The neon buzzed and flickered against the wet asphalt, and Martin watched it pulse with the steady determination of a fading heartbeat. The sign was old now. Everything was old here. He stood in the rain and listened to the sound of water hitting his shoulders and thought about how time moves in only one direction.

Inside the Main Street Diner, chrome surfaces reflected fractured light that danced and spiraled across the walls like lost memories seeking their owners, while the linoleum floor bore the patient scars of ten thousand footsteps, each one carrying its own story of arrival or departure or both. The bell rang when he entered. It was a clean sound. A true sound.

Tommy sat at the counter. His shoulders were broad and heavy with years of manual labor, and his hands were scarred from wrenches and engines and the countless small betrayals of mechanical things. He did not turn around.

"Figured you'd show up." Tommy spoke to his coffee cup. The coffee was black and still steaming. "Read about your mother in the paper."

Martin sat. The stool creaked. It was the same sound it had made twenty years ago, when they were young and the future was a bright coin they thought they could spend forever.

"Hello, Tommy."

The waitress came. She wore a nametag that said Dorothy, but she was not the Dorothy they had known. That Dorothy was dead now. Everything dies eventually. Martin ordered coffee because it was the only thing to do.

"Still drinking it black?" Tommy asked, and his voice carried the weight of decades spent watching others leave while he remained, anchored to this town like a ship that had forgotten how to sail. "Some things don't change."

"Some things do."

Tommy's laugh cut through the diner's measured silence like a blade through old rope. "Yeah. Like you becoming the big Boston lawyer while I stayed here fixing engines that keep getting older while the parts get harder to find."

The coffee came. It was hot and bitter and true. Martin wrapped his hands around the mug and felt the heat seep into his fingers. The diner's air conditioning hummed with mechanical persistence. It had always been too cold here.

"You chose to stay," Martin said.

"Did I?" Tommy turned then, and his face was a map of years spent wondering about roads not taken. "Or did you choose to leave?"

Outside, the neon sign kept its vigil against the darkness. Pink light, then darkness. Pink light, then darkness. A rhythm as steady as regret.

"Remember that summer we were going to drive across the country?" Tommy's voice was soft now, dangerous with memory. "You had that AAA atlas. All those red marks showing where we'd stop. Like droplets of blood on a paper dream."

"We were eighteen."

"And then Harvard called, and suddenly the whole world got bigger for you and smaller for me at the same time." Tommy's fingers traced patterns in the condensation on his coffee mug. They were a mechanic's fingers, thick and strong and honest. "Funny how that works."

The silence between them grew like shadows at sunset, long and deep and full of things that could not be said. The coffee grew cold. The neon kept its rhythm. Pink light. Darkness. Pink light. Darkness.

"I never meant to leave you behind," Martin said. The words fell between them like autumn leaves, beautiful and dead.

"Doesn't matter what you meant." Tommy's voice was flat and hard as the surface of the counter. "You left. I stayed. The rest is just details."

Martin remembered summer afternoons in Tommy's garage, the air thick with motor oil and possibility, their hands black with grease as they rebuilt engines and futures with equal determination. Now the air smelled only of coffee and time.

"I miss you sometimes," Martin said.

"Miss what? The kid I was or the man I became?"

"Both. Neither. I don't know."

Tommy nodded slowly, understanding everything and nothing. "That's the thing about ghosts. They're always what we need them to be, not what they are."

The bell rang again. New customers entered, their voices carrying the light certainty of people who had never lost anything that mattered. Martin reached for his wallet.

"Don't," Tommy said. His voice was gravel and rust. "This one's on the house. For old times."

Martin stood. The vinyl seat exhaled beneath him like a final breath. "Take care, Tommy."

"You too, Marty. Try not to wait for the next funeral."

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sidewalk held its wetness like a memory. Martin walked to his rental car, each step a small betrayal. Through the window, Tommy sat motionless at the counter, frozen in time like a photograph of permanence, his hands still cupped around a coffee mug that had grown cold with waiting.

Pink light. Darkness. Pink light. Darkness.

The neon kept its rhythm, and the night held its secrets, and some things changed while others remained as constant as gravity, as relentless as time, as eternal as regret.

We put arms on the table

we trace the grain, or linen, or other veins

or fold our fingers, and wait

We count chairs and plates

the hands of the clock change place

and we watch, with horror, grrr

as our guest pushes back a seat

and sets both feet, atop the table.

(Cross posting this from a challenge I created and entered yesterday)

The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.

The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.

I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.

My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar is the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.

A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.

His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.

The chatter died down as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.

The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.

“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut. I felt the sudden rush telling me to run for the outhouse. “Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.

“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”

“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.

The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.

“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”

I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.

“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.

“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had. I played the Mysterious Elf card and a knowing smile crossed my face.

