Summer Rain

Can you hear the rain? It pings off the tin roof and patters against the walls of the small bus shelter.

            The air was warm and slightly humid. Rain had just started to pour and the wind and water was a welcoming change from the summer heat. It was in a bus shelter that he stood, out in the middle of the lush green forest, waiting for a bus that only showed twice a day. The leaves rattled as they were tapped by the steady stream of rain drops.

            Soft music played from his headphones, each small tap of his foot caused a ripple on the slowly forming, shallow pool of water by his feet. As the tree branches swayed with the wind, He noticed a tree with a blooming pink flower. The colorful pink and green popped out from the background of hazy rain and mist.

            Though it was day the sun hid behind the clouds, some would call it a gloom but others, especially those in a certain bus stop, the day seemed quiet and relaxing.

            Headlights appeared in the distance and slowly bounced up and down as a bus drove up the dirt road. A large bus stopped in front of the shelter and the doors opened. The bus driver gave a smile, which was interpreted as welcoming. The bus driver actually was smiled due to the surprise that anyone was actually waiting at this stop in the rain.

            He climbed aboard the bus and walked towards the middle, then sat down at a window seat. The bus air felt damp but small bursts of cool air came in from little vents on the floor. He put is leg over the vent, which caused the cold air to shoot up his pant leg.

            The bus seats were clean, vinyl and old. The padding still offered support but was visible through the seams of the seat. The bus’ engine let out a groan as the vehicle moved forward. The soft rocking of the bus was comforting and the patter of rain was very relaxing. The world drifted away as the bus moved forward. All was quiet and before long He had drifted off to sleep.

Story writer

Joe slammed his glass down hard onto his wooden writing desk. The whiskey swirled in his glass then burst from the cup when it struck the table. Whiskey spilled on the desk and soaked his papers.

 He went back to typing on his typewriter, the whole time thinking about the person he lost. It had been a while since he said goodbye and even though he was the one who walked out the door he still hurt just as much as if he was the one who was abandoned.

Joe screamed and cursed, all of the noise and anger meant nothing as he yelled alone in this empty house. He took another drink of whiskey and tried typing but his words were becoming more erratic. Her face and voice drifted through his head making it hard to think and making it even harder to speak. He tried to fight back tears, he knew he was perfectly allowed to feel any emotions that he wanted to but he was the one who left. There was a preconceived notion that the person who leaves in a relationship is the bad guy but sometimes staying is more painful than leaving. While it hurts being left, sometimes it is actually harder to be the one who leaves.

 When you wake up one day and you realize that your relationship has been stagnating for a while you know that to stay would be toxic, and end up hurting for both people. Joe didn’t want to hurt her, the pain he caused her felt like a dagger through his heart but staying wouldn’t have been healthy for either of them.

 Joe took another drink and laughed at his own emotional stupidity, he didn't regret leaving he regretted that he had to leave. He didn't want to leave he wanted to stay, he wanted things to work out and he wanted life to be good, but that's not the way life works.

His phone started to ring as he tried to continue his writing.  He put his face in his hands and listened to the phone ring repeatedly. The phone finally stopped and as soon as it stopped, it began to ring immediately after. He did not want to speak with anyone, he was in too much pain and his nerves were too raw to share any of this with anyone.

 The phone kept ringing and ringing, Joe couldn’t handle the needy grasping for his attention and in a rage he stood up and knocked the phone to the ground. The phone flew off the stand was unplugged from the wall and crashed to the ground.

Joe felt like he had been ripped apart, it felt like he had cut off his own arm just to save the rest of his body. Logically it made sense, but that doesn't make it easier to cut off your own arm. It also doesn’t help if your arm could get right back up after you cut it off and then tried to strangle you to death every time you looked at it. Joe was emotionally wounded and missing his other half and thinking about it made him feel worse. He wondered if having his arm actually removed would have been easier than moving out and never being with Her again.

