Cowritten with etouffee. Italics by me.
He studied the sky the way Gypsies read tea leaves, carefully one at a time, looking for clues...
but none of the fine lined mysteries would speak to him, and he was so bummed out. Though in his mind's eye, the leaves stirred, moved. All until they took on a strange dance, whispering into his fingertips touching them.
"Move forward, but carefully- write old friends- but tell them only lies- travel abroad but do not pack for the trip"- he wrote notes to himself on a paper bag.
He kept those bags for the scratchy noises they made while being scribbled on. Storm approaching, even inside his own ear, he mused. And smiled delightfully, in the way little boys would when they pick up their favourite toy car...
...cradling it in the palm of their hands, imagining the places it would go, and he inside it.
Like the car behind him now, door still open, beckoning for him to return to safety. What had all these years of pretend play prepared him for? The leaves he imagined in the sky stirred a new. And then he went out in the field to meet the coming storm.