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Short Story

Twelve Hours to Sunrise

 

Going back in a car, driving in the night stickiness. Slipping into a brew of dark, and gliding along your roads to nowhere in particular. I have a particular song playing as it slices my heart with a warm knife of longing. A gentle cut, deep and soothing. It kills me with kindness and remembrance. I remember the times I came back to my door, and opened it to a present memory, something I can only reminisce now. It opened many doors, all the same ones, as I walked in there through my memory. It has been a welcome home, as I leave the doors open wide for me to visit time and time again.

The song sings as it keeps me company through the roads and open hills in dark. I am not alone with your lights on in the far away house, in the farm that seems to let me know it is ok. The thoughts are welcomed here. You cry to be alive, and see the reasons to keep hold of these feelings to keep you company as well.

I drive at the earliest and almost impossible waking hour where my emotions are the strongest and most melancholic. I like this moment; I like this feeling. I won’t change it for a long time. And the memory will bring it back when I listen to this music years later and many roads over.

The sun never peeks. Not in this memory. It has not shown not because it can’t, but because I like it without it for now. For this moment. For this longevity, it hides and will stay hidden. It stays well hidden, although the sun will come and see the land I missed. Let it illuminate it behind me as a careful guide that will forever be present but not knowingly there. Let it’s rays seep into the dark coolness to warm the cold’s flames. The birds are sleeping, and remain there slumbering without any disturbance. The car makes no noise, nor has any remaining quality of its exhaust expelling into the air. It is not poisonous to my mind. It has just given me a sense of freedom. I will leave it by the road as I walk into my home. Through the open door. In this long faraway field where the light of the house welcomed me.

You can hear the tape turn over again and again, repeating the same songs I had purposely recorded to be repeatable. And the drive into the dark, is repeated purposefully.

Again and again in my head.

By M.J. Channon

Creative, interested in arts and entertainment. Voice over experience and radio persona of some sorts. Done things and some other stuff with it as well...

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