SCRIBE 2023 Mayday

PARADE RAIN
By paradoxica
SCRIBE MAYDAY
as the morning dew sparkled like fairy dust adorning the petals of wayward
flowers,
as the cacophony of the busy streets started to sound enchanting—comforting
even,
as the morning radio enlightened me of cloudless weather,
I urged myself to take pleasure in the day.
as the rays of the sun warmed my bones,
as I inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass,
as the earthy taste of coffee coated my tongue,
I believed that it was going to be a good day.
I decided today was the time to enjoy things I’ve never really cared for before:
greeting evasive faces along the pedway,
treating myself to rich, flaky pastries from a small local cafe,
and drowning myself in the hypnotic music of street performers as the sun sets.
but as I watched the lightning flash across the darkening heavens,
I found myself alone, just as I was when the day started.
thunder roared, and I realized that a downpour was inevitable.
the forecast being wrong is nothing new to me.
dipping my fingers in the almost-damped jean pocket,
the uncomfortable hardness reminded me of what today was.
my hands found the hilt of my blade—
my safeguard weapon, a blatant lie I told my mom.
my grip tightened, and my heart was but a dam about to fracture,
but I no longer had room for fear in me.
I no longer had anything left in me.
I dragged the steel up to my throat and my resolve
—it wavered.
it was such a good day.
I waited for red to drip and mingle with the puddle on the ground,
yet all I saw was the knife slipping from my hands.
my usual chaos evaporated with the will to do the unthinkable.
here I stand, foolishly thinking that today was the day.
I guess both the forecast and I were wrong.
Art by Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes
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