Crystal raindrops cradling each atom of thin, earliest April. Crumpling onto the coarse grain of the city pavement, dissolving to mist in the fibrillating particles of air that surround it, rocketing skywards to the dark, pale-streaked curtain. Condense in the thick air, higher in the atmosphere. Tumble down to mortal view. Crash eerily downward, puncture the rim of the universe and come through the thin quivering layer of the sky. Crumple to the ground.
The steadiness continuing. The shades of dark: purple, blue stains. Devoid of likeness. Stripes in the sky. The blooming shells of purple flowers, the mere framework of the aliveness of their velveteen crescent petals. Petals now are crisp to the touch and stiff after many light-years of silencing, quarreling, wearing down of the smooth sound, velveteen lost shimmering in the light. A latticeworked fragility, amaranthine: whom the world longed for when he was not present at creation. Creating, none the more than a link from world to new. A new petal, when velveteen and silky to the touch, can tear and be torn along the purple veins. When old, decrepitness of the lives’ antiquity draws it to them, the bitter crispy crackling along the edges, crumbling into a thousand pieces. Fragility: newer living of the delicacy.
Swelling, waning. Rolling the great shoulders of the navy. Crimson streaks. Rain twists and whorls a pathway, finds footholds in the slipping cavities lurking in each foot’s range. Clear orbs find their way in the swirling cloud, mist. Lurking behind and before each note of simple, bridled passion. The navy drew in all the air around it. This far up the raindrops had morphed to mist. It sucked it forever into its depths. All went into it, nothing was left uncreated. A gust of emptiness swept acorss the barren, ventureless, immeasurable plane. Flying scarlet flocks of crimson-winged birds, in the swirling mist and dropping rain, trailing in two diverging streaks, patterned coral reeling lines in the sky. This flower dropped its upward-reaching arms unto the ground. Head bowed, its golden-yellow seeds crippled and dried up, whispering and rustling they airily tumbled out and far away.
The emptiness was there, and is, and in the absence of that which was the light, it all began once more. The night: darkness shone, a passing vision of the teeming of the dark empty space; when nothing is in place, then all may be.
Still, the rain swept down across the barren plain.
The rain fell down.
Dropped unto the atmosphere. Cradling the fragile air.
Falling, aligned unto an ultra-modern glass-paneled building, stretching up into the sky, false backwards imitation of the rain, dropping down unto the empty earth.
Lightning, brass jagged curves, etched across the sky. Cut sharply through the empty darkness in the sky. The storminess roared outside.
He was sprawled on the flat, even-tiled surface of the floor. Streaks of lightning illuminated outside, flashed off glass, plexiglass windows of nearby buildings. Flashed across the streets, crumpling raindrops falling to the ground. Smoothing the coarse grain of the city streets. A red flash responded from below and a discordant , muffled honking shrieked, tore abruptly, startlingly tore violently through the empty darkness. He was silent, such was the manner of his pain that rocketed through him. He groaned and tossed over on the floor.
Another streak of lightning tore the sky.
The fluorescent, violet lighting pouring in from the open door to the hallway flooded over us. I knelt beside him. He was huddled in the corner, flooded by fluorescence, I crouched on the tiling next to his pain-racked form, I cried with him, our crying crystalline, and brighter than the empty night’s rain. We cried in silence and without tears. Meanwhile, the lightning and the shriek of the horn wrecked and tore the sky. A single, pale beam of soft light shone gently from a lamp above the piano. The gentle, paleness tumbled onto the floor, cast all around it and showed from the lurking form a dark shadow upon the tiled floor.
Lightning roared. His feverish eyes darted onto me. He flung out desperately, reached upwards with his arms. They searched to grasp onto something. I held out my own pale arm. Grasping fingers seized my arm and tugged it heavily down to the floor. Gaping darkness filled our overlapping silhouttes, mere shadows on the floor. I felt my life drift unto his hands, flood through his arm and into his chest, seep into his heart and cycle through his body. He unlinked his arm from mine. Stood up and walked away, while I crumpled down to the floor and I tossed in crippling pain on the tile ground. The glass panes seemed to shatter and reform themselves in the crimson view of my pain. Footsteps sent vibrations palpitating – no, shaking and crippling, through the ground. The vibrations wound their way to me, I absorbed them and shook on the ground. He sat down on the bench, I could hear the rustling of the leather as if it was thunder. The pale light cast a ghostly glow about him, absorbed into his features. His fingers tapped out a careful rhythm, a distant melody onto the glimmering purity of the keys, a black sharp or flat penetrating it at times. The tapping formed into an effortless flowing, I could no longer hear the muted thump of the keys as they were hit, I heard only the flowing harmonies and filling chords of the music. The room lit up, the music flooded onwards, the lightning was only a light in the sky. The pain ceased as I lay rapt, captured in the music. Lightning seared the sky. A bright, jarring cardinal tumbled through the sky in flight. I groaned and the pain swept back into me. I knew the music was done. He stood, stepped away from the pale, soft light and back into the shadows. Thump, thump, and I felt the quaking tear through me as did the lightning in the sky. He bent beside me. I reached out in agony, he took my hand. The exchange was done in the peace, the silence of the night, shielded by fragile glass in the room surrounded by a storm that wrecked outside.
I stepped to the piano.The rain pattered outside, onto the city streets. The ivory keys were soft, and velvety to touch. My fingers flew, illuminated softly by a glowing light. I lived.
The night let go its breath. The strength of all created, destruction swept across the barenness, now teeming with the product of boredom, emptiness. It all was crashed, hewn by each lashing particle of that which had been turned into it’s own, after this brief transience of changing, and the music which it had known before. And that which was before. It will know that which is after. It all was crumpled to the ground and the detritus was swept away to all the corners: corners which were there because they were imagined, brought into being. These corners which were not impeding the beams of scarlet trim, violet streaks in each quivering atom of blue in the sky. These corners, into which were swept the detritus of the nothingness, transient phase which is now gone in this new letting go of breath. All was all. Now, in this place, all was here, none was gone save for the emptiness which was. The night was here.
The flower opened up its eyes, lifted up its face unto the sky and starlit world, saw the navy purple blue and knew it was all there. Here. Felt the moist silk of the living velvet, we lifted up our arms once more unto the sky.
Age 15, Grade 9