Name: Anonymous 2009-04-25 4:31
So it's been a while since I've written, and I'm probably pretty rusty, but I'd appreciate it if you guys could give me some feedback.
This was written for the prompt "firefly."
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It's nighttime, around seven or eight o'clock; in the summer, it would still be light outside, just barely dusk. But the year is aging, and the world has greyed to winter, so by now it's nearly pitch-black, especially away from the bright sterility of the hospital and the dingy shine of the streets. The darkness is not silent; the rough purr of highway traffic swirls through the air, breaking the silence but not shattering it. If sounds were light, the park would glow, but dimly, like fireflies in the night. Your breath stains the air on an exhale and you shiver, not just from the cold. It's time.
You close your eyes, tired. More tired than you can say, more tired than you ever thought possible. This has been a long time coming, and fear has left you, replaced only by a ragged peacefulness. Your medicine has made you dizzy, but it's wearing off now. As you sit down, feeling the frosted grass crunch under your weight as you sit down, clumsy from the cold and the pain. The pain is rapidly returning without the drugs to push it back, and though you whimper in discomfort, it's worth it because you want your final moments clear. You shiver again, your hospital gown glaringly inadequate for the depths of winter, and you lean back against a tree. The park is deserted tonight, the cold driving away even the criminals and the homeless, which is good, because it gives you time alone. You're even thankful that you picked this place, despite the slums that surround it, because the lack of funding for the poor neighborhood means that the malfunctioning lightpole has yet to be replaced.
You press a hand to your side as the pain spikes suddenly, and you notice how quickly your fingers are going numb. You guess that hypothermia cannot be too far away; you've read up on this, you know how it works, and you tilt your head back against the tree, rough bark scratching your scalp, and watch your breaths curl upwards against the sky. You wish for a moment that you could be far from the city, that you could witness the cold stare of the stars unobscured by smog and unbroken by buildings. A shudder interrupts your thoughts and you realize that your breathing is starting to slow. Instead of panic, you feel anticipation pass through you; finally, release. Your illness has kept you locked away for far too long, and now, now you can finally let go. You sigh and close your eyes. You are passing out, you realize dimly, and you smile.
In the last few moments before dawn, a lightpole flashes in the distance, like fireflies in the dying night.
This was written for the prompt "firefly."
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It's nighttime, around seven or eight o'clock; in the summer, it would still be light outside, just barely dusk. But the year is aging, and the world has greyed to winter, so by now it's nearly pitch-black, especially away from the bright sterility of the hospital and the dingy shine of the streets. The darkness is not silent; the rough purr of highway traffic swirls through the air, breaking the silence but not shattering it. If sounds were light, the park would glow, but dimly, like fireflies in the night. Your breath stains the air on an exhale and you shiver, not just from the cold. It's time.
You close your eyes, tired. More tired than you can say, more tired than you ever thought possible. This has been a long time coming, and fear has left you, replaced only by a ragged peacefulness. Your medicine has made you dizzy, but it's wearing off now. As you sit down, feeling the frosted grass crunch under your weight as you sit down, clumsy from the cold and the pain. The pain is rapidly returning without the drugs to push it back, and though you whimper in discomfort, it's worth it because you want your final moments clear. You shiver again, your hospital gown glaringly inadequate for the depths of winter, and you lean back against a tree. The park is deserted tonight, the cold driving away even the criminals and the homeless, which is good, because it gives you time alone. You're even thankful that you picked this place, despite the slums that surround it, because the lack of funding for the poor neighborhood means that the malfunctioning lightpole has yet to be replaced.
You press a hand to your side as the pain spikes suddenly, and you notice how quickly your fingers are going numb. You guess that hypothermia cannot be too far away; you've read up on this, you know how it works, and you tilt your head back against the tree, rough bark scratching your scalp, and watch your breaths curl upwards against the sky. You wish for a moment that you could be far from the city, that you could witness the cold stare of the stars unobscured by smog and unbroken by buildings. A shudder interrupts your thoughts and you realize that your breathing is starting to slow. Instead of panic, you feel anticipation pass through you; finally, release. Your illness has kept you locked away for far too long, and now, now you can finally let go. You sigh and close your eyes. You are passing out, you realize dimly, and you smile.
In the last few moments before dawn, a lightpole flashes in the distance, like fireflies in the dying night.