Note from Author: This is a product from sitting in bed with the flu. Blame
its surreally on the illness and blame its shortness on being too drowsy.
OF SUMMER STORMS
It had been raining.
The sky had been raw, scarred with deep hues of blacks and blues and grays as though some deity from above had had his temper stuck and was now transferring it to the heavens.
The rain had fallen with a vengeance, clean clear and cold, shrouding the city. It clouds had been as though the sky was on fire, as though they were grand collections of billowing charcoal smoke.
The city had been dark and damp, allowing the shadows to come to life. Yet the smell of the pounding rain had been of a sweet storm, absolutely lovely to inhale.
I first laid my mortal eyes on him in that summer storm.
He had been standing there, engaged with the other ones in a strike of some sort against the press. But what do I know about strikes? I am just silly little I.
I had stood there, regarding him, the rain falling from the heavens and saturating through my gingham dress with the ruffles, through my clammy flesh, through my bones and to the marrow leaving an icy chill.
Yet as my eyes took in his being, a marvelous high of euphoria had been pulsating through every fiber in my body, yielding a nearly orgasmic product when combined with the cold. I had viewed him through the veils of rain that plundered the earth, the same waters falling from the sky soaking his flesh as well as mine. I had watched him, spotting him easily in the wells of the other ones. I had watched, as he would thrash his fists in the air in a state of impassioned infuriation, as his features would twist with the utmost ardor, and as his eyes of jade fire would burn through the clear, dark rain, as though a match had been struck to his irises and a great blaze was contained within those orbs.
He had been soundlessly shouting through the torrents of water being sprinkled from the heavens above, along with the others.
And then a miraculous event occurred.
I still could never fathom what it was that made him do it, but he had turned around. He had turned rather so suddenly over his shoulder and his wildly mysterious eyes had met mine. And a smile had danced along the corners of his mouth in such a way that the utter air had been purloined from my lungs.
And the rain had come down harder, covering the earth, knocking his waterlogged cap from his head and revealing his damp hair. And he still had smiled that glorious smile whilst slicking back his hair.
And at that moment I felt my knees turn to gelatin and begin to buckle under me and I felt myself gasping for the air tainted with the sweet summer storm as he had approached me. Emotions so fantastically overpowering shot throughout me, triggering me to implore why I was not a cadaver on the drenched cobblestones from such heated emotions.
Yet he had stood in front of me, catching me in his wonderful grasp, introducing himself as Spot Conlon.
At that moment as he had held me I could not have given a damn what his name was, it was in his eyes, all in his impossibly deep eyes and with one glance in them with the rain falling about us, wetting us, that I knew that my heart and soul would be eternally indentured to him.
And then his name had been called. Someone had uttered his impossibly glorious immortal name on their foolish mortal tongue and the sound of it had traveled through the sweet rain, to my silly little ears that were not worthy of such an immaculate, sensational sonancy.
And suddenly, o so suddenly! I had felt his hands leave me, their wonderful imprints still upon the damp material of my dress. He had then turned, not regarding me yet regarding them. I then stood and watched him return to them, return to his impassioned tirade as his raised his voice soundlessly over the rupturing of the haunting thunder and the torrents of the water falling from the heavens above.
And I stood and watched him.
It had been raining.
The sky had been raw, scarred with deep hues of blacks and blues and grays as though some deity from above had had his temper stuck and was now transferring it to the heavens.
The rain had fallen with a vengeance, clean clear and cold, shrouding the city. It clouds had been as though the sky was on fire, as though they were grand collections of billowing charcoal smoke.
The city had been dark and damp, allowing the shadows to come to life. Yet the smell of the pounding rain had been of a sweet storm, absolutely lovely to inhale.
I first laid my mortal eyes on him in that summer storm.
And it was the last time that I was to ever lay my mortal eyes upon him, for then I turned, my clean tears combining with the sweet rain of the summer storm and continued on my path for shelter.
OF SUMMER STORMS
It had been raining.
The sky had been raw, scarred with deep hues of blacks and blues and grays as though some deity from above had had his temper stuck and was now transferring it to the heavens.
The rain had fallen with a vengeance, clean clear and cold, shrouding the city. It clouds had been as though the sky was on fire, as though they were grand collections of billowing charcoal smoke.
The city had been dark and damp, allowing the shadows to come to life. Yet the smell of the pounding rain had been of a sweet storm, absolutely lovely to inhale.
I first laid my mortal eyes on him in that summer storm.
He had been standing there, engaged with the other ones in a strike of some sort against the press. But what do I know about strikes? I am just silly little I.
I had stood there, regarding him, the rain falling from the heavens and saturating through my gingham dress with the ruffles, through my clammy flesh, through my bones and to the marrow leaving an icy chill.
Yet as my eyes took in his being, a marvelous high of euphoria had been pulsating through every fiber in my body, yielding a nearly orgasmic product when combined with the cold. I had viewed him through the veils of rain that plundered the earth, the same waters falling from the sky soaking his flesh as well as mine. I had watched him, spotting him easily in the wells of the other ones. I had watched, as he would thrash his fists in the air in a state of impassioned infuriation, as his features would twist with the utmost ardor, and as his eyes of jade fire would burn through the clear, dark rain, as though a match had been struck to his irises and a great blaze was contained within those orbs.
He had been soundlessly shouting through the torrents of water being sprinkled from the heavens above, along with the others.
And then a miraculous event occurred.
I still could never fathom what it was that made him do it, but he had turned around. He had turned rather so suddenly over his shoulder and his wildly mysterious eyes had met mine. And a smile had danced along the corners of his mouth in such a way that the utter air had been purloined from my lungs.
And the rain had come down harder, covering the earth, knocking his waterlogged cap from his head and revealing his damp hair. And he still had smiled that glorious smile whilst slicking back his hair.
And at that moment I felt my knees turn to gelatin and begin to buckle under me and I felt myself gasping for the air tainted with the sweet summer storm as he had approached me. Emotions so fantastically overpowering shot throughout me, triggering me to implore why I was not a cadaver on the drenched cobblestones from such heated emotions.
Yet he had stood in front of me, catching me in his wonderful grasp, introducing himself as Spot Conlon.
At that moment as he had held me I could not have given a damn what his name was, it was in his eyes, all in his impossibly deep eyes and with one glance in them with the rain falling about us, wetting us, that I knew that my heart and soul would be eternally indentured to him.
And then his name had been called. Someone had uttered his impossibly glorious immortal name on their foolish mortal tongue and the sound of it had traveled through the sweet rain, to my silly little ears that were not worthy of such an immaculate, sensational sonancy.
And suddenly, o so suddenly! I had felt his hands leave me, their wonderful imprints still upon the damp material of my dress. He had then turned, not regarding me yet regarding them. I then stood and watched him return to them, return to his impassioned tirade as his raised his voice soundlessly over the rupturing of the haunting thunder and the torrents of the water falling from the heavens above.
And I stood and watched him.
It had been raining.
The sky had been raw, scarred with deep hues of blacks and blues and grays as though some deity from above had had his temper stuck and was now transferring it to the heavens.
The rain had fallen with a vengeance, clean clear and cold, shrouding the city. It clouds had been as though the sky was on fire, as though they were grand collections of billowing charcoal smoke.
The city had been dark and damp, allowing the shadows to come to life. Yet the smell of the pounding rain had been of a sweet storm, absolutely lovely to inhale.
I first laid my mortal eyes on him in that summer storm.
And it was the last time that I was to ever lay my mortal eyes upon him, for then I turned, my clean tears combining with the sweet rain of the summer storm and continued on my path for shelter.