a million lights

This is a little story that I wrote on the flight back from Carleton last month. On the flight back last night, I remembered it and thought that I'd post it.




The light flashed, and faceless black flickered past. Whiteness shone, the dull shine of wet metal stared back at him through the window. is it raining, or are we in a cloud? is that the moon?

He landed, and the metal bird breathed heavily from the exertion of flying halfway across the dark country. home. almost.

It was late, but not late enough that he couldn’t be exited by a hot shower and warm coffee. He was tired, but not tired enough that he couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the strong asphalt, ceaselessly supporting and guiding the tired travelers, like him, home. home. i wish i weren’t so tired.

Finally, he was home. The familiar shapes rose out of the darkness, friendly from years of proximity, yet foreboding because of the shadows. The light shouted, scattering the shadows and dispelling any demons of his sleep-deprived head. He climbed the stairs, too tired even to change, and collapsed in the shower, letting the warm water on his face wash him to sleep. amazing how much better a shower feels when it’s yours.

The cold gasped him awake. The hot water heater had finished its race, and stood panting in his basement, covered in hours of sweat. The towel offered little comfort once he was already wet, and he had no choice but to shiver dry. The bed grabbed him, its already cool sheets taking the last vestiges of warmth from him. But he could stand it no longer, and exhaustion took him. amazing how much better a bed

He was aware of the light as it brightened. the sun is a much friendlier alarm. It slowly embraced him, gently carrying him down the stairs in the welcome haze of sleep. He was still in his clothes from the airplane. i think.

He was fresh now, warm coffee and clean clothes. The day stretched out ahead of him, three o’clock seemed to far away to comprehend, the harder he tried to draw her to him, the farther she seemed to be. Instead, it was time to work. It was not such bad work, but the work had forced itself upon him, unrelenting despite his hesitance. oh Edgar. at least he was short, only two hundred pages. that will make the wait longer. i would rather wait than work.

The light pulsed. finally.

The outside was happiness, the bushes, the trees, and the stones, even the mud. He stopped the car, barely letting it exhale before pulling its key from its brain. It reeled, silencing, falling back into the stillness. He did not notice. The sun was out. He did not notice. He had left the garage door open. He did not care.

The light grew, and so did the shadow. The light grew, and so did he. The light grew, and so did she, and he ceased to exist, and she ceased to exist and it all ceased to matter.

The light shone, and shone, and there was nothing to stop it.