July 2026 - Lightning in the sky > Likes and Comments

Hi folks, since we have a little interest in the May photo, I thought I'd put up another in case anyone wants to try their hand at flash fic, poetry, haiku, short story. Just make it LGBTQ and YA.

New York, New York

"Run home." Leaden skies overhead threaten a downpour, and the wind picks up, blowing my hair into your face. "You'll have a hard time pretending you were home locked in your room if you're soaking wet."

"Don't want to." You nuzzle my neck. "I'm not ready to let you go."

"You'll be stuck alone with your folks when I'm gone. Even more reason to keep the peace."

"Or not go back." You nip along my jaw. "What about it, Pete? Got room in your suitcase for me?"

"Not in my suitcase." I raise your face from my throat to kiss you. "But in my heart, hell yeah. One year. Rather, ten months, two days and eighteen hours. We graduate, and we meet in New York. Times Square. Right in front of the Times building."

"July first at noon," you repeat obediently. "I don't want to wait that long."

"Being seventeen sucks." We hold each other tight, feeling the truth of that echo into our bones. My parents are taking me to New York. Yours are holding you here in their narrow world with no idea about your truth. Just a cruel determination to bend you to theirs.

A flash of lighting leaps cloud to cloud and we count off the seconds to the thunder together. Nine. Not too close yet, but coming. I let go of you and give you a little push out from the bush we're hiding behind. "Go on. I'll write to you. I'll be Lisa, your charming girlish pen pal. Your parents will never know."

You resist my shove, digging your heels in and grabbing my wrists. "I don't want to lose our last half hour."

"I don't want your dad to figure out that maple tree is close enough to your bedroom window. Go on. Before it rains. Before he gets back from the liquor store."

You yank me close. "Kiss me then. Make it last."

I want that as much as you do. I slam my mouth on yours, taste the soda we shared and the salt of tears and the desperation. This time, when thunder crashes, you're the one to pull away. You sprint down the block, skinny legs in faded jeans pumping, oversized T-shirt flapping around you. At the corner, you look back.

I raise my hand, and you jerk to a stop for an instant, fist on your chest, like a rope, a steel cable, leads from my hand to your heart. Then you're gone. I wait there by our secret place, home of our first kiss, our first fight, until the sound of your running footsteps are lost to the wind. Then I pluck a leaf off the bush, tuck it in my shirt pocket, and turn for home.

Halfway there, the skies open up, but I don't hurry. There's no risk for me in this downpour. I flatten my hand over that shirt pocket, over my own heart, and pray you made it safe back.

Ten months, two days, seventeen hours and forty-six minutes. I'll be there.

***
10 months 2 days 17 hours 53 minutes

Summer in New York is hot with a capital H. The sun beats on my bare head and I'm tempted to put my ball cap back on, but I don't. Times Square is crowded, and I don't want to take a chance you'll miss me. I rock back and forth in sweaty sneakers, scanning the people rushing by.

New York is fast, too. You can tell the tourists, because they're like rocks the river of people on the sidewalks washes around. I look at those rocks, because I imagine you staring up at the buildings around us. Nothing like our small town.

I am sooooo ready for today, though not half as much as you must be. In a way it was fun, pretending to be your pious pan pal. Writing "Simon and Garfunkel held a concert in Central Park and it was so loud folks blocks away were forced to listen to that rock music, even if they didn't want to." Or "A boy I know actually told his parents he was gay! Can you believe it? And they didn't do anything to him. They were actually okay with it. Not members of our church, of course. I pray for him every day."

Because your parents opened all your mail, like they have since you were old enough to get any.

But sometimes it sucked, because I really wanted to tell you that my mother actually said, "We knew, honey. The way you and Michael looked at each other was hard to miss." And then Dad said, "Is he doing okay back home? Do you know?" And they worry about you, because they love me and I love you. But none of that fit in Lisa's gal pal babble.

At least your letters back didn't have to pass their inspection, except the few you showed them, for camouflage. I lived for your letters and sometimes they broke my heart, and all I could write back was "I hope maybe one day you get to visit New York." With a number by it. Months and days, counting down.

Now here we are. It's seven minutes past noon. I'm not worried. Not yet. Getting anywhere in New York takes longer than a newbie would realize. I imagine you on the subway, trying to figure out the route from the Greyhound station to Times Square. I imagine you getting turned around and heading north, then realizing and turning back south. Or maybe the bus was late.

I'm not worried.

The sun is hot.

I think my ears are burning, but I search around for somewhere higher to stand, somewhere more obvious, in this noonday sun.

The crowd parts around tourists, staring up google-eyed at the skyscrapers and the signs, disposable cameras raised to document their vacation. None of them are you.

A pair of Hare Krishnas walk side by side, robes and bells, smiling those fake smiles. Or maybe they're real smiles, but I don't like where the bliss comes from. Everyone around them ignores them. You can be anyone, in New York, and no one cares.

I'm not worried.

Yellow cabs dart through the thick traffic, under the red Coke sign. This is not your small town intersection. I wonder what you'll think. When you get here.

And then I see a head, hair cropped short like your parents required, between the jacket-clad shoulders of two businessmen. They stride on, and there you are. You're turned away from me, but I know those narrow shoulders in a plain white T-shirt, the skinny ass in boring jeans. I almost yell, but then…I don't. I wait, eyes fixed on you, not blinking because I don't want to lose sight of you even for an instant.

A thread stretches between us, a tie, honey sweet and thick like taffy dripping from a spoon. You're here. Time stands still and all I have to do is breathe.

Then you turn. That moment when you see me? When the fatigue around your eyes drops away and your smile comes out of hiding? I'll remember that moment for a thousand years. We stare at each other, and that thread of warmth becomes a river of sunshine, of hope.

Then you grab up a battered suitcase, I hold open my arms, and you run.

.
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Kaje wrote: "
New York, New York


"Run home." Leaden skies overhead threaten a downpour, and the wind picks up, blowing my hair into your face. "You'll have a hard time pretending you were home locked in you..."

I thought this was it
It was just one kiss we shared
Why is God so mad?

Victoria wrote: "I thought this was it
It was just one kiss we shared
Why is God so mad?..."

I like that twist <3

Thank you! I was really feeling myself there :D