April Flash #4

prompts by Amygdala: humble bees; garnets in concrete; the flies murmur in the eaves; in the country of the blind; blood brimmed; an uproar

And by haredawg: yellow slicker and duck boots; the quickening of breath; hot sheets

The fields were still wet with dew, with a spring rain that washed through like a brief tidal wave before the sun re-emerged sheepishly from behind the clouds to light up the world like a lit roman candle before setting off in the distance and leaving behind the slow hum of crickets, summer bugs come early. I was wearing a yellow slicker and duck boots, tromping through puddles on the search for wildflowers and fragrant blossoms, dragging you by the hand although you were a willing kidnap victim with me on this journey. We had pulled over to the side of the road on the way home, experiencing the quickening of breath unexpectedly and knowing that with the way we were looking at each other while barreling down the road at breakneck speed, we weren’t going to be making it home. We had left the comfort of your room headed for the other side of town to mine, facing hot sheets and long conversations over dinner, movies and drinking. Detours seemed inevitable. Your laugh was high and lilting as my inner child made an appearance, splashing through puddles, splattering my jeans with drops of mud, but not caring. I tripped and fell over a root that hadn’t made its presence known, and I landed on the soft ground, giving like a mattress under my weight. I was going to be a mess. I looked up to see a lazy, humble bee buzzing into a daisy in front of my nose, fearing to breathe – they were dangerous to me, but I found myself captivated by the gossamer of its wings, beating against the gentle breeze. To a bee, the smallest of winds must seem a hurricaine. It was all a matter of perspective. Everything was. It seemed, and we had discussed it extensively, that we lived in the country of the blind – a consciousness of people that saw too much too often and took no notice of the reality of the beauty surrounding them. We were not going to be willfully obtuse here, we were going to grab the rainbow and hold on for the ride, noticing and appreciating everything – every passing moment, every waking dream. I noticed a hill – funny, the idea of a hill in Florida, nothing like the sprawling fields of home, so far away – in the distance. I clamored back to my feet and took off running again, not minding the mud streaming from my clothes, hearing only the laughter behind me – my hand was still clenched tightly in mine, fingers entwined and you were keeping pace with my chaotic beating. I reached the crest of the hill, letting go of my tether to you, to the world, to my dreams, and somersaulted down the small rise head over feet, causing an uproar in the insects whose perches I must have disturbed – or smashed. One or the other. I must have rolled right over a rock, because I skinned my knee, and as I sat cradling my leg at the bottom, the blood brimmed like a rosy bloom on the skin. It as beautiful. It dripped from my knee as I walked, making garnets in the concrete of the sidewalk beside the field, and I found its pooling delicate. You asked repeatedly if I was okay – I was. Better. The flies murmured in the eaves as we walked past, slowly making our way back to the car – getting distracted and tangled up in kissing as we walked, nearly tripping over your feet as I strolled backwards, facing you – my eyes alight with spring and life and hope. I was a child let out of a cage for the spring into summer, reveling in the heat of certain intensity, but feeling the freedom of a crushing weight of adulthood – big, grown up thoughts and emotions bursting through the seams, unable to be willed away or controlled, and you were my cliff dive, falling. You were the anchor that kept me sane, safe. You were my kite string, your fingers playing me like a stringed instrument as I flew high, high above you. You were my home – not in a structured struggle for existence, but in a world of daydreams where anything was possible – where everything was possible as long as we held onto these moments and delighted in the simple beauty of what was. This would stick. It had to. What choice did we have, really? None. Nothing. Not at all, but this. This was all for you – or not at all.

new prompts:
Bridging the gap; diamond prisms; dewdrop emotion