Rusty Lynn and Nick Piche

Lynn R

Rusty Lynn
P. G. Sees The Light

Acrylic on MD board, 18 x 24 inches
Created using Nick Piche’s story (below) as inspiration

By Nick Piche

All was dark when I awoke on my own.  All except a tiny ray of light that stretched itself from the closed shade in my room’s solitary window to the floorboard of the wall opposite it.  This light told me it was daytime, but all else surrounding it was pure blackness.  I stared at the light that was cast against the floorboard and watched it slowly make its way up and across the wall.  It was curious.  At least I thought it was, the way the light did not reflect off the wall into another part of the room.  I would expect it to, but it almost seemed to be ingested by the wall.  Swallowed at its end. That, or it continued through the wall where I could not see.  Either way, I found something very curious about this light.

As I watched the pinhole dot of light on the wall move, slowly yet steadily, across the room, I began to notice the particles that floated in the air. It was strangely odd to me that I could not identify these tiny, almost microscopic intruders into my vision.  Were they fibers, or dust, or remnants of decaying matter?  Whatever they were, there was a steady stream of them moving from one side of darkness, through the miniscule ray of light, and into the opposite eternal darkness.  I realized the fact that there must be millions, trillions of these particles floating in the darkness of my space outside this ray of light that I could not see.  That is if they could be counted so high by a number that man has actually reached.  I was acutely aware of the fact that I must be breathing in these invaders, and that they were now making their way into and through my body.  My nerves shivered at the thought, and my skin crawled.  I gagged and thrashed.  I tried to vomit them out, but to no avail.  I grew rapidly tired with my fight, and I lay down once more.

Once I overcame my intense battle with my imperialistic fibers, I continued following the intruders as they streamed feverously from the winds of my thrashing to expel them from my body.  Though my battle was lost, or perhaps because of my defeat, I began to see how beautiful their pirouettes were in the dying winds of my conflict.  Perhaps these particles were not the intrusive, violating organisms I thought them to be.  There was a natural beauty about them.  In fact, maybe they were a godsend.  Maybe they were meant to be so small and so many, so they could infiltrate my being and go to work repairing that which was ill with me.

I became quick friends with my once proclaimed foes.  Realizing now that they were not the infidels I thought they were.  I even began playing with them.  Swiping my hand and watching them dance.  We were all as one for the time.  But time passes and interests move on as always.

My attention turned to the light that showed me my friends and not so much my friends themselves.  I grew affection for the light.  If it were not for this light, I would not have had the companionship I enjoyed for the moments that passed.  The light was yellow, though as I stared at it for a prolonged time it seemed to change from a dull yellow to white, and back again.  It was a show of lights—a spectacular extravaganza that reminded me of fireworks over the harbor when I was an innocent child.  I enjoyed the splendid lightshow until it shot from the hole in the shade straight into my eye.  I was blinded for the moment.  I had not noticed how far the light stream had moved in the time of my battle and friendship with the floating particles, and the lightshow that was just so rudely interrupted by the conductor.

The source of my adventures had now grabbed my strict attention.  The projector of the light that has gained my affection was now shining feverishly into my eye and causing moderate pain.  I lifted my head to remove the light from my eye and to receive a closer and better look at the hole.

What made this pinhole in my shade?  I do not recall doing it, or seeing it done.  I severely doubt it was truly a pin that created this hole, but I could not for the life of me consider any other alternative.  I pondered this for a time until the pinhole became gradually dull and dark and I grew tired and fell back on my bed asleep, hoping my friends would not wage war on me again tomorrow.


Lynn I

Rusty Lynn
Beneath The Twelve Mile Reef
Inspiration piece provided to Nick Piche

Current Dreams
By Nick Piche

Currents keep my dreaming self suspended above the ocean floor.
Relaxation—a feeling never truly felt in my waking world.
This current won’t allow me to ascend to the surface, but my body feels no need to plead.
Lacking the ability to breathe, I notice the lack of the sheer need.

Everything around me distorts, yet somehow becomes crystal clear.
Though there is plenty of room for the emotion, there seems no reason for fear.
Colors among yellow, green, red, orange, and those I thought I never knew.
Beautiful. Surreal. Serene. Angelic scenery never dreamed. For no way could you.

The thrill of this place, the overwhelming odds of its existence overshadow my own.
My mind races to take in all it can, but can only process given amounts of the unknown.
Arteries see blood flash through for mere moments as it passes so swiftly.
Wonder rips my soul and mends my mind—the place material held so briefly.

This world gives me all I need—all I want. Desires wash away profoundly.
I need to be nothing else than part of my surroundings—peacefulness so soundly.
My mind blocks the lonely thoughts of those that must squirm on the distant shore.
Dark need of current dreams makes my eyes close gently, which need open no more.

But if my eyes shall open no more, what do I leave in my world of real?
Anxiety, treachery, and dealings of which I’ll never have to deal.
Such a dream I’ve had before, but never one so lucid to the eye.
Never one so vivid to make me ponder abandonment of that for which I’d die.

That distant shore holds all my toil—all my travesty and peril.
But to give away of all I’ve gained for ease of life is consequently feral.
As is to give away of all I am for peace of never answering for my sins.
Current dreams of which I wished the ends have proved to be where it all begins.

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