The Outskirst of Town (for) 5.4.13

The outskirts of town;

Where the land is barren

Where the animals roam wild

Where the water is dry

The outskirts of town;

Lonely and

Desolate and

Feared.

They sent me there.

The outskirts of town;

Where the thieves go

Where the contagious go

Where the insane go

The outskirts of town;

Lonely and

Desolate and

Feared.

They sent me there.

The outskirts of town;

Because I feel things

Because I know things

Because I want things

The outskirts of town;

I’m different

A misfit

An outcast.

That’s why they sent me.

The outskirts of town.

It’s where I belong.

The Outskirts of Town

Vance's legs were tuckered out. Filled with lactic acid. He'd learned that in biology, but it didn't help him run any faster. Vance wasn't very nimble. He had ample spirit though, and he knew how to exercise it. The boy he chased would pay for stealing his magnifying glass. Vance didn't do much magnifying. Mostly burned things with it. But he wanted it back.

Through yards. Tall fence. He pursued the crook further than he recognized.

Fields. Under brush. Woods.

No, Vance was not nimble. He tripped. His magnifying glass now had a home somewhere in the outskirts of town.

The Outskirts of Town

This is the place where they’re piled.

Bodies shriveled and scorched.

Missing fingers, eyes, and faces. 

This is the place where they kill them.

Line them up and burn them.

Melting skin right off the bone.

This is the place where they’ve lead me.

Following my brother.

His capturers soon will torch him.

This is the place where I find him.

He’s chained down to a post.

He’s bleeding from his mouth.

He screams now as I touch him

His arm’s already burned.

Too loud. They’ve heard.

His chains won’t come undone.

They’re coming.

They’re coming to burn us both.

the outskirts of town

There’s a place on the edge where the streetlamps don’t grow but the grass does, tall and thin, waving in the wind. The silence is full of hope there. The stars shine brighter and the moon sings louder. Life isn’t so pressing and cares aren’t so heavy.

Come away with me, my love, to where loneliness is lost and solitude is golden. The sun is sinking, the day draws to a close. We are dusk and twilight. We are footloose and fancy-free. We are the part-time runaways on the outskirts of town. Come with me.

Magic hour is better there.

The Outskirts of Town [a double drabble]

That house. That house right there.

That lovely blue house with the white porch. That house is where the children went for lemonade on hot summer days and where young women went to gossip and dream about the future. That house always had freshly baked cookies waiting for any who may stop by. This house has seen children grow to young adults; has seen them fall in love and marry, and become parents. It has heard youngsters dream, and whisper hidden loves. It has weathered each winter and rejoiced each spring. It has seen the future pass away and a new future be born.

This house has been a place of mourning and of celebration. It has been a hospital and a soup kitchen. More than one couple fell in love over that well loved meal of cookies and lemonade. More than one couple chose to celebrate their marriage in that welcoming parlor.

This house has seen the funeral of its keeper, the woman who gossiped and dreamed alongside the youngsters, who consoled the brokenhearted and gave advice to the confused. This house seems empty now, without someone to give cookies and hugs.

This house, on the outskirts of town. 

The Outskirts of Town

She sits, still as the bone bleached porch she rests on. Waiting? Watching?

Silvered hair, sanguine eyes, moon-white skin, and lips, tinted a hue of ice.
Listlessly her arm lifts, sweeping less hair from her eyes than intended.
Paint peels above, humid air clings around, and lies lay beneath her, sleeping soundly.

The golden grass wraps the house as cloak of dry death.

The foundation of stones was rolled from their homes in the dark, cool earth.
The windows are shadows of frozen souls, blisteringly black.

She sits as I watch her silently, from the stolen home of the stones.

The Outskirts of Town

Some say he lives there willingly, choosing that over death. 

Outside the protection of many may as well be death. 

Yet still he lives, perhaps… no one knows. Rumors are that he has died. 

They say his woods are cursed. Few dare enter.

But there are those that leave the protection, and never come back.

Still others leave, but come back bruised and bloody. 

They go out to find him, to kill him. 

It is rumored that he murdered a woman, and that is why he must live on the outskirts of town. 

I am he.

But I am innocent. 

the outskirts of town

The brick buildings that line the old gravel road seem to sway, the smoke rising from the roofs following suite. I look at the long rectangular shape in front of me. I knew why I was here and what I needed to do. But knowing and doing are two very different things and I found myself longing to be back in the warm house in Chicago. Surrounded by my Mom and Dad and little Lucy instead of the brick houses that lay but 50 yards in front of me.

Fate is a funny thing.

I couldn't tell you why or how, but, for some reason, here I am, penniless and without a family to call my own.