Toward (8)

Coral has been standing by the window Here for hours or days, the bridge is still across the hiway. She is waiting for the arrival that called the bridge into existence, but nothing comes. The Santa Ana winds are raging through the desert, covering the scape with sand and sage. Coral loves the Winds, she will run outside and throw her arms out as if in prayer to the wind god, she feels renewed after standing in the face of it’s wrath. But not today. Today she went outside and was immediately thrown to the ground, her foot catching on a piece of deadwood blown in by the storm, and she ran back inside.

The bridge is gaining strength, it no longer shimmers but radiates neon, and Coral knows it is a portent.

Involuntarily she shudders as a quote from Yeats comes to mind;

“and what rough beast, it’s hour come round at last,

slouches towards Bethlehem to be born”

She limps towards the Open sign to flip it over in time, but she knows it matters not. The beast will come, the beast will come, the beast will……


The bridge struggles under the wait.


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