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| original work by Christine I Steeves Speakman |
Going to be a long one today, folks.
THE END AND THE HOPE
The day stared at the still morning hill like a ghost out of some thriller. The sun was like a zombie, no life. If any one was alive they weren’t letting it be known. Why should they? They had been promised protection but none had came. But who’s fault was that? The sky looked down on the deserted land and started to cry. First the rain came lightly as not to disturb the living dead but then changed its mind and it poured. The drops were like pellets hitting the cold dirt. They bounced upon landing as if they were hail, maybe they were. The sun was now just a lazy shadow behind the moody clouds. From where the clouds came from only they knew. There was no moisture from the ground that permitted them. The air was dry and hot. They must have been made by…by what? There was no beauty left. The flowers that at any other time would of brightened the darkest corner were now themselves dark. The trees, few that there are, reached up for help from the blazing sun, the clouds but no help could save them. Time was at a stand still. Seconds became minutes than hours, days, weeks, months and years but still time was not moving. Where would it move to? The sun and moon were one. Light and dark were one. Day and night were one. Nothing and everything were one. The beginning had met the middle and now the end. Hope was gone. Even if hope was still around what could it do? Life and death were one. The morning hill was at the end. What of the rest of the world? If time stops at one place does it stop everywhere else? Maybe it does…or doesn’t . Maybe hope is still in existence.
Hope brings forth the beauty in the world. It exists in the flower, the rain, the clouds, the sun and even in time. As long as there is doubt there is hope. As long as there are unanswered questions there is hope. As long as there is one tiny ounce or less of life there is hope. You see it in the hot sun. In the dry air. The clouds hold hope in their moisture. As long as there is something existing in whatever form there is hope.
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What are Roaming Ideas?
…random writings from now back to teen years
…writings free of editing and second looks
…pumps to my creative well
…shut downs and locking away of the critical mind
What are Overly Done Paragraphs?
…more description then is ever needed
…snapshots of possibilites
What are Dear Diary?
…inserting myself into a fictional character, where does the path take me