понедельник, 10 февраля 2014 г.

Foggy winter

Zelder winter stories
***

I woke up this morning to the sound of utter silence. My window looked at me with its nebula eye and I startled, thinking I wasn't yet awake. The cold floor sending prickles up my bare feet told me otherwise. I moved across my dim-lit room towards the motionless curtains and dived under them to have a better view of the outside. The eerie mist clouding my window was fog, very real chilling winter fog. Somewhere at the back of my stomach crouched a ridiculous feeling of apocalypse, which I laughed away.

While washing my face, brushing my teeth and drinking lukewarm coffee and milk, I wondered why there would be fog in winter - it was absolutely illogical. Almost as illogical as me clinging to the job I hated.

I got into my car and moved slowly through the milky air. I felt like the cloudy sky had caved in on us and now there was no inbetween. By the time I got to work I'd been so scared that the inside of my normally hateful Squirrel costume seemed like a safe haven. I hurried to slide inside the outfit and with a feeling of security stuffed my messenger bag with flyers. 

I went outside to the central park and froze at the sight of it. The fog had lifted and the sun had sneaked out from behind the grumpy clouds giving the picture before my eyes the perfect lighting. I realized the fog hadn't actually lifted - it had settled everywhere, on every inch of every tree and bench, and fence. Painted golden by the morning sun, the park turned into a mesmerizing sparkling garden as if out of a dream. 

I wonder if people stared at the enormous fluffy squirrel who was standing in the middle of the central park, her huge head in her hands, gaping at the trees. Maybe they did, but the squirrel didn't care. The squirrel didn't see anyone, she admired the most genius artwork she'd ever seen in her life.

суббота, 8 февраля 2014 г.

WorK

WorK

From under the crumpled bed-sheets
stick out a toe and pull it back
into the warmth of slumber
and your accusatory body.
Into the twilight of outside
stare without thinking,
listening to your breathing
on my unhallowed skin.

Then in the phone of missed calls
type with my guilty fingers:
“Don’t wait for me today, hun.
Working late.” Sigh and send.