Story beginning based on a dream I had yesterday morning.

I look out at my front yard, at the electric green grass, and the box of "free stuff" I had set on the lawn for passerby's to graze from. My chin is in my hands, elbows on my knees, a position once familiar to me when I was a gangly child, several years ago. I watch as a familiar friend, her hair obscuring her face, approaches my house. And then I spot her eyes, wide and red with tears. I stand, racing toward her.

"What's wrong? What happened, are you alright?"

She ignores me, shaking as she crouches to pick out a tattered copy of a former favorite book of mine. She bites her lip, another tear running down her face. I check the watch I wear, and find that it is not even two o'clock yet. School isn't even out, and she's here, right here, standing above my box of things I just threw out. And crying.

"What's going on, Darica?" I ask, putting a hand on her shoulder. She just closes her eyes again, to blink back more tears, before tucking the book in her already-stuffed backpack. For reasons that entirely escape me, she begins to run, toward her house at the end of our neighborhood. Her house.

I stand, stunned, for a moment, before racing after her.

"You won't catch her," I hear a voice from... in front of me?

Out steps a man wearing khakis and a green sweater, ridiculous clothing for the weather, with peppery brown hair and knowing eyes. My uncle. My dead uncle.

"Oh my God, I think... I'm crazy, aren't I? I'm hallucinating. Oh my... I... I should go call 911 or something," I begin to ramble on.

"No, Cy. You're very sane. It's why you're here right now."

"What do you mean?"

This would have been an utterly tragic and horrific moment, the sight of my dead uncle, had I not been so utterly swept away by the strange reaction of my friend. It wasn't so strange; we didn't always want comfort when we cried, but she just came and took my book, granted, out of a "free stuff" box, without an explanation, as I watched her. Now that I thought about it, I wasn't in school either.

"Let's just say, the two of us have more in common than you likely would have thought possible."

"What do you mean?"

This wasn't what I thought it meant. It couldn't be. I was only 16, after all. And I wasn't unhappy or a reckless driver or anything common and ridiculous like that. I didn't have some awful illness, I don't recall falling downstairs, or consuming anything poisonous or any sort of drug I hadn't tried before, but...

"It's exactly what you think. Sorry, Cy. It's an unpleasant thought, I will agree."

"No."

"Yes."

 "What?!"

"I know you just want me to say it, Cy. It won't help much. I'm sure you've figured it out well enough."

"I don't want you to say... it. I... I don't... I don't wanna hear any of this, I'm gonna... I'm gonna go take a nap. Up in my room. I... Must be sleep deprivation or something," I muttered, as I turned from the man.

But he stood in front of me again.

"Try as you may, it's hard to sleep when you're here, Cy. You don't sleep much when you're d_"
"Don't."

"Alright, I'll say it, because you're clearly one of those who needs to hear it before you can snap out of this... this... utterly pointless denial. You're dead, Cy."

I sat back down on the grass. It didn't phase through me or anything. I was wearing shorts, because it was hot, and I... I felt the grass. This had to just be...

"It's not a dream, it's not a nightmare. It just is."

Sunlight: "Quiet" (listening to: "Safe and Sound"-Taylor Swift feat. The Civil Wars)

Under one year ago...

The young woman faced her window, hugging her knees to her chest, the young man at the opposite edge of her bed. From outside came a summer wind, giving her curtains an appearance of inhaling and exhaling. She closed her eyes, her soft, slender profile evident in the slant of a streetlight reflecting into her room. Her neighborhood was quiet, excepting the wind's lazing breath. The young man broke the near-silence gently, hesitantly.

"I'll miss you," he murmured, stating the most obvious thought among the many unraveling in his mind. Thoughts that pleaded, "I need you, to stay, don't leave, not now, or stay closer, what of all that we spoke about before? What about then, what about now, what about later, isn't it possible there could be more? More than even this?"

"It won't be long. I'll call," she replied.

