Story: Trash
Rating: k+
Disclamer: I don't own Joan Of Arcadia
Summary: Did anybody really understand the depth of Friedman? One Shot.
AN: I've been thinking about this for a little while. It's centred on JoA but mostly the idea came to me from a weird dream I had last night and the film American Beauty.
I stand in the street and let the wind blow through my hair. It swirls and goes up and down like life. She was free, like the wind, hushed like the whistling of an early morning sunrise. A piece of trash blows in the wind. It's trapped in the winds spell. It can only move when the wind moves and it likes it that way. Likes not being in control. I am the trash. A tiny annoyance in the story of a universe that was my Love. Judith. She was here, like the wind. Gone, like the wind. She left whisperings in my ears that won't science. My heart is in the trash. The wind moves, or does it? Maybe the wind is still. Maybe everything else but the wind is moving. Maybe the trash wasn't made for this universe. Maybe the trash can't take the hurt. Maybe the trash is only here for the wind. So when the wind goes then where is the trash? Can other people even see it? Without the wind is it even there? The wind was so pure, so beautiful. It was stolen from this world, the wind. By evil. The dark aching in my soul tells me the evil is always here. The trash is deep blue. So deep it's almost black. Pitch black like the night. It screams out that the wind is gone but the words in its head won't come. The trash is dead. Was it ever even alive? Maybe it had breath once. Maybe Ophelia forced the trash to inhale, exhale. And now the trash is still. No wind to swirl it in the air, to define it, let it be. The wind is dead.
I have to get to class.
Please review! Cheers,
Hezzie