...a stab at short ficition. i havent been here in a while, so i thought i shake off the rust.
there are lines of poetry that spill out of these hills. the soil speaks different words to different people. tonight i heard the hills tell a group a teenage boys that they could fly like icarus and i saw their minds draw blue prints of their wax wings. One boy, i imagine his name to be brad, he had wings with feathers plucked from his father's big dreams of the duke jersey, crowds painting #5 on their cheeks, co-eds flocking to his perfectly sculpted point guards body, and half time pep talks with coach k. The wax was his guilt, saddness, shame, and disappointment. Another boy, looking like a Jack, had two big, beautiful, sturdy wings made from the hair and heart strings of his true love. the wax was her patience and sincerity; she wept tears into to it, over other boys, so that it matched the color of her eyes. the last boy, griffin, didnt have wings. he had two sturdy legs and a backpack. he was independent and self reliant and sure. he was the boy that would grow to be the man that the other, lesser men, would dream about being. Griffin would be the man who will have every thing he needs when he picks up a handful of the earth. eh will have a lover, companion, teacher, and friend all in one scoop of soil. he will have this where ever he is and whenever he wants. he will be provided for and able to give as well.
eventually, when these boys, brad, jack, and griffin, come back together as men, they will be just as they are now. their friendship will have remained constant through griffin's isolation, brad's failed marriage, and the loss of jack's thrid child. they will all want what the others have: the love and devotion of children, wild adventures with mother nature, and legions of adoring fans. they will think aloud about the secrets the hills and mountains and streams of colorado have told them and realize that mother nature was not letting them in on some divine secret; she was saying "yes, and..."
