I wake up in the morning to grab my cigarette and sit my ass on the front porch. I look off at the birds moving in the trees, looking for signs. The work brings itself to me through my emotions and their connection to the atmosphere around me; around all of us on this earth. Choose to explore the possibilities. All matter is the matter. My crafted glassworks work with the loose form of possibility rather than brutal destruction. I find the pleasure in nature that is uplifting to the point where i can feel it inside each particle of me when the wind blows through these trees. The fire at my feet stirs up as one cloud drifts across the horizon.
I sit back and stare at my latest creation, a glass double-winged phoenix, with red and purple translucent accents. Well over a hundred hours into that, from idea to final polish.
* * *
The cigarette paper burns smooth, smoke twisting out the window into the breeze. The Phoenix glints in reflecting the flames just beyond the mantle piece.
With a last sip of his coffee — now cold, still black — he slides forward and ties his well-worn boots.
Grabbing his bag on the way out the door, he treks across the wet grassy lawn to the edge of the woods. He stops at the line of evergreens, tree-filtered light peeks through in shards of grey, pocked with glinting raindrops.
With a sigh, he pulls the cigarette from his ear. “You were for the water’s edge,” he says to the cigarette, pondering quietly.
Stepping into the forest with his now-lit cigarette, he somehow feels better. More at ease. Perpetually “trying to cut back,” most of his attempts to hold off fall by the wayside.
“Lesser evil,” he mutters apologetically to the trees.
Hiking over the wet branches and soggy moss, carefully watching his step, his boots splash water out in specs along the way. He watches them carefully; everything goes into the next piece of glass.
The trees heavily drip-drop water, each bursting on his hooded sweatshirt as he goes.
After a mile or so, he stops along his invisible, unmarked path in the thick of the forest.
He sits on a large flat rock. It’s wet, but everything is. It hasn’t stopped raining in weeks.
Looking at the saturated ground, he allows his attention to fade back, hearing the drops of rain and the feeling of breath.
* * *
The coffee table is a mess. Dried food. Sticky beer. I survey the items as John talks. I’m not listening, but he’s talking. I dont know, I’m focusing on the table. Yes, my bong is there, my phone — I think thats dead — ah, my nose tingles. There it is. The tingling is in my head, I think. Well, my nose is on my head. I’m talking about inside my head, though. Am I talking out loud?
I grab a straw off the floor and lean over the table, sticking it in my nose.
John! I yell. I think. I can’t breathe!! I think. Fading fast. For sure. Wait, maybe this has happened before.
I can’t see, I don’t know where I am, either. My heart is pounding, my ears are ringing for some reason. All of a sudden. Oh wait, now. I see him, he’s helping me up. I fade out. But I feel safe, what a true friend. Faaaammmmil… My vision goes black.
* * *
A tree branch falls, dead waterlogged weight, nearly misses him.
An omen to move on, he stands up and drops off the rock to his feet. He pulls another cigarette from the pack. Lighting it and sliding the pack into his black hoody pocket.
A brisk walk south, to the river, he thinks. “Keep it movin,” he muses, as his lips let the words out, smoke whipping away into the breeze.
The trees lessen as the murky river water draws closer in the distance with each step. He feels heavy.
* * *
He pulls a beaten black sketch book from his bag, and a pen from the semi-wet front pocket:
I sit on the log of a tree I’ve found on the coast line, overlooking where the water is low. The fog usually holds well through morning, but you’d know that, John. The mist of the dust particles wrapped in two parts H and one O. Om. I’m trying my hand at a calm approach, though inside I am raging to the point I am shaking. My cigarettes artificially calm my nerves. I’m clean now. If you were here now you’d see me smoking a joint here on this log, but I wouldn’t share it with you. This is for peace of mind, something you cannot be granted. Maybe not, I don’t know. You wont read this, so it doesn’t matter. Those pieces held emotion and memory down to the atomic level, John.
* * *
He walks into his bedroom, 3 months prior. His keys slide from his hands, which held them frailly anyway, and drop to the dingy wood floor with a dull ‘klink.’ His stomach drops to the cool surface, a puddle between his shoes. Dropping forward onto his bed, his heart joins the puddle on the floor. All the pieces he had been working on for the largest sculpture, created over the entire course of his glassblowing career. 22 years. Gone. With one piece left, shattered on the table.
“He sold them,” he mouths in disbelief, lips smeared sideways against the mattress.
Gravity is extra heavy.
* * *
“I TRUSTED YOU!” a vocal-chord ripping scream echoes over the river. The murky water continued its pace, only affected by flecks of spit hitting the waters edge. He stares out at the passing water.
The worn boots place one in front of the other down the wet tree trunk. He pulls out a marker and the sketch book, tearing the sheet out. He scribbles:
“Thanks for the fresh start, John”
With an everlasting exhale, he crumples the paper, and tosses it in the water. Drifting and slightly bobbing, it strays down the calm old river, into the rainy mist.
He sits down, and smokes the rest of his joint, a legal prescription to calm his nerves. He feels somewhat lighter walking back down the log to the shore. Back through the woods, and before he knows it, is back at his workshop.
He drops his bag at the foot of his stool, in the middle of the workshop.
“Hey, Siri.”
“I’m listening..”
“At least someone is,” he remarked. “Play some minimal techno.”
As the music pumps through the studio, he sits in front of an annoyingly blank canvas.
Charcoal in hand, he times breath with beat. Staring forward, he begins again, the masterpiece of life.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 