Outside

Monique Lyle

I

…………..Somebody was walking way high up in the sky. They hadn’t jumped up there; they’d gotten caught in the rain. Their body was floating smoothly through drops and then pivoting now and then.
…………..There wasn’t any need to pay attention to words or grammar. There wasn’t any requirement of having any imagination because that implied some sort of direction.
…………..A window creaked open, no fly screen was on it, and another floated out to the sound of a train. The breeze got caught on the raindrop and going up pivoted it side to side.
…………..Others did jump up apart from the rain but they had already had their dreams read. Some had dove into pavlova and others had hid themselves beneath shiny orange floorboards. What was important to others were ferns, lush and with the fine sprinkler on. Some had big strawberries and some were on a windy hill with their knees slung over.
…………..The cushions in the room themselves had rain drops slung over them, just like the mountain. The pools were rich and in a swimming pool shape.
…………..Every now and again somebody up high would whistle as another swam out of the crack of the window. They would go through the trees and find shade; they’d be bustled about amidst the branches.
…………..Another again would fly up in a green sheet, as a ghost; camouflaging in with the tree then moving on as superimposed. They’d whistle into the clearest of air which broke like a chip and it had green flecks in it.
…………..The cups were full of crisp water and others would dive in as small children in little dresses and trimmed fringes.
…………..I repeat, no-one’s imagination mattered or bothered anyone as everyone had been drawn in.
…………..Bodies snuck out of cracks of windows and joined the others who had jumped into the sky or been rained in.
…………..The children swam in the water with tiny red goldfish which you thought were moving. The couches really were huge and could be sunken into; swimming in their cushions. Printers were making pieces for dollhouses for the children who had been swimming and they liked especially the figurines of tiny blood clots which moved like sea anemone whenever the wind caught on.
…………..All the bedsheets got blown off and girls in tanned bras had been holding the blood clots and straightening their fringes in silence. They’d been swimming—doing freestyle when a wave would pass and with their eyes closed like that it was like being on a ride. You can soar up onto a wave when it comes and fall off the other side, pushing your head under water before coming up so as to make the part go on the side.
…………..The mountains do the same, usually after the rain. That’s how they reform themselves, with all those walking up in the sky looking down to the symphony. The floorboards are heard as they walk over it before going up with the symphony and all the others in the rain.

II

…………..Mothers were there unifying everything and tiny flecks of talcum powder grew in wisps on their fine arm hairs.
…………..There wasn’t any sound; only emotion in the meal.
…………..Women sketched old women in pencil and groups gathered with snakes to read poetry. Others got together to unify their dances not their poems.
…………..Mothers didn’t quite realize and just purchased roots of plants to place together in the grinder.
…………..The maroon was more brown than red; the green yellow.
…………..Membranous interiors of shells cracked under toes. And the huge screams matched how the face was cut in half when the membership ended and how somebody cared.
…………..The stamping was of weight because no-one said that the beast was chained to the beach.
…………..The grossierity of the bodies was incomparable to the girls but they don’t necessarily concern one another.
…………..Surface textures feel sensual under the skin and there is a large invisible presence. It is possible to build up this presence and move it around.
…………..Someone knew you were always going to be an artist because of the charcoal in your eyes and because of the empty space in the field of the eye when closed. Also because of the mountains occupying you. Also because of the way the green tree was like being underwater when there was wind to you.
…………..The whole lot of everyone came together to hold their mouths in circles, even those freshly flung up with the rain. Algae quivered on up too and they all remarked how they were seaweeds.

III

…………..Three patches of light divided into swimming pool shapes called the body. It immersed itself by dividing into three with nothing but stomachs coming out the other side. The stomachs were of that shape with one grandiose one due to its being impregnated with stream water.
…………..The water was lapped at and squelched and even the long thin ones from up there came down.
…………..Whistles zoomed around in ancient clay which had been glossed. Serpents swam around too and one of them took a ride on one. Others took luxuries in the form of flying up.
…………..The sea-snakes watched, their snouts in chaff bags.
…………..Three dear ones, one little one, sprung up out of meadow grass with a spray of blossom darting up around. All of them slid down slides, rolling over or dropping like pins. The trees swayed with excitement but cut themselves on shiny steel saying no.
…………..Moistness clung to skin and condensation clung there, because somebody had light feet and they were on the mountain. From afar they leapt and a little one slid down. It wasn’t necessary to be surprised that flowers were twinkling and somebody was painting a wall. Even dear ones were sucking on cherry with moistness trickling. Every time they jumped discs of ice came and cherry.
…………..The grasses from the meadow flew up all around someone eating directly without a murmur from teacups. Others came with tape measures to get a glimpse, ending up catching tears in the cups and finding their blood clots there. They put them in the cushions and lay down.
…………..Meadow grasses flung high into the sky where the ones were still moving around. Like wings going up lightly they’d slipped through cracks and gotten out into the rain.

 

Monique Lyle is currently completing a creative PhD with the writing department at WSU. Recently her work has appeared in Flash Cove, Otoliths and Dance Research.

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