It smells like rain

[Jules Sonntag]

I can't shake this foggy feeling of floating through the distracted moments of my maligned childhood. Maybe it's the smell of rain in the air, so reminiscent of muggy michigan summers, thunderstorms constantly threatening to unload drenching buckets from the bruised and cranky sky.  How can such a blanket of amnesia cause such sorrow and trepidation in my soul? Why is it that things I cannot remember (nor want to) reach out their skeletal fingertips to poke the  plump, contented life I have now? Disjointed memories whisper in the darkness, slyly intimating insinuations of spirit and moral fiber and transformations of flesh from girl to woman. I do not like it, I mutter to myself, alone in my apartment, waiting for it to rain.

[Jules Sonntag]

Thanks, Grey! Sometimes the stroll down memory lane elicits the fight-or- flight response in me and then the only therapy is to write it out

[Angela]

I thought "the bruised and cranky sky" was a very fine turn of phrase, and said something about the narrator as well as the weather.  Interesting reflection.

[Jules Sonntag]

Edward- great imagery in your piece. I think mich must breed discontent in those of us that can't take the gloom.

[Edward Dean]

Most excellent Jules but there must be something in the air in Mich.

The irony is that this scene almost duplicates the opening paragraph in my latest published novel.

Great minds or something huh?:)

 

 

 

The depressing gray sky of a Michigan November fills my windows and blends into the dirty snow choking the streets below.  It’s the first snowfall of 1969.  As a youth I always loved the first snow but now all I could see was the gray slush and feel its wet chill.

I now realize my life as some giant puzzle in reverse. The pieces spill out of my mind as I toy with every ugly polymorphic form that I remember.

How do I put it back together?  I have no clue nor do I really care. 

              There is a quiet desperation that is saturated throughout my being.  I can’t seem to shake it. My father’s distant words were now haunting me!  Did I really scar my soul enough to kill it?  Had I really become truly evil?

[Eric J. Sonntag]

"skeletal fingertips" excellent