... And Sing To Me

In fiction class we were to choose a season and write a story with it in mind. Here is what came of it ...

… And Sing To Me

“There is magic in the hearts of people, a magic by the name of hope and compassion. And in the darkest moments, this magic is the only light we have.”

                                         ~Author Unknown So Far

i.

     In dreams, wild untamed thoughts can take wing and soar into the depths of the imagination, creating mysterious worlds where the lines between the real and the unreal are often obscured. Truths and fictions weave as one thread to create luminous memories. The ancient Celts were said to believe that there are thin places that not only transcend the senses, but transcend the boundaries of time and space. It is a realm of infinite possibilities. Who is to say they are mistaken? Fantasy is like thousands of flickering candle flames set in the dark like stars. Most of the flames were unremarkable; they sputtered and were swallowed by the darkness in quick succession. But every so often there would be a flame that was so full of magic that burns brighter than the rest. The darkness retreated from its terrible glow, and the flames around it burned all the brighter. And even if the bright flame dies out, oh how brightly it burned! This is how it began …

ii.

     The scent of pine trees fills the air. On an icy evening in December, snow fell from the sky and caressed the earth with a glow that seemed to come from angels. There are no other people for miles around, and the forest lays silent except for the soft sound of a gentle wind caressing the trees. It whispered melodies in a language to ancient to fully understand. If you close your eyes you can drift away from the industry and hardships of modern life and return to a simpler primal time, a time when we were one with the boundless forest. Leafless trees trembled and concealed sparrows arose with circling beauty.

     Eli was cold. Terribly cold. Breath steams the air as his feet crunch on the ground. He stopped and looked at his red and numb hands as he raised them toward his face. Skin seemed to flake from shaking fingers before they were shoved deep into jacket pockets. He wrapped his narrow fingers tightly around a cracked compass, his last remaining tether to a recognizable world.

     A cool breeze gently brushed across his reddening face. Eli couldn’t bring to mind much of this time outside the forest well enough to say what exactly he was thinking about. “Why was I out here at all?” But with or without knowing the reason, there he was at the mouth of the forest. He stopped moving and looked up to the grey sky; it had started to snow again, sending zillions of crystalline flakes down to Earth. With each gust of wind the trees danced in tune with the breeze. It seemed as though the trees and the forest itself was breathing.

     Whether it was that or something else, Eli was drawn into the woods.

     The forest pulled him in.

iii.

     Eli awoke to a feeling that could only relate to vertigo. He felt lost. Fear was there, of that he was certain, but it took an immediate backseat to his own captivation and reckless infatuation with the world around him. His eyes were open; being sure they would not close again.

     He arose from a stone table which was standing alone in the heart of the woods. It was in a pleasant clearing. Not too large; nor too small, and the surrounding trees were a pleasant and greenish green under their snowy veneer. Turning around it was surprising to notice that the table had no snow on the top of it. Now seeing that at any other time would have mystified a man. But, at that moment, there seem to be so many other imperative things other than a stone block that collected no snow on a winter’s morn.

     Curiosity overtook everything that morning.

     Looking back, Eli realized that with the inexplicable he really should have been anxious. Using logic, one waking up in a strange place, with no understanding of how he got there, would be troubled, if not outright frightened. To a logical person, in a logical situation, this could truly be terrifying!

     Curiosity overtook logic that morning.

     Eli became intoxicated with the dreamlike beauty of the forest. The perfect white of the snow, the nakedness of the frozen trees, the eternal rhythm of death and rebirth, the beautiful innocence of nature encircled him. He softly exhaled and dropped to his knees in the fresh, soft white powder. He dug his hands into the snow playfully and lifted up two handfuls, then slowly let it drop to its original spot. Watching the spot for a few moments, then lifting his head, scanning with his deep indigo eyes what lay in store around him. However, there was nothing … Nothing but the miles of crystalline snow and his footprints behind him. Eli turned his head toward the sounds of animals in the distance, trying to stay warm on this crisp morning. And that was when he realized that he was not cold whatsoever. He couldn’t help but notice that while inspecting his hands, which were once raw and red, they were now simply his hands.

