Day Oven. (need help with a title)

[twoheadedboy]

It is dusk and we are driving in an oven.

The earth around us is shrinking and fading away. It's all burning up;
you can see it at the edges.

It is creeping towards our van but we are falling constantly
away from it.

The world is grey
in the inbetweens
and the tracks of it’s inhabitants
get covered up like leaves
under the leadfoot of winter.
It is getting dark fast now and these headlights that were just helpers,
they go from being auxiliary to necessary.

Shadows start to form behind front doors and mysterious figures in the dark
with each minute making them grow longer.
These greys turn into navy blues like night’s black eye,
like some unbeknown bully beat her.

As we turn off the road and into an existence
of dirty truck stops and
people smoking cigarettes in the cold,
I realize that this day is lost and cannot again be found.

We have only the flow of our memories and thoughts;

Those will both run
water-color blue and red,
and dry eventually
but despite all of this.

I am calm.
-----This is a vacuum
-----This is space
This is the best Friday night.

[hillwalker]

I enjoyed reading this, though it would have been better posted on the 'Short Story' thread.

The onset of dusk then dark is handled particularly well; atmospheric and intense.

As for the title - well you don't need me to tell you how dreadful it is. Something like 'The Lost Day' or 'Dusk' would probably serve better and attract more readers.

H

[twoheadedboy]

I changed the title and re arranged the work a little bit. It is definitely not a short story.

[hillwalker]

I changed the title and re arranged the work a little bit. It is definitely not a short story.

Unfortunately breaking it up from a paragraph into individual lines doesn't transform it into a poem either (although one or two lines are quite lyrical in style).

It is observational writing - a descriptive essay or autobiographical snapshot perhaps rather than a story - but it would probably be welcomed on the 'Short Story' forum nevertheless because it has undoubted merits.

But it has little to commend it as poetry.

H