Keep in Touch - Victor Grant

Victor Grant
Victor Grant
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Below's the link to my Facebook Profile full of short stories and poetry produced by myself for your enjoyment!

I would be glad if you should join the Poetry & Prose FB group where you may revel in innumerable enlightening poetry pieces of mine.

The Smoke of Prose (a piece found on Poetry & Prose)

Outstretched lands portrayed in stilted deafness
Permeate the rosy-glass of life's surmise,
Delayals of inconsequence by beautifully formed tips,
A mock ineptness that quavered shortly in a glass; Gave rise

To the beautiful ocean-blue scenery, eloquently suffused
With the heaps of waves dashing in golden blooms
Colored mercifully by the playful pretenses, left groomed
To filter through the bottom of the glass, a frail gap

Unused by the prying eyes that playful shimmied in the night
The light of polished sights elapsed and daring, here sights
The spotted and unique portrayal of dancer and dancer, hand in hand, adhering
The beauty of the glistening ocean, wave by rosy wave.

Below's provided a selected short story from those portrayed on my Facebook Page.
As if dragged by an unintelligible hand, Mike found himself running toward the house; running against the strength of his mother’s outcry, against belief and disbelief, truth and mystery, life and death.

Later he remembered only sliding up the stairway, his shadow casting a continual series of concentric circles on the wall, and stumbling onto the second floor. There was a bright light coming from the left door and shining away from the doorframe, a type of frightening white light that bit into the skin and prevented one from further locomotion. Mike only stood there and then by some impossible miracle managed to run away from the house, down through the dusty leaves and past the darkened trees and into the car where his mother waited foot on the accelerator.

They drove away, magically. It was a mystery in itself how the car did not remain glued to the lawn but continued accelerating through the dark blue night, passing underneath a cubic night sky and over the stray illuminations of high stars, the orange circle of a pale moon and following behind the tremulous headlights. With every following meter it seemed that they moved from a space filled with pain and slithering terror into the undiscovered drowsiness of the stars and the anticipant newness that would come as the scenery slid by. Turning the steering wheel left and right and left and right underneath the whiteness of a strange, new moon they slithered faintly under the stars, finally arriving into the parking lot of a McDonald’s restaurant.

They ate the sandwiches and drank the coke while the white stars gazed upon them from the tall windows and smeared in opalescent bits of color over the still, silent plates. The car remained in the parking lot, underneath a silent blue tree and only the faint wind stirred. Looking up from his plate, Mike Hobby could only see the stars and feel the blueness of the modern world rising about him in the rumble of the far-off road and filling his irises with wonder and brightness as the moonlight hovered over his plate.
Not of This World

Mr Hobby and Mrs Hobby and their fourteen-year-old son were coming home along the long roads, feeble sunshine passing into lighter dark, in their car and gazing toward the sky which would soon be dark and heavy and high and full to the brim with watery and trembling stars. The speedometer kept moving between sixty and seventy kilometers per hour and there were little thuds of the wheels every time a curve began and ended. A little rain poured temporarily over the vehicle but seemed to stop as the car turned into the driveway and tucked under the dark shade of a tall tree.

The three of them spent a profuse amount of time on the porch drinking juice and smiling toward the unfamiliar miles of land far off in the distance until the sky became gray and then black and the first stars soared high and mellowly corrugated the impenetrable darkness. There was something odd in the wind and the way the grass trembled slowly and gently underneath the trees and by the stony pathways; there was a soft music coming from the distant hills – like continuous echoes, faintly trembling on the verge of coherence.

There was a ghostly stir of wind upon a blue hill. Little Mike Hobby went down from the porch onto the lawn, deciding to follow his mother who had gone along one of the shadowy paths in the garden.

He walked a bit behind her until suddenly, unexpectedly, she turned about and looking him straight in the eyes shouted –
‘Run! Don’t go back! Don’t enter the left room on the second floor!’

Surprised, Mike Hobby didn’t know what was happening. His father had disappeared suddenly and he could not locate him by gazing back at the parlor. The house seemed suddenly mystic and ominous, there was a faint damp smell of dusty leaves about it, there was a sudden realization something sinister was going on behind the tall white walls.
The beginning of the new day was odd. Mike and his mother returned to the house. The first to enter inside was Mike. He climbed the stairway and walked into the left room on the second floor. There was nobody inside and nothing had changed. It seemed as though the room had been frozen still for a billion years. Even the dust didn’t tremble and fall while he gazed and turned and walked. He peered out of the window and the only thing he could see was a distant hill and closer up – the car parked on a corner of the lawn and a couple of bright trees.

Where was Mr Hobby though and what had really happened?

Gazing at the sunlight falling sharply over the bureaus and desks there seemed something tall and yellow and alien within the faint dust particles frozen still. The room looked like a mirror that would shatter away if only a slight billow of the wind could enter in and blow upon the furniture. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what was wrong, although it seemed that whatever had been wrong it was not of this world.

© Victor Grant.
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