The illuminating sun began to rise above the remaining trees, creating crowns of light on the houses and smears of orange along the foot-tall grasses and abandoned yards. Dew on the grasses turned the smears of orange into tiny crescents in each droplet. Dew on the seeds turned the smears of orange into a twinkling sea. The air softly moved; a think but not piercing chill was in the air. Sunlight beamed through neglected broken windows. Ivy grew around the window and threatened to climb into the rotting, rain-soaked room. Only the shells of houses still existed. The emptiness hung around the street as fog; it crept into the houses as ivy; it ate the houses as mold.
The warming sun was higher now, and the dew had gone. The soft rains would come later in the day. The chill began to dissolve with the trickling sun-rays. The grass began to dry and grow, and the seeds gave over their last drops of moisture to the new, unsaturated air. The dead corpse of the asphalt street had weeds in the cracks crossing and recrossing its belly. The once-black surface had worn down and deteriorated to a natural light grey, reminiscent of the original stone components of the asphalt.
The drying sun reached its highest point. The shadows of the houses diminished and the air began to lap up the ground moisture. The new air now began to have weight. The soft rains were going to come. Cotton clouds began to pop up in the sky. The houses were drying out; the ground was drying out, giving its moisture to the air, to pass to the sky.
The missing sun was obscured by the mass of cotton-top clouds. The soft rains returned the rain to the ground. The clouds filtered the light and diffused a pleasant, soft grey to the world on the street. The grass twitched as raindrops fell. The trees swayed a little in the wind, as if the wind was a small child tugging at her parent's arm to no avail. The rain smattered into the houses when the wind blew, which fed the mold on the wood. The soft rains gave the water back to the ground and the plants.
The falling sun shot the last traces of orange sunlight through the clouds and onto the trees. The grasses swayed like an ocean of light green. Empty abandoned houses exhaled the damp air. The sun fell below the horizon. The darkness came out of hiding and crept over the houses and the grasses and the street. The houses began to wait for the next day's beams of light.
*****
Sleep. Bleary eyes, heavy eyelids. Blink blink blink, rub eyes. Cold feet, cold hands. Even though I'm in the sleeping bag. Must have been cold. Sit up. Blink blink. Fog. Barely morning. Fire, gotta make a fire. Monty's out. Out running, I guess. Respectable guy. Discipline like none other. Fire needs wood. To find some wood, if Monty hasn't yet. Ashes, are they hot? Tinder possibly. Fire, a fire and dry heat would be nice. Monty will be back soon. Always is.
Step, dew on the grass. It's wet and cold. NIce, though, it's clear water. The grass will look pretty when the sun gets higher. On to the next town, but gathering wood first. Fire will be nice and dry. The dew will make everything wet, so it's tough to gather wood. I wonder where we'll go today. Today will be good.
Crackle, fire, bright. Something's nice about making a fire, it's entrancing. It's like art. Fire is art. Just don't let it get out of hand. It's a great servant, but a terrible master. Fire red heat fire bright warm dry happy.
Crunch pause crunch crunch pause crunch pause pause crunch. It's Monty. Disciplined man. He greets and looks at the fire. Well-built man, devoted. Grey eyes that reflect the fire and the fog. Tough nose. A strong face but quick to laugh. Hair's gotta be short, he says. At least for him. Flat ears.
He's a monk. He's an odd dude. But a cool dude. Take you out in five seconds flat if you threaten him. But he warns you, all right. Gives you warnings and warning and warnings. And then takes you out so fast you don't know what hit you. He carries you to the next inn and pays for you like the Good Samaritan. Great man, lots of discipline. He looks at the fire.
Off to the next town, he says. Where? Some place named Granston. They've got salt we need. Travelers, fugitives, to escape. But no one notices. It's like the middle ages again. Everyone left to escape the heat. Higher temperatures, man's raping the earth big time. But they would be surprised, there is no heat under Budyko's Blanket. But blankets should hold in the heat, no?
Pack up camp, the fog will be lifting. The fog's not so bad once you wake up. It's cold. But it's mysterious and it's quite exciting. I like any weather. Windy makes the day feel important. Sunny is happy. Rain is to be enjoyed. Cold when you aren't bundled up is the only weather I don't like. Monty says it's a good thing that I like the weather so much. Says I see the good in everything. I know there's good in everything. If there isn't, you've got some bad in you. On to Granston!
Pack up camp, roll up sleeping bag. Fire, sad to go out. On to Granston! We've got salt to get and stories to tell. Northward! Walking! Discussing things, whatever happens to cross my mind. Or just walking in peace and silence. It makes no difference to Monty.
Step, step, step, on a road as old as any. What does that mean? I don't know. After everyone left, most of the roads slowly became unused and decrepit. This one seems to be taken care of. That's why we're walking on it. On to Granston! And whatever happens beyond!
Gender:
Points: 1910
Reviews: 12