Happy memories of times they shared flooded through his brain, he slammed his fist down onto his desk out in anger and sadness. As he thought about the good memories the bad ones started to flood in just as fast as if his brain was trying to remind him why he left in the first place. The mixture of anger from having to leave, being reminded of the bad memories and missing the life that could have been, Joe stood up and kicked his writing desk. The desk flew backwards his typewriter crash to the ground and his bottle of whiskey shattered releasing the Amber liquid all over his hardwood floor. He sat on the ground surrounded by broken memories, shattered dreams, broken promises and broken possessions. He wanted to tell himself that things would get better and logically he knew they would but emotionally he felt that he had been stabbed in the heart. It felt so real that no amount of logic could explain away the feeling a chest wound or fatal injury. Anyone who said that emotional trauma is not painful has clearly had a heart that died a long time ago.

 The next morning Joe’s alarm clock went off with a loud, annoying series of beeps. The alarm clock sang out to the world that it was morning. If there were any piece of furniture that deserved to be kicked and knocked to the ground it wouldn’t be the phone, the desk, his bottle of whiskey or even his typewriter, it would have been the alarm clock. Yet the reverse was true and while his beloved possessions lay strewn across the floor, victims of his rage, the alarm clock chirped happily and comfortably atom his dresser.

Joe slowly stood up and rubbed his face trying to get the sleeplessness out of the eyes. He stretch his legs, walked to the bathroom and took a very long shower. After his shower he walked to the kitchen and drank several cups of coffee then headed out the door to greet his day.

No one in is day-to-day life knew or would know about what had happened the previous night, they wouldn't know about the pain or the broken furniture, the wouldn't know about the lack of sleep or the cries of the pain from feeling like he was emotionally stabbed in the chest. He would smile to them, they would smile back and life would go on, boring life would go on.

So Sick

I’m so sick of hearing the same songs on the radio, repetitive thoughts. They are just repetitive words and tunes that play over and over on an endless loop. I wish I could just turn off the radio. The radio keeps playing, without an off button, without end. I sit and clutch my head. I sit and clutch my radio as it spews out thoughts. As it spews out music into the air constantly. Thoughts. Songs I don’t want to hear echo out of the radio constantly. Some make me remember things I’d be better off forgetting, some torment me with things I already know. Songs. Thoughts. Radio always playing. Why can’t I shut off my radio? One time I threw a bottle at it and the radio stopped for a minute, but just when I thought it was off, the radio came back on.

 

            My voice echoes out of my radio, taunting me as I go through life. For every helpful suggestion there are equal parts pain and annoyance. Sometimes the radio is a dull hum and I can barely hear it, sometimes its blaring so loud that I can’t hear the voices of my friends or family.

 

            I’m so sick of the radio, why can’t I turn off the radio?

When I dream

When I sleep I rarely dream at all,

But when I dream, I dream of Fall.

            February was almost over but the winter hung around like an annoying party guest that won’t go home. The cold was getting to everyone and while some dreamed of spring or summer, I dreamed of fall.

            Soft sunlight shined down through the golden leaves of a tall tree, it warmed my skin and eased my sore muscles. The winter had melted away and gave into Autumn scenery. I was transported back to a place from my memory, an old familiar home, a home where I spent some of my best Autumn days. The air smelled like baked goods and wood smoke and the trees where brightly colored with red, orange and yellow.

            Good times returned to my life, trips to the cider mill, relaxing drives down country roads, quality time with old friends, delicious foods, pizza burps, goofing off and spending more time outside. All of these things were ahead of me, the better parts of life were right around the corner and I couldn’t wait.

            I felt at peace again for the first time in a long time, my mind didn’t even question how it had gone from winter to autumn, I just enjoyed every second that I could.

            I woke up from my Autumn dream and it was still February, the weather was still frigid and a sharp pain stung in the back of my head. I had awoken with a migraine that felt like someone drove a wood screw into the base of my skull, I stood up and felt dizzy, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. February was and will always be the worst time of the year, but the Fall will return and in the meantime, I suppose spring isn’t so bad either.

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Have some coffee or tea and stay warm everyone  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jwRBcNReYTw