Afternoon sun blazed liquid gold across the heavens. The maples were dressed in crimson buds, the birches sported verdant green catkins. Even the murky river reflected a rainbow of Springtime hues.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I groaned and checked the clock. 1:30 AM.
The headlamp – a Radiant 475 – was the best money could buy. The light disappeared into the abyss, the tight beam turning fuzzy, before it was swallowed by nothingness. Continue reading
If midnight was the Witching Hour, then 3AM was the Hour of Self Loathing. A litany of conditioning and doubt – stupid, ugly, worthless. Coward. Flagellating myself in the darkness, the list marched circles in my head.
Image: Text is from the “About Us” section of a local florist’s website, most blacked out. Remaining text reads:
Backstage smells. An acquired taste, it’s not unpleasant, but specific and familiar. A symphony of old wood, dusty fabric, hot lights, hairspray, and bodies in motion. The dressing room air conditioner has stopped working and there are too many sticky people jostling for real estate in front of the mirror. Elbows knock together, but no apologies follow. No one bothers, for it will happen again and again.
Poetry is not my thing