Unused: fiction

Photobucket photo: bottom of the Grand Canyon 5:14AM

He looked at his flute. The flute looked at him. He had been lying there on the slope with her for the last forty five minutes. No one said a word. He put the flute in his mouth. (Since you can’t hear the music, because it was created in a time when there were no machines to record, and the notes weren’t written down—because the boy went off track of the composition initially set down by the composer—just imagine) A forest and a really bright light. The light is so bright, you don’t know you’re in a forest except for the brush of rock on your ankles, and branches playing with your face. The light turns into breathing, but the breathing is not yours. You’re sideways looking at an face. Not yet a face. An expression. All the muscles relax, jaw lightly open; eyes lazy, but available. A relationship occurs. A dream-like contract stating anything dangerous, anything harmful, anything that could make this stop—will not happen. You breathe and float and hold hands and are picked up and coddled and cuddled and squeezed so snug, you go gentle. You out. You out in the dark and fall and fall and dainty, but too fast and drifting, but out of control and landing like lead on a pillow, you twist, making sure the sideways glance is still there, and it is, only now you can see muscle. You go from elusive to concrete, and realize a sagging smile—held up by twigs. The concrete snaps: ripping you out of fiction. The face contorts into a grotesque spasm. You panic. You run. Galloping toward nothing, the ground rises up behind you like a wave. A wave of everything you could always count on, that dream-like contract stating anything dangerous, anything harmful, anything that could make this stop—breathing. You stop. Your life is not yours anymore, and the princess opened her eyes and (for the first time) saw her own life in the eyes of someone else.

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