Joshua Kandalaft is a senior Creative Writing major at Chester College of New England. He’s seen mostly walking from class to class hoisting a backpack full of books and notepads. He swears there’s a reason he has three mechanical pencils in his pocket. He currently dabbles in the craft of writing poetry and flash fiction.
Our faces touch, brain-to-brain. Telekinesis. I jump through your week. I hear the scraping of butter over Monday’s burnt toast. I feel the release and relaxation from your Tuesday night jerk-off session. The cool beads of rain hitting your jacket on your way home Wednesday. I see Thursday’s haze, the lazy mundane filing of papers and answering phones. Friday, it’s warm bed sheets and crisp afternoons, full of possibilities.
I move away, the connection broken. You open your eyes, curious, almost concerned by my features. You stare at my nose, wondering why my eyes seem like trains on the wrong tracks, outbound, away from the city and away from you. You notice how my hair is tumbled grass, overgrown and bristled.
“What were we doing?” you ask, the first words spoken. This silence wasn’t broken, just cracked. I put my finger over your lips and push you along. We leave your house, guided by sound. The door slam brings us up to the next noise. We’re in a subway station, the trains roaring in and out, people clambering about. The pushes and shoves separate us but we stay in view. My enchantment brings you back. We run up out of the station. You feel the cold marble stairs sucking your heat one shoelace at a time. It’s your mind trying to pull against me, against our dream. I give you my hand and we continue through the foggy automatic doors.
We walk past the theater district. You can make out all the chatter outside the bars, the sound of ladies rubbing their fingers, scratching against their glasses. The air is smoky, full of tobacco and last minute stage fright. You take a whiff and then we’re back, running. Downtown, up the cobblestone walk. You hear the scraping of our shoes on the stone. People move away, skittering like pigeons, letting us run up. We manage to reach the top and look out at the town. The trolley rolls by, heading down for its last trip of the night. The metal groans. The minute that thought seeps in, darkness seeps over and the sky blisters with stars.
“It’s a lucid dream,” I say, but you pay no attention. You stare up at the constellations. Stars and lines blend and morph to your imagination. You see Pisces, twin fish swirling around each other, the big dipper filled with hot cocoa. You always loved chocolate. You’re lost looking up in the air. I take your hand. You feel my squeeze and squeeze back. I feel your happy cheeks filled with sweets. We stay there crumpled like paper planes fallen to their destination, waiting for the wind to pick us up again.