Hurricane Sheva, Hurricane Aaron

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

I clenched my fingers around the chain link fence, using the thin metal to keep me standing. The wind rattled it rat-tattat-tat. Sluggish dark water moved through the canal below me. Looking through the forest of skyscrapers, I caught a glimpse of the sun burning its way across the sky, racing to set. Soon the darkness of the water and the darkness of the sky would meet. I could welcome them.

“Oh, Aaron.” Sheva's voice came from behind me and I knew she hadn't moved. She had stayed back, as if distance could blunt the trauma of her words.

“It's nothing.” I said, deadening myself. I offered my raging torrent of hate, hurt, pain, and love up to that fiery pyre in the sky, pushing them out of myself to where they no longer hurt until all that remained was a dull ache and a vague sense that something was wrong.

Sheva's slim hand crawled on to my shoulder. This morning it would have been welcome, a tingly delight. Now it didn't matter.

There we stayed, her hand linking us, and the clouds chased the sun away.


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