A short piece I was using to test a new method of story writing… So far I’m still experimenting but I loved the outcome. It was too short, though. What do you think?
The ice covered fields seldom glimmer in white crystalline splendor, nor does the white atop the wonderful yellow hibiscus you adorned our garden with, last spring. The awakening of the warm spring season falls upon us like a soothing breath of fresh air. Winter slumbers deep within its frozen peaks and shattered, glassy rivers; I still long to see you again. The roars of the flowing waters have forced themselves into the silence of the passing December Blues. Do you remember why they call it December Blues?
With great love,
Yes, I recall the December Blues; a tranquil moment when the cold caresses the cage of your soul, rattling the confines of one’s sorrow and loneliness. It’s warm over here, ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit, a soft breeze coming down from the mountains, the scent of freshly cut grass and dew; these lands have never been kissed by winter, yet, why am I always surrounded by white? The yellow hibiscuses still linger within the crevices of my mind, swirling around like a whirlwind of emotions and affection. The cold lingered on but the warmth was beating faster and faster. Does the snow still flee at the sight of rain?
The rain that falls upon fluffy white soil now dissipates its glorious crystalline kingdom. No longer under the cold’s beck and call, it falls limply, as if it was a cry from the heavens. The sun peeks from over the mountain tops; warmth is just over the horizon. The foxes scamper away at the sight of our beloved little friend, whose eyes search the snow for its gentle queen. He keeps me warm when the days are too cold for life, too grey for hope and too silent for joy. It is very strange how, as time goes by, we remember the little thing we over-look. How a shy smile shines brighter than sun-bathe honey, or how a soft wink means more to me than a script. The flowers will soon sprout; can you see them, the violet haven of the Morning Glories?
Hoping for the best,
I can see them, the Morning Glories, all inside my memories. Vast fields of purple bliss, running through them, toppling and holding what which was most precious to me, in my arms. I can hear the barks of our lovely furry brother, the laughter that escapes my lips, and warmth that the sun never did surpass. Constantly, I am flooded by the desire to run away and hide from the strings that wrap us around the heavenly clock’s arms. The pain that sears through the white canvas that has become my home is too much for these silent lips to speak. I am lonely, no fact can refute that. No music can pierce the veil of silence, no rainbow can shatter the portrait of white, and no taste lingers at the tip of my tongue. They say the sun rises on the east only to meet its fate on the west; life and rebirth, I wonder if its mightily golden chariot has room for one more. If you ever see the mirror of the moon, touch it gently with your kindest words; it is a land were dreams reflect upon our tired souls.
I am tired, sleepy, and hungry but never with regret. Even for an artist, masterpieces never stop with life. Rest assured that I shall try my best at painting the Elysian Fields, for my lover sits holding on to his harp, playing while I rest.
Gently, I rest my brush,
Knowing full well, that this piece of paper shall never rise unto the heavens or fall into the underworld, I take my boulder and roll it to the edge of the darkness; falling with it till I see your face again. Never will I look back, for losing you is the greatest tragedy that would befall a man. Twelve roses rest upon that pillar of stone; the hands of the clock have never stopped. What gives the right, for the gods to toss their dice, blindly, playing with fate? The strings they sever as well as the ties they create, random acts hidden within a purposeful façade; we all run into that fate. A dream is not a dream without a taste of reality, I now know that. Rest, I shall see you soon. A camping we will go, to the fields of red and rivers of milk and honey.
With a heavy heart and a heavy pen,