"Will you? I trust you, I really do, but it would be so easy, Amira. So easy to just stop. How do I know you won't just stop calling, or writing, emailing, whatever way we've meagerly communicated these past months?"

"Okay."

She slowly uncurled her shielding arms from around her, shifting toward the center of the narrow queen bed, and slid her hand toward his. The wind exhaled, a cool gust, the curtains opening wide, bathing the two in goldenrod light. He saw her eyes, clear, a promise within them.

"I don't want to lose you. Can you at least tell me whether there's a chance for this to go on? I don't understand, I have never been this close to any human being, not once, not until now. Please. I know I'm rather pathetic, and if you heard me plead and beg like this, you would shudder away, you would look at the walls, and then you would run, but please. Just give me this one assurance."

"It's college, Damir. It's school. I won't be too far away, just a few hours. I'll come down when I can," she said, beside him now, her voice confident, just above a whisper. She waved away the curtains, before they could obscure their faces. He rarely had the chance to see her so close, the slight, gentle curve of her chin. And he saw her eyes as much as he could. They were beautiful, even when seeing what was no longer there.

"Okay."

He deliberated a moment, before speaking again.

"I should have a better graduation gift for you by then."

Her lips opened with a smile, then offered her gift of laughter. He wanted to hear that, all of his life. He wanted to wake to that sound.

"You'd better," she replied, smirking as she brought her face to his. He felt her breathe as he did, a moment, before his lips touched hers, closing his eyes as her hair brushed his, bringing his hand to rest on her cheek.

"I love you, Amira. We don't ever say that, and I know why we don't, and I'm alright with that. But I want you to know. I won't ever say those words because of what we both fear, of the knowledge of grief forced to us through the price of pain."

((*concept of last line conceived by another writer and blogger.))

Sunlight "songfic" w/o lyrics (listened to: Going to Georgia, Bixby Canyon Bridge, Casimir Pulaski Day, Amsterdam); trigger warning; also, bad writing.

((Credits to Leah for originally roleplaying some of this scene with me.))

The road was long and clean, as it usually was. Yet the clouds were plump and gray, promising rain. Beautiful, the day. He stepped out from the edge of the small town, staring out at the vehicles on the highway passing beside it. The ride from his city had been but a short two hours. And two hours from his former home, he would finally accomplish his best, last act.

The first car flew by, at 70 miles an hour, and he cursed his hesitance. He was not excited by the thought of harming another by his life, but he had so many times. The stranger would feel awful, he was certain. But perhaps someone would convince him that they were only granting a wish, a great wish. Providing transportation to elsewhere, as a vehicle usually did.

He should have driven himself. It would have saved his conscience from knowing what he was doing to somebody else. But it was a little late now.

Another vehicle was approaching. He would have to be fast. He wasn't good at being fast. He would have to try, though.

His heart was racing, in tune with this vehicle's speed, and he watched as it came closer. He had but a short window between the driver's sight of him and his speed. And even if he saw... 65 miles, perhaps he would just... he didn't want to break much of theirs...

And so the next step came easily, and he felt lightheaded as he approached the lane's center from its side, feet off gravel onto cracking asphalt; thunder wasn't sounding, but he saw lightning above him. He anticipated the pain and loss as the vehicle approached, but soft, quick thunder sounded, the shriek of a woman, and then,

the loud wwshhhhhhhhhhhh of the car, as its tires sped on past him. He hit the asphalt, toppled by someone nearly half his size, caramel hair on his face, and blueangryfrightened eyes, unclear in his dizzied head. And he hardly heard, as she shouted, the rain of her tears upon his face in the other lane, as they lay, a mess on the other side of a dotted yellow line.

"Whatthehellwereyoudoing,myGod,Damir,myGod,please..."

She squeezed him, a human vice of slender, strong arms, and thunder sounded in the distance and thunder sounded and three miles away, someone was speeding, speeding down toward them...

"Please, please, Damir, why, please... don't..."

And rain from the sky, not salty, started to drip down on the living and dead below them, dripping upon the two in the road. So the man in his vehicle, coming home from a Saturday's work began to rush, wanting home, longing for the company of his family.

