The detritus of an Ambage write-off isn't always pretty. The theme was "pathfinding," a forecast of the contest. I this day wrote my two entries and submitted them. Though by the rules of the contest I am permitted a third, I rejected this story due to a lack of love for it that, if you read it, will be understandable.

That said, I did in a small way enjoy writing it; though it was a bittersweet feeling as would accompany any writing taking place in the constraints of fifteen minutes is wont to be.

That all said, here is the refuse, the poorly executed forerunner of my The Extra Mile:

The stars were bright that night. I don’t think they’ve ever been brighter. It’s funny. The whole evening had been that way.

The twilight had been more golden than I had ever seen it. It gilded everything it touched, glimmering on the drops from the afternoon’s rain. The humidity in the air was warm and caressing, nothing less.

And the rays of the sun as they touched the skies, lending its tinctures to the clouds in varying shades, can only be described by one word: magical.

Even her eyes that night glowed with a sheen that transcended her consuetudinary effervescence.

Ironic. When I felt at my worst, the world is at its best.

When I felt in the depths of despair, the world around me was in the heights of glory.

Even when the tears hung on her lashes like the last raindrops hung from the leaves of the trees; even when her face was as moist as the sodden earth; even when she could hardly keep her voice level, she was smiling at me.

That smile. She always smiled. Always. I’ll never forget it. That memory will be all that remains to keep me company.

She told me it was over. She told me that friendship was no longer possible, the way she felt . . . and the way she knew I felt.

But she told me she wasn’t ready for anything more. And in my heart I knew that I wasn’t, either.

And now I’m lost. And alone. And waiting, and searching. Perusing the profundity of my broken heart and my wounded soul.

Time. It can be an impasse as substantial as any other. Incorporeal or not, it’s more insuperable than most, for there is only one way to overcome it.

Let it pass. Let it go by.

It’s a mire. It’s daunting. But I have to trudge me way through. I have to wait.

How could I do anything else? It’s all I can do for her, now. I always swore I would do everything; how could I turn back now?

When I made the pledge with but God as my witness, I had no idea the task she would require of me would be as hard as this. But I’ll find my way through. I have to.

I love her. How can I do anything else?

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith