Astarte, sending to your profile addy.

edit: and to Ginger, too. Woot!

Me too, please Deb. Did you get my paltry comments from yesterday's read?

Also--AmyLiz, whyfor an "unexpected move?" Okay--sorry for the OT-you probably 'splained in Bitches--where I have not ventured in days. Can you point me toward the 'splanatory post(s)?

Bev, insent to you. Just when you had finished the excorcism, here comes the wrap-up and the epilogue...

Deb, I'd love to beta, but I won't have time until after this last week of school. Would early next week be too late?

Kristin, nope - anytime during the next ten days to two weeks is fine.

Sending.

Morning, all. I want more amazing Silence drabbles now, please.

Something to read while I wait for first-pass pages from the typeset of "Famous Flower" to get here, which my editor says they will, momentarily.

Well okay, Deb, if you insist.

Silence 2

Locker doors crash, loud and sudden, an erratic rhythm to the chorus of voices swelling. Bookbags drop heavy to the ground, and papers hiss as they fall from loose fingers. Shrieks of joy and pain and disbelief mix with barking laughter: another birthday, another F, another busted party last weekend. They move from class to class, room to room, a steady beat of sandaled feet clomping on thinly carpeted floors in constant, discordant music.

Late at night, I am haunted by those echoes in the unnatural silence.

I can hear the tip of my pen whisper across each page, longing.

Oh, excellent! There's something incredibly dense, thick I think, about the silence in a place that is accustomed to huge bursts of sound from large groups of people.

My Last Visit To My Childhood Home

Crickets. Bobwhites farther back in the trees. A whippoorwill sounding as sleepy as me. Occasional frogs down by the creek.

Terrifying.

I've lived in cities for the past ten years. The nightsilence of my country childhood is no longer comforting. The traffic, distant TVs, late-night voices reassure me that the world continues unchanged.

Faint rustle of leaves in the light breeze. Tree branches scraping familiar paths on the roof. Same old bed gives same old creak as I roll over.

Two barks from the dog, who should be asleep.

Me, wide-eyed and motionless, till dawn.

Deb, yes! Dense is exactly the word to use to describe that kind of silence

Connie, I love your last line. It brings that piece together so perfectly. I also love the details of the leaves, the branches, the bed creaking, the dog barking. Wonderful!

I had a similar experience when we moved last year from a fairly busy suburban condo area to the middle of the forest--ironically, next door to my childhood home. Even though it was so familiar, it took ages to adjust. Now, I love it again and am completely comfortable in it, but I remember the first few nights, alone and terrified.

I also adore the word "nightsilence".