Nocturne

I miss the nights. I miss the nights as they used to be. Night was my time. There was nothing quite like it. Ever go outside at night? No, no no no, I don't mean like this. I know we're outside, but this? This? This isn't night. As long as there's still cars driving and crowds out, this isn't night. There's no real night in the city.

Though I guess it has its own beauty too. The signals flashing. The soft rush of the occasional car. I suppose that under the city lights, in this pale yellow light, everything seems... crisp. Dramatic. Highly defined. When there's not a soul around. When you can look down the street and not see a single car anywhere, that's nice, I guess. It has its moments. But it's so empty. You look at the sky and see nothing. Absolutely nothing. Here in the city, you can't see a goddamn thing. The sky is just this dull, hazy gray.

It wasn't like this when I was a kid. Away from the city? Out in the hills where I lived? Oh man, going outside at night, that was something special. You could leave the house, wander wherever you wanted, and just lie down and look at the sky. And it was nothing like it is here. There's nothing like it anywhere. Stars. Millions of stars. Bright ones, small ones, stars, planets, galaxies, stretching on forever in every conceivable direction. It was so incredible.

And the moon. Oh my God, the moon. That was the best part, because no matter what, it was always gorgeous. On nights when there wasn't a cloud in the sky, it was so bright, so clear, so... striking. You couldn't look away from the thing. When it was full, you could see every detail on its surface. Just this bright, solid circle, so intricate in its design and yet so simple. When I was a kid, I would spend ages staring at it, memorizing its features. I stared at it like some kids stared at their girlfriends' pictures in the yearbooks. Even on cloudy nights, when its light would outline the clouds, it was the greatest thing.

It didn't matter if it was summer or winter, the nights were my favorite part. And a couple nights even, I was so lucky, I saw those lights in the sky. The... whattaya call 'em, the Aurora... the Aurora something. Those nights, I was so enthralled, I was speechless for days. I stared at them entranced, just stare at the shifting colors in the air. Borealis. Aurora Borealis, that was it. Man, I bet you've never seen those in your life. I mean there are no words to describe what I would feel when I saw those. You know how some people say looking at the night sky makes them feel small, insignificant? Not me. It always made me feel amazing. Like... like I was swelling up inside. You wouldn't believe how amazing it was, but my God... it was such an experience. 

You know, someday I'd like to get out of this city, away from the lights that never stop and the people who never leave. Get out by myself again, me on my own with the solitude of the night sky, be underneath that transparent canopy... I would love that. Maybe that's what I really need. I haven't felt right in years. I think it's about time I did.

From the larger work Life, Love and the Fourth Wall by David M. Briggs, 2011.  Based on an earlier draft published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 2 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 32 Issue 2)

Brazen Silver Memories

Did I ever tell you I used to play the trumpet?

I did, it's true.

Now you might not think the trumpet is

a very cool instrument,

but I assure you, back in the day,

I was quite good.

I played for years, you know.

I played all sorts of music

for all sorts of people.

I screamed on high B's

when the music would burn.

I tore through the scales

and I shouted for more.

I pondered the blues

when my heart was in tune.

I brooded and crafted

and sang through the brass

like a lovelorn vagrant.

I wrote in the air

with invisible ink

that could be seen for miles

if you cared to listen for it.

I played galas and galleries,

dances and dinners,

basements and theaters,

ballparks and bars.

Life was my music

and music was life

and one could not exist on its own.

To me,

those times are the fondest of memories,

though I frequently wish they were not.

For who can give up their life and soul

and not feel a little wistful at its passing?

Written by David Briggs, 2011.  First published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 5 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 35 Issue 1)

Eleven O'Clock Penalty Flags

It is eleven o'clock

And I sit in my room

In front of a computer

And wait for a video to load

It is eleven o'clock

And in the football field

Across from my room

(and five stories down)

Groups of people

Throw penalty flags

At no one at all

Three large groups of people

At eleven o'clock

Decided this evening

That they should go down

To the football field

Across from my room

Turn on the lights

And throw penalty flags

There are no footballs

There are no frisbees

No soccer

No lacrosse

No baseball bat swinging

Just three groups of people

At eleven o'clock

Throwing an oddly large number

Of penalty flags

Sometimes to each other

Sometimes in the air

Sometimes they even run as they throw them

But none of this changes

That all they are doing

Is throwing penalty flags

At eleven o'clock

Without any players

To make penalties

And I sit in my room

And look at the field

That is five stories down

And I laugh at them

While my video loads

And I call them weird.

I think maybe my priorities are out of order.

Written by David Briggs, 2012.  Edited from an earlier draft published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 5 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 35 Issue 1)