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Creative Writing

They are dragons— no, swans— maybe just people.  On second thought, perhaps they are only clouds.  One thing is certain. They float in the sky waiting for the perfect time to unleash the waters on this land of love at the foot of the mountain.

It’s the sound of cars dancing to an endless eternity with no direction, only wishes.  In the distance, headlights can be seen driving to the soundtrack of the engines’ growling bass.

By the highway, a sign looms far above anything else.  It is lit by red lights, which have seen better days – it is too far away to be read, but close enough to be seen.

Open fields lay between me and the highway. Fields like dreams, ready to be sown, not yet able to be harvested.  Along the road nearest to me, not a car is to be seen— just a road, half covered by cement.

The house down the road with its lit nightlights lays still, not a sound to be heard or person to be seen.

Behind the clouds, the clear blue skies of the west can be seen, but on the edges of my view, I can see other colors too, orange and blue.

These are the ideals of a fictitious life or the beginning of a journey of self-reflection and discovery.  Will the story end with the phrase “the characters of course are all fictitious,” or will it end with the light of day and me, standing before the grassy fields which lay between me and the mountains— a book full of thoughts, only to realize that I’ve only just begun?