As it has been ages since my last post, I thought I would share something I wrote last year for a writing class. The basic premise of the assignment was to imagine and recreate the final dying thought of a famous celebrity. Although this piece was an utter failure to capture the true cadence and stream of consciousness narration that one would probably experience if one was about to kick the bucket in 30 seconds, the finished product was quite poetic so I share it in the hopes that one will be able to forgive its blatant improbability. Hell, I wish I could be that well-spoken and artistic on my deathbed ;) Another disclaimer: this work is a fictional account, a figment of the imagination of a very bored college senior, so I would greatly appreciate it if I am not targeted in any lawsuits on behalf of the surviving members of the Jackson family.
This Is It [Haha...see how clever I thought I was being right there ;)]
I feel the wind in my face, it blows in gusts, lightly at
first and gaining in strength until it seems that the very hair on my scalp
will rise up at once and fly away; it is kite weather, and Blanket waits
expectantly by the door, spool of thread and jar of glue in his hands; he has
puppy dog eyes, just like his sister, and his curious ears are his brother’s
too, but that knowing smirk is all his own; it is a smirk from which one could
mine the secrets of the universe, but he sports it so rarely I have often
forgotten it existed. He stands there now, his feet pawing the ground forlornly
while Paris and Prince are already light ages away, their boisterous shouts the
most beautiful symphony to my unaccustomed ears; here they are again, enflamed
in the searing floodlights of the fluorescent stage, their faces rapturous as
the deafening roars of the anonymous crowd rise higher and higher to a feverish
pitch, until it morphs into the sickening clang of metal on metal and I can
feel the familiar bite of seasoned leather on my back and the mineral bitter of
blood on my tongue. It is not a fate I ever wished for them, and yet every bird
must stretch its wings and find its own flight, until it comes to roost on
welcoming shores. The wind has already caught Paris and Prince, guiding their
outstretched limbs, and my only prayer for them is that the gales and gusts are
gentle with their trusting, vulnerable selves. The time will come one day when
Blanket too will soar, but until it does, we will work on lifting his crepe-paper
kite into the air, while we stand awed in its gossamer shadows and it is
pierced with light.
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