Can'T Believe I Wrote This.........My Voice Doesn'T Carry That Far. Poem by Ceri Fields

As a kid, I can only ever remember it raining. I’d stare at the fat drops on the window, furious whenever the windshield wipers came by to destroy my art. But the words of protest dripping off my tongue never made it completely out my mouth. Instead the rain would pound on the roof of the car, muting, filling my thoughts. So I just sat and watched. And this would go on and on until we reached our goal, when the car was turned off and there my spell would break.

The first time I got into his car, it was raining. Raining is only a loose term for any type of liquid precipitation; it was pouring, drowning all dry land. The street looked like glass in the dusky afternoon, every light reflected on its surface a thousand fold. He was driving me home.

I think I may have died a little in that car. Around every curve, my ability to breathe was lost. Attached firmly to the seat by the straps, I eyed the speedometer, growing nauseous as it climbed steadily towards forty. Wrought with fear of the new driver, of course I didn’t talk. And maybe that’s why it took me a bit, after beginning to trust his ability in manning the car, to notice the unpleasant silence that can only exist between those who are unfamiliar with each other.

This is the problem with cars. When occupied by more than one, the small space mists over with uneasiness. If no conversation starts, the air stiffens and stales, killing the people inside. This must be why the radio was invented, I thought; to stall these situations.


Silence has a mean bite. Its implication is a little icy, a bit hostile, and a smidge standoffish. Silence says, We should be engaged in amazing conversation now, but I can’t bring myself to like you enough; you’re doing something wrong.

So I reached over the stick shift to turn the radio on. The stereo blasted country music, banjo twangs and whiskey love stories. At my smirk, he turned an embarrassed shade of pink and quickly changed the station, the bass filling with synthesized hip-hop thudding. And eventually, the uneasiness subsided, and I could look back to the battlefield directly ahead.

If you truly looked, you'd see that raindrops are cruel, like small black holes. Helpless droplets are sucked into the greedy depths of a bead that manages to trickle its way down the window. It’s like they race with each other, competing in girth. Those that are fatter are faster.

I weakly gave my thanks as I got out of the car, craving stability and fresh air. Walking away, I waved at the silent machine of death, glad to be free of its noiseless clutches and again in a place where monsters hiss on the concrete and the art splashes in my hair.


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it still needs a tweak or two.