearly at its zenith and cursed under his breath. He was not about to let another day waste away staring into the void. Nathan stood, repacked his possessions, and placed the rucksack in the back of the bed. He took one last look at the distant buildings and jumped in the driver’s seat.

It sounded like the lid to a water main escaping its clasps all at once along with a thousand trees simultaneously cracking apart at the middle. Nathan managed to turn quick enough to see the first bit of developing mushroom still west of the tallest buildings before downtown disappeared. The colors were a mesmerizing combination of orange, red, yellow, and white.

Last Night

I am staring up at the slats of the blinds and moving one or two around with my outstretched hand. Where am I though? I can remember this as being a good place. I am comfortable here.

There are wispy curtains, purple I think. My eyes are half closed but the fabric is covering just the ends of the windows. They are running against my arm every time I swing the slats back down, allowing just a little bit of light in behind them.

The room is still dark but it is becoming clearer. The walls are soft with an almost skin color to them and I can hear the room breath. It breaths softly, nearly whispering to me, “I love you.”

“I thought you were asleep?” I am answering someone but I cannot remember whom yet.

Her arm is across me, as though it has been there since the start, before the room even. It’s halfway wrapped in the sheet that is holding me.

“I was, but now I’m here.” She kisses the soft spot between my jaw and ear.

I know where I’m at now; the rug is here somewhere too. The candles and the camera, the little round table too. This is not right. I’m not still here anymore.

How do you dream about sleeping?