He slowly tried to take her from him, but she held tighter; he had never known her strength until now. And he took her back for a moment, before peeling her as gently as possible from him, and she was now beside him. He didn't want her here, for this, no, he couldn't...

And the man in his car turned on his windshield wipers as he approached the town he lived in.

"No, Damir," she whispered, grasping his arm.

And the man approached, at a steady 67, hurrying, knowing the exit's approach, but still pressing the gas, 68, 69, 70 miles per hour...

And the young man turned his aching head, his ears picking up the scrape of rubber against wet ground, and he took the girl as she had just taken him, shoving both toward an edge, a tornado of man and woman twisting into a deep ditch as a car sped just past them, narrowly avoiding the sweep of tragic, whirling wind.

The couple lay bruised and scraped and coated with new mud, both hearts racing, both heartbeats a realization. In their fall, the woman's ring was coated with mud, her arms and knuckles scraped by pavement and sharp grasses. Both were aching, though some pains were sharp, as they lay, poured on by rainwater, unable to catch their breath. Something was broken, but each was alive.

"Don't ever..." she barely rasped, closing her eyes as she winced, as tears fell anew with the rain.

"I won't..." he replied, tasting saltwater and blood from something cut.

Blotches of purple appeared on their limbs, and one held the other, the other held one, and the two felt their pounding heads and racing hearts pumping blood, and they closed their eyes, comforted by darkness and warmth, waiting.  

Poem: "The Intellectual"

((Note: Well, I love my friends. All of them. But... alas, this poem... needed to be vented out.))
From those eyes,
who is the Intellectual?
Newlywed, single, childless?
All the intelligence spread out on the page,
all the books read out of the mouth,
All the words from the mind upon the screen.

Who is he, or she, or who are they?
Witty, funny, biting,
Calm, laid-back,
enraged at only what deserves rage.
Older, younger,
with master's degrees?

Shelves stocked, stocked, stocked,
with the works of
Others like themselves,
role models,
books like lovers to them.

Who is the Intellectual?
Who is the man or woman who pretends to be one?
What qualifies an individual
as intellectual?

How do you, friend,
determine your intelligence,
in light of theirs?
How do we, friends,
turn off our judgment,
and listen?

Eight years, ten years,
apart,
we are,
from those who teach, and yet,
claims of knowing more.

Who is the intellectual?
Turn off
the judging heart and listen.
Forget the loss of our philosopher,
turn off your judging heart,
and learn.

Sunlight: Unanswered (otherwise, "The infamous church scene")

((The title is only due to the fact that I've attempted to write this scene approximately... too many times. And by this, usually by thinking about it and never even getting more than a couple of sentences in. And all of those sentences weren't what I was going for. Let's hope these are.))

The young man and his father took to the very last row, for the rest of the sanctuary was packed. Weaving to the front would have proven difficult for the two, though the spaces between each segment of seats was wide enough for their passage. Yet the air within seemed to suffocate them.

Surely it was not the people within. Not the throng of voices singing honestly of praises to their God, of their aching sin and pleading forgiveness for the falls they had taken. Not the youth with cellphones beneath their parents' eyes, and not the young and old with eyes aimed to the ceiling, or closed with deep emotion. Their air seemed breathable, even if thick. It wasn't with the choir and their electric guitar and piano. Not with the woman soloist, her rich voice mingling with the near-200 at the foot of the three-stepped platform. It wasn't in the powerfully read verses of love and "life-in-the-next." When all sat back down, it wasn't the pastor's collective greeting or his request of the offering. It wasn't in the band standing again, then the man proceeding to give his message of "Keeping One's Eyes Heavenward."

No, it was in his face. His eyes. The familiarity.

It was in the seats, the rafters high above, the lights and where they aimed. It was the few familiar faces in the crowd. It was the kindness from the ushers, the greeting-one-another's before "worship".  The smiles that seemed genuine, and even moreso, those that seemed forced.