He stared in disappointment at the layout of cards upon the table, then seeing his defeat pushed the cards into a pile for reshuffling. “Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”

I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.

“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.

Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.

A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.

“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.

“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.

“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.

“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.

A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”

The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.

Tonight, the sky is heavy with light,

a copper globe rising over the trees,

its edges softened by the chill.

Silent as the woods wait below,

and in the distance, shadows stretch,

elongated whispers of the day.

The moon calls to those who listen,

its pale voice echoing through the branches,

reminding us of what is hunted,

and what is lost.

The earth holds its breath.

Leaves rustle in the wind's slow sigh,

a heartbeat shared between the stars

and the creatures that walk beneath.

The night is not still—

it pulses, it watches, it remembers.

A reminder,

of seasons turning and the wild within us

that never sleeps.

Fated lovers pause

’Midst moonlight's painted glow -

Star scattered skies and

Dual moons mirrored,

Hunting twin souls afar -

Two hearts, one beat -

Over deserts and destined pathways,

Mountains, seas, and skies,

Submitting to the moon's direction

Draped in love's fateful guise.

As though entwined, two hearts

Leap to the beckoned echoes

Of a hunter's moonlight,

Quivering, glowing, gleaming

As flower petals fall,

Stretching far over skies

That seek only to divide.

Twin souls and twin hearts

Find the intersecting solace,

Crisscrossing and aligning

'Neath one fated moon,

As they answer love's

Destined, gallant call.

Cynthia Calder, 10.17.24

Oh, I feel autumn's ache

as that next season nears.

My loneliness awakes,

and hope gives way to fears.

I feel the ache growing

as "w" months rear

their ugly, approaching,

gnarled hands that took my dear.

Of, if only this ache

would sleep or disappear.

Springs or summers I'd take

to hold love's mem'ry near.

The rain poured down in torrents, drumming against the windows as if trying to break through, while inside, I sat motionless, staring at the flickering candle that seemed to hold the last shred of warmth in the cold, silent room. Every drop felt like a heartbeat, a reminder that the world outside was still alive, even if everything inside felt like it had stopped.

The checkout line two aisles away looks much shorter. So I push my grocery cart to that one.

Soon, the shopper at the front of my new line is having trouble with her credit card. And the other lines are shrinking.

So I move again.

But dizziness overwhelms me. The feeling runs out of my feet and head. My shopping cart disappears. I reach to hold onto a magazine rack and close my eyes tightly. I feel that I am sitting somehow. A classical piano piece is playing, but where?

I slowly open my eyes and look down at my hands. They are moving effortlessly and masterfully over the keyboard of a grand piano. And with great flourishes. I am mesmerized--and bewildered, because the only instrument I can play is a guitar, and I am just a beginner.

An arpeggio ensues followed by a low chord--and loud applause. I look up and people are clapping wildly. The audience fills a massive auditorium. I feel myself stand, take a bow, and run off stage.

I am met by at least a dozen people. A young man is telling me to get changed because we have to fly to Boston for a concert. An older woman tells me no, the schedule has changed. I have to go to Milwaukee to sit for a deposition in my divorce case, before I fly to Boston. Another aide says I am now the target of class-action lawsuits in Austin, Texas, and Reno, Nevada, because I skipped concerts there due to my illness that...that nobody wants to say the "c" word in front of me. Somehow I know this.

"You're next."

Who said that? I'm next to what? To die? To lose my spouse? My money? To...

"Sir, you're next!"

I blink. And I am back in the supermarket line. I look down and see my hands placing groceries on the conveyor belt.

The sense of dread is gone. And I silently thank my Lord that I am just a middle-aged bus driver with a loving wife and two children and a penchant for finding sales when I shop.

The sky rippled in reflection of the flowing stream, where caddisflies anchored themselves to dead leaves, sticks, and various other debris, only moving to reveal their presence when disturbed by non-current motions, like the frog returning to the moisture, slapping the surface as it reentered. The frog’s return jostled the caddisflies away from their larger hiding spots, but the fear of predation kept them momentarily still. They then retreated to cover, to their own nutritional duty of filtering the stream for edible algae.

A snail used its foot to slither across the pebble-filled bottom, searching for its own feast of chlorophyll in the watery ecosystem, or perhaps a fellow mollusk to entangle its slime trail with, slither body along body as their mucus merged, bodies merging as one of the couple unsheathed a love dart and stabbed the other. This snail was far from alone, and indeed, slithered upon another snail's shell, signaling interest.

Unbeknownst to the couple beginning their mating ritual on the bottom of the stream, the sky that had been reflected earlier was beginning to pour the condensed contents of its clouds back into the environment, rain falling into the existing flow of water. The puddles that formed would eventually also merge into the water, unless they evaporated.