Prose – Harrison Hansford

Waking Up

The neurones begin firing as the first shreds of golden light burst through the cracks in the venetians; sending the crew to assess the situation. They speed from the back of the brain to the eyes, heaving the weighty lids open, commanding the eyes to take stock of the situation. Resisting the commands the eyelids fall closed again. Another command comes, assaulting the languid peace. A piercing trill coming from across the room, the ears channel the alert to the crew, doubling their efforts the eyelids are thrust open, no longer heavy. Reflexively, the green light flicks on and the warm, soft covers are thrown into the air. With a soft but firm thud the feet hit the ground, left and then right, moving rapidly towards the cacophonous perpetrator to silence it. Before central command is able to process what is going on, the enemy is silenced, the body alert.

No longer dark and peaceful, reality pours in, rapidly filling the room, expelling all hints of misty fantasies gone by. The heart begins to pound and like the room, the head fills with the light of the day ahead. The light is but fleeting when put into perspective and only lasts a short while. Like an expensive wine it is crucial to bask in every moment of day ahead because like everything, it will inevitably come to a close. Thoughts and plans, like race cars around Monte Carlo, rush around and around in the head, going faster and faster with each passing moment.

Crucial to survival the mind must take a pit stop. Slowing down into the pits, the breaks come on with every focussed breath, until finally coming to a complete halt. Crossed legs, relaxed hands, relaxed mind. Each breath comes and goes, brushing the tip of the nose, recharging the ageing batteries.

Once the mind is still, the day can begin again, but no longer with the anxious fervour of the awakening. The heart and mind are slowed, focussed, able to notice all that occurs in the day, the door is opened and the world rushes in. You are ready to face it.

Rain Drops: Prose

Just as rain does, a million small things by chance, combine with one another to create something new, something big. billions of tiny droplets swirl around in the sky. Thrust around by the winds and pressures, without any control over their fate. The droplets just float along as they must. Going up and down, left to right but with no compass, no direction. They are pushed and pulled in the direction with earth has for them. This powerful dance goes on for hours and hours, days and days until there are enough droplets by chance in the right place. The tiny droplets then begin to merge, forming groups, large and intimidating.

These groups begin to move around as one fluid entity. Becoming dragons and tigers, but only for a fleeting moment, before becoming something else. Moving above the oceans they grow and grow, becoming thicker and heavier. Eventually, when the conditions are just right, the groups release their droplets. Like a team of paratroopers they rush to the ground with no fear. Buffeted by winds they travel sideways, uncertain of where they will land. Inevitably they will always land, rarely do they fall on the lands which need them most; sometimes on the harsh tin roofs of the sheds and often on the ever expanding concrete jungles, collecting in gutters.

This wondrous cycle creates life, or puts life on hold. Amongst the grey towers the people begin to run, sensing the first of the troops coming to land, they dash for cover. Outside the concrete jungle, the troops are not enemies, they are a long awaited extraction team, the one which has been long prayed for. They bring new energy to the land, pulling it back from the brink, allowing it to continue.

Once the troops have landed and everything has settled, the remnants remain, the patchy footpaths, the single, repetitive noise of a droplet falling from the gutter to the ground. Looking up there is not even a sense of what had just occurred, clear sky as bright as the farmers’ hope for the future. The citizens of the city tentatively come out of their bunkers, putting their protective equipment away quickly resuming as though nothing occurred.

And the dance in the sky resumes, the hot sun drawing more and more droplets into its arms, again, creating dragons and tigers preparing for what the citizens fear and farmers pray for.