Such things rendered the men to silent tears, in the back, beneath the balcony. Such a world that wasn't theirs, perhaps not yet, perhaps not ever, that the man in the front with his light green shirt and dark green tie and his black dress pants. His little microphone, trying to give a congregation hope.

He acknowledge pain and loss and grief; "But ultimately, there is Joy in Christ! This life is merely temporary..."

---
"We should go to church today," the older man said to his son, facing his window, the son just behind him.

The young man looked at the floor. Perhaps they should go. They'd gone quite a few times near the end... they were the only people who said that they could make it. They had their little groups "pray for them."

"I... I don't know. Maybe," he murmured.

"It's been... a long time."

"Yes. Very long."

---
They'd dressed in black that time before this one. They had worn it, dark hair natural on the son, and then suit jackets and black pants and shoes, the only thing light being his father's skin and hair. The rest had dressed in a similar fashion. And the songs were just as bright and beautiful, but there were merely more tears than this.

Nearly a year had past. Each man felt the date pressing upon him, like a boulder on his chest. They had gone out of duty; neither had been taught this as the absolute, appropriate response, but they had believed it was, at least, this morning they had. But the place seemed to hold less answers than hoped for. It only reminded each of unhealed wounds.

That same man at the very front of the large room had delivered a similar message the last time they had attended. Why had they come again, this family of two, once three? Bleak, it was, but each felt it shouldn't have been. The hope that those around them felt, it should have reached them also.

"...with that knowledge, I know I will see her again, my little girl..." the man in front also, nearly, brought to tears. As he shared with them his personal story, connecting so deeply with all who felt loss. But were not lost, as he had said.

The young man and his father, however connected to the man in front, in that they had also experienced loss, they failed to understand his entire assurance. So uncompromising and yet so genuine he seemed standing on that short platform with his tiny microphone. And the man and his son did not perceive the faces of the others around them.

---
"Mr. Pax, it's been quite a while since you've been here. We're so glad you could make it this Sunday," a man waiting for his wife told the other, the man in his chair, waiting for his son standing outside the building, swallowing their pain pills and lighting his second-ever cigarette.

"Yes. It has been a while. We're sorry we haven't been... here... we've just_"

"I understand_"

And for a moment, the man may have believed it so,

"_your health is not..."

"No, not... quite well. Nor Damir's. But... well, we decided it would be a good... morning to attend."

He hesitated with his use of the word "good".

"Yes, yes, that's quite alright."

A woman with straight black hair, a young boy asleep in one arm and swiftly capturing the hand of a small child about to yet again chase after a toy, smiled nervously at the man before Mr. Pax.

"It looks like it's about to go," the man said, with a small smile which suggested the man before him understood his urgent plight. And the other father did his best to smile back.

The other took to his wife and children, scooping up the toddling girl, who reached toward the floor. Her mother swiftly swept up the toy and handed it to her, managing to leave the little boy asleep.
---
The younger man felt nauseous. There was nothing good about these things, other than their ability to kill. And if he were to die, he'd rather die very, very quickly. So he ignored all the unpleasant responses, the glares, the glances, the concern, of the passing individuals of the churchgoers leaving their building, wishing to finish this once and then to never smoke again. It was not "for him", he supposed. He was not one to socially experiment, and he was not longing for either disdain or worry; rather, he simply found himself apathetic. Dulled and numbed, which he now preferred.

Eventually, he opened the door for his father and they proceeded to their vehicle. When they arrived at home, he looked at the near-full pack of cigarettes and regretted their minimal use. He wanted to throw them away. He wanted to tell them that he didn't need their brand of airless, pungent death, but he knew that someone else would put them to use. Their destructive use.
---
When he returned home early that morning, from the endless, wild night, he set the pack on the bench he had once fallen asleep on with a friend. Where he'd told her of his once-newfound, now permanent, grief. He laid it there for whomever, hoping "whomever" wouldn't be a child. With this, he went home to sleep two hours, to wake up and clean floors.