To Really Listen - Tyler Cary-Neihardt (black authors fiction .txt) 📗

I look about myself
Examining these figures around me
Each one deep in their own minds or engrossed in some conversations, topics I neither like nor relate to
And I wonder
Do I really understand them?
Know them
Do I even like them?
Have I ever once
Taken the time
To really listen
To their words
Their stories
The things they say without speaking
Have I?
Do I even want to?
It seems strange to think
Some of them I’ve known for eight or more months
Seen them every day
And yet
I know nothing about them
We sit
We talk
We play
Yet we never take the time
To really listen.


It’s a cool morning, well on its way to becoming a nice day
The sky is an endless expanse of blue
I close my eyes and breathe in the morning air
I turn
Slowly
Deliberately
Off the trail
Into these tall unfamiliar pines
Unfamiliar yet welcoming
Then
I stop
Si
And take a moment
To remove my self
From the norm
From the chaos disguised as order
From people
Buildings
Cars
Bikes
Signs
School
TV
I take a moment
To sit quietly
And really listen


Routine
That’s what high school is, that’s all it is
We may break from it on occasion but we always come back
In fact this too is a sort of routine
Alarm, breakfast, journey to school, front door, say hello to friends, class, class, class, lunch, class, class, home, dinner, homework, sleep, rinse, repeat.
We are annoyed as freshmen and sophomores, by junior and senior year we hate it
And then
It’s gone
Now what
We are cast head long into an unfamiliar and unfriendly world and we wish we had tried harder
And
Surprisingly
We wish we could go back
Back to the routine
But we can’t
So
Instead we find a new one
College
Job
Taxes
Career
Rinse, repeat
Here we go again.


It is hot, very hot, the air is heavy with the humidity that wafts from the few fetid puddles of murky water that sit in the lowest portions of the many dunes it’s been like this for many days and it will likely continue for many more , my feet ache as I walk across the blazing sands that stretch as far as the eye can see, and yet even as the sun beats down on my sun burned shoulders I feel at peace and happiness as I whistle a random tune that crosses my mind looking on as the sun sets and the hot winds are traded for a cool breeze, I look back and see my brother walking lazily out of the trees examining every oddity he encounters and then I reluctantly turn back to the tree line which marks the direction from which I came.


I wake in my den with my fur standing on edge instinct to hide from the oncoming storm warring with my hunger, the storm is coming but for now, I must hunt
I stand, stretch and shake the morning dampness from my pelt then proceed to walk to entrance to my den for a moment a stand there scenting for prey
I smell the nearby creek
The crisp pine
The damp under growth
And finally
A lone buck
Quickly yet quietly I race through the damp ferns and fallen braches until I sight my prey,
Lunging from the bushes I pounce upon his flank startled he tries to flee
He fights me but is far too weak to escape my fatal jaws
Once the thrashing stops I bite down on the warm flesh, savoring the rush of flavor that bursts between my teeth,
Savoring my meal I send me silent gratitude to the great goddess of the moon who watches the hunt
Thanking her for the meal
Suddenly a great crash of thunder rocks the trees to their roots startling me from my meal I turn and race through the now drenched woods seeking the dry solace of my den a deep primal fear rising in my belly, I must find my home, my shelter from the storm, fear becomes panic just as I see my den racing in I crouch shivering In my soaked pelt as I prepare to wait out the storm
The storm passes and I look upon the forest with fascination the trees bud with new life the under growth washed clean by the heavy rain, after a storm the forrest comes alive.

Publication Date: 05-01-2012

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