Page 4 - 90-94 Meteor

4 THE METEOR
ISSUE 1, 1990
Autumn Moon and Honeysuckle
Short Story Impulse...
by Josh Simpson
The moon rests like a half- eaten peach in the prickly skeletal branches of the autumn-blackened birches, red maples, and white oaks. She is pulling hard tonight, spinning her tangle over the woods and sky. Chrome swallows of moonlight tremble and dance on the forest floor, flung through bare branches and onto the dead leaves.
Under the crackling leaves the warm earth hums. The smell of moss and dirt is moist and sweet. Summer gives heed to the gentle rust of fall, and everything comes into balance on nights like these: the rise and fall of the earth, the light and shadow , the warm damp dirt and dried-out leaves, the death and life of the seasons; the Chinese gods of opposition in balance, Yin and Yang, sky- lark in forest-forms, and leak
slow like sap out every cell. I follow a gully down to the brook. At the stream's edge spring Paw-Paw trees and sal- monberries , their roots in desperate reach for the lile that stream water gives. Sul- phur moonbursts descend and settle in quiet highlight 'cross the tops of the thickets, vines, and bushes that line the banks. Grey and black pebbles, slick like polished ivory, lie scat- tered through the current. The stream's rushing over and around stones clucks and whistles a watersong that spills loud into my ears. I follow downstream, drunk on the sight of the moon shining in clear black water, hop- scotching from one mossy stone to another. I reach the wood's end a mile or two later, bend back the dead honey- suckle like a tattered jade cur- tain, and run out onto the asphalt strip just yards beyond
the woods.
The air is crisp and the
cemented earth can no longer breathe warmth into my body. The candy-apple red of the switching station lights burns on top of the coal bank ahead. I scra mble up and squat among rocks and tracks, black- ening my clothes with coal dust. Train tracks wind and twist down into the night, serpentine sisters of worn iron. A mist melts and swirls a few feet above the ground, falling and rising from the tracks in thick liquid petals. The moon is big here in the open, swollen and white. Dead vines cling to steel track or lie in tangled heaps like hair and bathe in the fat light of the autumn-
by Walt Coles
The sun shone softly and a
cool spring breeze drifted lightly down the street. Cars honked and whined among the ambient noises of New York City's afternoon traffic.
Tim Updike walked briskly up the crowded sidewalk with an exhilarating air of con- fidence. During lunch Tim had all but concluded a deal on a take-over bid that would earn his small Wall Street firm millions in profit. Only a small line of formalities remained between Tim and his self- masterminded path to success.
Suddenly, his mind was shocked clear of any thought about money. Edging before him was the most beautifully attractive woman he believed he had ever laid eyes upon. She had large staring eyes of emerald green and lips of luscious red. She wore a lace summer dress which perfect- ly accentuated a slim, yet well curved body. A cascade of blondish curls flowed easily over her delicate neck and shoulders. Her skin of porcelain radiated an inner
gleam of God-sculptured love- liness.
She strode by Tim in a care- free spirited manner regard- ing him with a slightly sexy smile. Tim's mind raced in an
almost panic stricken state as he was left in the wake of her sweet fragrance. Years of career training enabled Tim to arrive at a speedy decision. He quickly darted to the nearest flower vender and handed the old woman a 50 dollar bill. Grabbing the prettiest bunch of roses he turned and ran as fast as possible back to the girl of his dreams. Again he found her, but she had now crossed to the other side of the street.
A loud screech caused Katherine to look suddenly back over her shoulder just as a rather handsome young man was struck by a yellow Arrow Cab car. There was a loud thump as the man bounced off the hood onto the pavement. Katherine glanced at the man now on the street and upon
realizing the obtuse angle of his neck she knew that he was dead.
The exquisite set of red roses beside the body caught her eye. For some unexplain- able reason she felt a twinge of guilt and sorrow. A chill went through her body with the realization again that she had just seen a person die.
With a shudder and a sigh, Katherine turned and walked on attempting to think about brighter and more pressing matters....
moon. Nothing is good nor bad, just is, that's all.
Maybe I would be afraid, with things happening and coming on more than a little oddly , with the seasons chang- ing, but I lose ego on nights like these. Yin and Yang have come for me too. They throw me into the eerie and fluid state of balance and unity that blankets everything. I'm sure that I can't stand out very much, and in fact no one thing does, each is too busy being to become separate from the whole. I listen to the watersong and feel the autumnmoon's bath. The devices of delivery are dllferent, but the energy is the same.
ple based their lives on the change of seasons ; it didn't signify death or despair, but was instead part of the Yin and Yang, of the balance of things, of the circles and cycles of llle itself. What an incredible way to look at change, as unavoid- able, as necessary , as beauti- ful and even desirable. I may be alone here, away from peo- ple, but I'm not Alone, not Lonely . Lost and content, in- dulgent in being, indulgent in the world, I can never be Alone. The moon, the stars, the rock, the water, the trees and the earth are so alive and sychronized they won't let me Alone for long. On autumn nights like these I realize this balance and cycle and change of Nature, of season, and of myself, I can see the balance, I am balance.
The changing
seems to be the dying sighs of Nature, but this is only on the outside. In simpler times peo-
of season
"Untitled"
-K im
Adams
"Downtown Mall"
by Dean Goodwin
He's so sad and lonely sitting there by himself.
The bar is nearly empty, clean glasses on the shelf. The music's playing, a song of days gone by.
He lights another cigarette, the barman gives a sigh.
The old man searches in the garbage can. The young kid jumps into his van.
The policeman checks the drugstore door. The pusher makes another score.
"Another beer bartender, set me up again,
For I'm a lonesome traveler seeking shelter from life's pain. The sun will rise tomorrow, another busy city day.
Another beer bartender, and I'll be on my way."
On the streets a dog is barking in the night.
The old man drops his plastic bag, and turns around in fright. He starts to fight his shadow, cast by a sidewalk lamp.
He picks up his belongings, and declares himself the champ.
The young lad starts the engine, it sputters into life.
The policeman checks his watch, and thinks about his wile. The pusher vanishes out of sight, now that he's played his role. Disappeared into the night, looking for another helpless soul.
Another city night has come to pass,
Another neon light begins to flash.
The cold wind blows papers down the street.
Old forgotten headlines on a ripped and crumpled sheet.
"Another beer bartender, set me up again.
For I'm a lonesome traveler, seeking shelter from life's pain. The sun will rise tomorrow, another busy city day.
Another beer bartender, and I'll be on my way."