the guardian waits outside the door,pacing to and fro.it's deep winter and there is iceon every foot of the fence.the gates are frozen stiff,locked with clumped ice over thekeyhole. the chain behind the gate issolid, immobile with the denselayer of ice. the guardian has been outin the coldfor several years now.it is the way theyprefer …
the world is supposed to be noisy, she knows this. knows it in the way rain patters over the roof and the ocean.
It's become habit, buying new glassware every so often.
In the middle of town, there's a tree with a string of lights wrapped around it; Christmas lights, from the looks of it.
the stage stands, cold and bare. tonight there are no decorations,
she is the deluge, one you never see coming.