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Noah whispered to the bundle in his arms as a passing breath of wind raked across his skin. "So you're the last Hope. I'll do my part. You'll get to the hospital, but can you bring that which you are called?"
"Hey Noah, what were you saying?" Tom went rigid and his eyes deepened in their sockets. "Wait! Do you feel that?" He shoved away from the willow tree he had been leaning on, strode out of the shadow of its hanging branches, licked the back of his hand, and lifted it to the air. "It has the bite."
"It’s too soon. Run!”
"Where?"
"Over there, a ditch. We might make it." The infant held firmly in his arms, Noah sprinted up the dirt road, dodged chunks of pavement jutting out of the earth, and dove into the ditch, spinning so he landed on his back. He slammed into the ground, the breath blasted out of him, but the child was safe. Tom slid next to him, breathing hard.
Judah received a Strategic Opportunity Stipend from the New York Foundations for the Arts issued by the East End Arts Council and a Hamptons.com article "This Week in the Arts" discusses the winning participants' plans.
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he lay broken because he must being so torn of flesh and mind how could he do else yet ponder the pitfalls of his twisted and muddled mind yet our Zea is struck with the difficulty of his lack his room stuffy and hot with not a small dose of irritating humidity and he screams how the hell am I supposed to get out of here but that does about nothing to calm the unrest they call his heart and somehow there is little else he can do in the confines of his self made sterile entrapment so he screams and screams as the chilly night blankets him in deceptive hope and the darkness feeds his growing panic which springs to frenzy as foreign hands pull tug refrain and finally inject then alas the pain is gone but his mind his thoughts and yes his fears depart in haste numbing his spirit and soul till there is nothing left but the drool
Fitful, he ponders its meaning.
John hasn't moved it from his porch in three days, fear being his master. The package would seem normal to most people but our dear friend is rather terrified. Now this might be perplexing, unless you understood the horror this box causes dear John, while he locks himself in his house for days. The food dwindles as apprehension rises.
"What can I do," he thinks.
On the fourth day the answer seems as evasive as the rat he tried to catch last summer. He wearily sits down on his front doorstep, staring at his intruder with no less tension.
Finally, he dares a peak at the label. Oh, no. It's true, the gift, if he may call it that, is from his mother. Hands shaking, he begins to disassemble the tape bindings of his fear as if this was some ticking bomb ready to enlarge his doorway along with other imaginative painful effects upon his physical well being. Taking a deep breath, he clenches his eyes from the enemy and attempts the well traveled, but bumpy road of control.
Judah received a Strategic Opportunity Stipend from the New York Foundations for the Arts issued by the East End Arts Council and a Hamptons.com article "This Week in the Arts" discusses the winning participants' plans.
