Flutes

Cement, then three iron feet, welded to three black chipped painted, flowery cast iron legs, then a grated table top, then three small half-pint bottles of wine. Behind, the bar was square, top heavy, glass and wooden, yet still sinking into the ground. Two chairs, rusty and metal. And finnally, one.

A car horn sounded and Finn heard it. He touched the arms of the chair, to be positive that they were there, the the table top, then the first bottle. they were all there. the wind blew and his white skin shivered and blushed because of the slight chill, and his hair blew with the wind, learning its dance only for a split second then giving it up, passing the dance to a flag or a news paper. He tasted the wine, the grossly acidic taste of the cheap wine almost made him cringe. Then he opened his eyes. there was little light anywhere around him. The sun had set, but the stars had not come out(not that they ever did in Baltimore), the street lights were all either not on yet or broken, probably broken. The darkness was too imminent for dusk, too much of an enclosure, too much his shoddy room at the towering, dark gray building down the street. The store front across the street was mirrored, but now was black, and a black van drove past, and a black dog roamed across the street, and even he was wearing black. Baltimore was all too dark. and so he tasted the wine, and he was surprised to tasted its saltiness, and his face was wet. Finn knew, sadly, that he was where he was.

The wind picked up and came up from behind him and blew wildly around the whole scene. then, it blew across the tops of the open bottles of the wine and they all began to sing. the song opened gently from the bass of the wide Bordeax, and then was joined on a discordant gust about the Merlow. All of a sudden, the wind whipped over all three and their voices in an unnatural harmony sent Finn with closed eyes, flying into the sky, caught by the wind. his arms spread, he tried to control himself at the unbelievable speed at which he was traveling. Up and into the east he flew, into the forsaking night of the sea, but Finn laughed. he laughed and laughed, and flew all the way back to Iceland.

O, O, O...

said worrying. Then Boredom settled down into the kitchen, and the the knife cutting through carrot made the sound that a knife makes when it cuts through an onion through a pepper through cabbage. When the world (everything,) is under a blanket, it is impossible to feel intimate with anything at all, because there is too much detail. The cloud were a blanket. Worrying finally realized it had no place in the kitchen and left. What a relief for everyone involved it started raining.

When his father came smiling and dripping home, he glowed by the fire. His father was always coming home, he never left home, but was always coming home. When the gray of the short winter days came, his father became much more intimate with his surroundings because they were all he knew, he wasn't ignorant, he was so aware and then content.

"I am not unlike my father," the words spoke to a spice rack that came from places he'd never seen,but that was before Worrying left. when Worrying left, there was a solemn serenity within Finn. and he realized he was quite unlike his father.

down from the cliffs, the sea mangled in itself and magnetised the oceans of Finn's heart to churn and lapse and digress as well. Down, from the widow, onto the street. The sea of the people ready to catch the rain in their hair pushed and pulled nothing within him. Happiness had walked past outside his apartment door, but had not even knocked, and was accompanied by the managerie of other wet sentiments that had drowned and were slowly draining out of Finn's heart.