Writing

The morning bell rang

just like it always had.

Backpacks lined the wall,

bright pink, sky blue,

zippers half open

with pencils and erasers inside.

A teacher wrote quietly

on the chalkboard,

And the air tastes of raw linen 

And I watch a million suns explode 

In the distant horizon 

And footsteps, 

Beating and beating and beating 

Like some twisted wardrum 

I am left here with

The blandishing of obsession 

My obsession

Of time

With the 

Six years it takes

my name is alice, and yes, i screamed when i fell.

The promise of spring.

Rain.

Flower buds.

Light breezes.

Green leaves.

Melting snow.

Saplings.

Hope too.

That most of all.

Cool mud on his face, a soft breeze to the sky, and something about the air. It smelled, off. Better. Cleaner. Jack opens his eyes to see himself in a forest with blue leaves.