Author's Notes: I wanted to experiment with my 'voice', thus the oneshot was born. Very different from my usual style. Grammar purposely thrown to the wind at some points, along with proper punctuation, sentence structure—you name it.

Also, it's a way to get into my writing mood again after being sick.

Reviews would be awesome since it's a different style for me. I kinda enjoy it.

"porch light"

by: Rosalyn Angel


Yeah, he drives all night long.

He drives through city streets and country roads, past rickety old houses and towering corporate skyscrapers, through thick green forests and four-way stop signs, beside wide dead grass fields and wide dead parking lots.

And he goes fast, speeding past that limit, heedless of cop cars and those small curves in the roads. He pushes on the gas pedal and ignores the brake; everything zips by, all blurry colors, all vague shapes, and there's headlights blazing, blinding, sheering—yeah, he's gotta squint, lower the visor, flip the rearview mirror back, because people aren't courteous enough to turn their brights down.

The highway's black and long, tiny yellow lines streaming beside him, green exits one after another. The city's gone, far behind—out of sight, out of my mind.

Yeah, I'm out of my mind.

But he's gotta go, gotta get out, and hey, turn that radio on, blast the music loud, get lost on the road and in your head.

Drive fast now, drive far, right out there, through there, around there—just like that.

He's been told that it'll make everything clear, you see. Your thoughts, your memories, feelings, all that confused junk battering your brain.

So his eyes get blurry, he's trying to stay awake, and yeah, his mind's full of people's faces and voices, saying nothing at all and everything at once. They're pressuring him on responsibility, and duty, and life and work and school and hey, he's gotta do his part in the world, gotta pay the bills and shop for groceries, send in those taxes, wake up everyday and do that routine.

So he does wake up; he opens his aqua eyes wide. He sees all their twisted faces, pointing fingers, mundane smiles, and it's


And yeah, it's all fake.

It's suddenly hard—there's a tug on his chest and a sting in his eyes. His eyes are blurry, yeah; he can still see the road, still see the damned headlights, and all the shapes flying by and all the colors— but they're just frustrating, so much that he grips the steering wheel and grits his teeth, and all he wants is a place to stop and slow down, breathe in deep, and see something


feel something real.

(yanno, it's really not much to ask.)

So here, take all your skyscrapers and decaying houses, those accusing mouths and that same boring schedule, take your junk mail and advertisements, your corporate businesses and working farmers, your lawsuits and courtrooms—toss them down and out, because he's got his eyes open, he sees what's going on, and he's driving far, far away.

Yeah, he's getting away.

Can't fool him.

Can't fool the young man speeding in his car. He's getting out, long gone.

So that's why he's having trouble breathing and his aqua eyes are stinging, jaw clenching tight and trying to hold it in.

While everything's just flyin' by.


Take the curve. That small little curve. Drive on the outside lane, close to the cliff face surrounding. Right by the gleaming silver rail.

His white-knuckled hands turn the wheel.

Yeah, bye, bye.

Right into the gleaming silver rail.

(but wait.)

He's got a place to be, if he wants it—somewhere past that steel bridge, beyond the roaring trucks, down the windy dirt road after that exit and stoplight. Yeah, if the brakes screech and he swerves out, tire marks or not, car paint scratched, one headlight smashed, get the careening in control on the empty road and the flashes behind his eyes…

There's a place, way out there. Same place every time. Gets a little closer every time.

Just gotta remember. Gotta make his hands remember to turn the right way. Away from the city, away from the road's edge and his errant mind.

He gets there, to that house, and

the porch light's on.

The engine's turned off, its rumbling stops, and he just sits there, leaning with his forehead on the wheel, taming his heavy hitching breaths. He thinks he might be shaking, but he can't really tell.

is the entire world trembling?

He hears a sound muffled; a door opening. Someone scrambling down the steps and across the pavement and skidding to his car, hands pressed against the window and looking in.

"Riku?" that someone says, on the other side. "Riku, hey. Hey, man, it's okay. Come inside, all right?"

Finally, Riku raises his head, face pale and stained by fear and unshed tears.

He gets a little closer every time.

But there's someone real with bright red hair and green eyes trying to pick at the lock, cursing at the door handle and yanking it open.

And there's real hands pulling him out and up, holding his face high and brushing his silver bangs aside.

And there's a voice murmuring lowly in his ear, that's he's here now, so no more driving tonight.

Yeah, he drives all night long, but

that porch light's always on.