Spaces Between

The reading room is dim tonight. And warm, even though, or maybe because, the narrow sides of the bay window are open. Somewhere, far away you hear music, something rowdy and upbeat. There are voices, bursts of laughter. You cross the room, wanting to get a better look, but as you do, as you squint into the star-choked night, the sounds drift. Turn to coyote song.

The cushions, pillows and blankets are all varying shades of 1970’s: army green, creamy yellow, one striped another sapphire blue. The book looks thin tonight, but it feels heavy when you pick it up. You swear you hear a sigh when it falls open…

Second Wind

The wind slid over the backs of midnight dunes. Cool, but not cold. There were more stars than sky. The Milky Way, a pale scar made of space dust and ice crystals, beckoned to him: 

Keep coming. Just keep moving. 

Each of his sinking footfalls sent little landslides rolling down the sides of the dune. Still, he didn’t slip from the crest. He was too light. He was only a shadow, a rumor. 

A remnant.

The breeze brought him the sweet spice of burning mesquite. An attempt at kindness, to let him know that he wasn’t alone. Somewhere, a drifter was using what the desert offered in abundance. But this kindness only made him ache. He missed sharing space with others. Missed standing among friends in the ring of heat cast by a swollen bonfire. Or sitting by a subtly burning log that popped every now and then to break the trance of the dancing flames. He missed the laughter, the words that filled up the desert night…that rose with the smoke…

A lizard joined him for a time, running on her hind legs at his side, punctuating the sand with Morse Code: dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. Coyote song tumbled and bit at the silence, and for a moment, he caught the shape of it in his mind: a few chords, the slide of fingers over acoustic strings. But it faded, and the coyotes padded away to nearby towns, hungry for an easy meal.

And still the sky called to him. 

Whispered. 

Painted. 

Sang.  

It promised him comfort and quiet. It spoke of what comes after. The untangling of thoughts. The mooring of an untethered soul.

The wind rose, its throat full of lightning and rain eager to be coughed out. An empty threat. The desert wasn’t thirsty. It didn’t need the rain. And so the storm became a sigh. A wind. 

And he walked on, along the spines of the dunes. Drawn on by the empty spaces between the stars. The spaces from which voices drifted. Fires hissed, and the unmistakable squeal of feedback sliced through the backbeat of drums.

And his answering notes thrummed through what was left of him. 

Note:

If this, or any of my stories spark something in you, please feel free to make your own art in response! I’d love to see what you create, whether it’s a sketch, a snippet of writing, or something entirely different. I’m eager to feature original art in place of the stock photos I’m using for now.

Just keep in mind, my pieces are creative sketches, rough drafts that I don’t stress over. So if you want to share, know that your sketch is equal to my writing “doodle”. I’m not looking for masterpieces (though I won’t turn them down). Just scraps.

You know.

The things that get stuck in your head and have no bigger picture to fit into. Yeah, those are my fav.

Thanks for reading.
—K