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The Fuel

Callin’ on 144.

A morning crisp of gentle breeze over me, as I tread on a dirt path.

"44! Callin'on 144!" I hear the mountain call.

"I holler!" I look above, out of hope.

"Holler?" It asks me, with its peak melting off snow, now blazing sunshine reflecting off.

"Yeah! I gotta keep going! I can't NOT live," I answer out of desperation.

It sighs, breathing wind, pushing clouds, over rainbows. "You not afraid of La Corona?"

"I'm not alone," I cry with tears spewing out of eye sockets, snot out of nostrils, and exasperated from overwhelming fears.

The mountain closes its eyes, the creases off of its jags. Edges sharp yet trim from trillions of volumes of rainfall. "I thought you gave up. Plenty died."

"What about me, I'm 54," I ask.


"When the dust over your eyes reds your vision, keep the path. Let the sweat of your shoulders drip to your chest as it settles over your brassiere. The wetness turns into comfort in the heat. Let the air cool it down," the mountain tells me.

It heaves and calls on me with a grounded bellow, "Callin' on 144."

"I'm game. You stay!" I say, because I know the mountain will stay strong.

I see it empathizes a cry from La Corona. It's not to blame, because no one knows how it came about. The mountain endearingly kisses the sky as it clears with the sun scorching the ground.

"What about me? I'm 24," says a voice from over the leeway, high-pitch and nasally. 

"Calling on 144, for you, too," the mountain whispers. It smiles as the trees sways from joy. "You are welcome, here. So is 14, and 4."


"Thank you," I tell the mountain.

A tiny bud of bluebell reaches my toe, and caresses my right foot. I kneel to crouch to it and kiss it softly. The mountain leans as it creates a shadow on the dirt path I am treading on. "Misery loves company," the mountain warns.

"I will answer back even after 144," I say to the mountain.

The mountain tilts its peak to one side and nods, "You make sure you do."

The clouds never said their goodbyes, but the rainbow ? makes a grand entrance curving the atmosphere. "He's always here when there is joy," the mountain says.

"I never felt a drop of rain. Is this the afterlife?"  I ask the mountain.

"Don't matter, you're here with me, before, after, during 144!" The mountain pushes its gust from underneath me, forcing me uphill.

"I holler!" I scream and fly over the peak, landing perch on the other side of mountain.

Just write.

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