Sturdy pieces of wood lined up in a synchronized row. Discolored. Wet.
Sharpened blades lurking in the corner. The question of destruction and creation balancing themselves in a tightly wound spring. Ready to pounce.
The smell of cedar. The smell of pine. The smell of mold seeping into knots and resting.
A call comes in. Everything lights on fire.
Gray pieces of paper. Warped designs.
Angry teachers. Angry parents. Constant barrage of voices. Internal. External. Eternal.
Thick clots in a pool. Muscle Tension. Crushed nerves. Endings somewhere on the lake. Speeding highway. Translucent thoughts. City lights. Suburban rights. Lost ways.
Welcome home.
Kitchen. Knife. Darkness. Rustle. Subtle sarcasm. Outrage. Curse.
Voodoo. Prayer. Fingers. Bandage.
Bleakness. A cut here. A cut there. Blood and more blood. Constant stream. Scream. Searing flesh. A thump in the darkness. A whistle in the great beyond.
But the moments gone.
Try again.
Fred Aiken Writing 