The Day September Died

On the day September died,

a putrid Holloween-ish breeze

crept like a fog across the campus.

Leaden, onerous did this haze

cling to the crevices between

bricks and browning leaves and

chattering teeth for the day was chilly.

Though cold as it was, exhaled

breath could hardly be realized

as hopeful students �" bundled

in sweaters and twinnish boots -

swam through the gray like fish

in muddy waters. Instead of marching

to class that day, I slinked away

to a shrouded place for solitude

amidst the mist that wet my brow

and stayed there to contemplate

such a drastic change of weather.

I neared my silent fortress and a bench

- dull now like stone though

originally of timber �" morphed into

existence like a product of the

oppression swallowing the lower

regions of our earthly atmosphere

on the day September died.

Reclining there, I gazed into the

distance as far as I might see

towards the nothingness that once

was a copse of cedars and winding

path, recognized more clearly on

days of sunshine and floral attitude.

Silence was my motive for in silence,

noises typically appear, and I reasoned

that the longer I sat silent there,

the blanket of morbidity which

cloaked everything in nothingness

would speak and give me its purpose

for having settled here. The longer

that I waited, the quieter it became

till my heartbeat ceased to thrum

and the rush of blood inside my head

went still. From my state of being

statue, my eyes grew keen. In the

distance there was a shifting,

a shape slicing invisibly through

the trees. I spied it once then it

was gone only to reappear again -

a creature accustomed to the murk.

Slithering, it approached my perch and

mouthed these three words only: “Watch

the sky” - on the day September died.

In a blink, the specter was no longer.

According to instruction, my eyes then

drifted upward expecting I am not

sure what, but they certainly did not

assume to witness a splitting of the sky.

It did not happen biblically

or in a way I can appropriately

describe. The mask of smog remained

still heavy but broke apart

in shattered pieces like the very air

was being punctured by miniscule

specks of something. They were only

nameless somethings until upon

my lashes I could feel the heat

of smokey ash. The ash itself then

began to pile and steam rose like

they were remnants of a horse's

winter dinner. Too soon the source

of this ghoulish fall-time miracle

presented itself as gloom, when

a spitting, crackling shower

of a thousand fiery particles from space

burst through the melancholy gray.

They painted everything in hues of doom -

rustling the silence with distant screams

of terror on the day September died.

© 2015 Rachel Karp

Reviews

[Bear]

Not sure about the non-paragraph sentence structure, a story reads different from a poem and this halted style for me takes away from your story.
You have great powers of description (swam through the gray like fish in muddy waters). You also have a great knowledge of words and their usage, onerous and morbidity are words I seldom see used here and when I have they were misused. Interesting story with all the elements needed to bring readers back for more.

[R. L. Hill]

Thank you for your insight and appreciation. It began as a paragraphed story, but I guess the cadence in my head sounded better as a poem. I will have to reconsider what you've said, however. I am glad that you were able to detect my use of obscure words.