     And unexpectedly, a different thought crashed into his mind: It just might not have been the next morning at all. It’s possible it could have been days - weeks – later. You know, a rational mind considers the possibility of these things. And it’s a rational mind that comes to fear them, after which it’s the rational mind that dismisses them out of hand.

     Curiosity overtook rationality that morning.

     Eli ambled over to the stone table, running his hands over the reflective slate. His gaze wandered through the snow covered everything. A gentle breeze swept snow from the canopy in a powdery cascade. With lifted arms, he felt alive with the forest. Closing his eyes, it was felt within. He inhaled deep, deeper than ever before. There was this feeling of being one with the woods which was enticing his spirit. Memories were an anthology of lives he'd never lived. He was a writer, a singer, a painter, a pianist, an architect, a doctor, a teacher, an engineer.  Eli had seen everything and nothing, and so now he needed to travel, to see everything again or for the first time. This was the day, the hour, and the minute he would start looking at and beyond everything that enveloped him. Losing him, losing reality, losing everything …

     Something was heard in the far-off distance and that something brought him back. Standing completely still, there came the recognition that it was a voice. A woman’s voice; by far the most beautiful thing that he had ever heard. The notes were soft at first but slowly rose. The ring was like ivory bells - not silver. Silver? Too common; anyone can have a silver voice. No, hers was carved of ivory, incandescently glowing. Creamy bone freckled with drops of shining beauty. Eli listened to it and was captivated. A last he opened his eyes and mused, not the origin, but the sound. The sound of it alone made him forget his station in the clearing. It was suddenly forgotten how alive and on fire the forest had made him, as the sound of the lady’s voice made him being more alive than even the forest could.

     Eli found that the beauty of that voice resonating had brought him to his knees, even tears; it was known in the depths of the heart -his very bones- that this voice was why he was drawn, no pulled, to this place. That voice gave meaning to the senselessness and filled in the pauses left in his heart by the secrets of the woods. It was understood, at that very moment in time, that the melody was meant for him.

     “I need to find this woman!”

     But alas, the sound of her exquisite voice was fading, fighting a losing battle against the subtle sounds of the forest and the graceful mourning doves. She was fading into the deepness of the snow covered trees, dulling the sound, where soon the silent breeze would erase what little beauty of her song remained.

     This just cannot be allowed to happen! After having that splendor, it just couldn’t be given up. It wouldn’t! Eli had to find it … Follow it …. Take it. He needed it!

     Rising from his knees, he absently brushed off the snow and began to follow the distant sounds into the thick of trees, and the darkening wilderness. Trying his best to squeeze through apertures of the snow kissed trees, which were becoming ever more difficult to negotiate. Crafting a way through corridors and leafless thickets lashing sleeves and legs, he forged ahead. The mist creeps closer covering the forest like a cape. Moving as quickly as possible, with legs feeling like stone. But despite all the effort, he didn’t make it to her voice.

     Her call stopped. The magnificence hadn’t gone entirely. Each astonishing note was etched into his memory, and engraved on his soul. Lord knows how much he needed it back. His mind wasn’t allowing for anything less. Eli backed himself into a tree and allowed himself to slide down, slowly catching his breath. Tears gradually fell in sorrow. The sun’s rays spun silver. In the end he fell asleep in the still quiet of the winter’s morning.

     Eli slept for a long time after that.

iiii.

     Waking up, the first thoughts are of her. A smile spreads to his face as he considers her voice. “If only” he whispers, “I wish we could be …” Sunshine was streaming around him, dappling the earth and turning the misty air gold. A tear rolled down his cheek as he rolled over and knew that she was gone. Another fell as it was recognized that she was never there. What had transpired seemed as if only a dream.  It was some distant fantasy Eli couldn’t bring himself to entirely remember. Everything condensed to a speck of dust, floating through the corridors of his mind.

     The time that was spent sleeping was not an empirical fact that could be recalled with any certainty. The sun was high in the blue morning sky, so it was either still late in the morning, or this was later … Far later. Eli managed to suppress any doubts of time and simply convinced himself that it was only a couple of hours later in the same day. It was feeling cold again and the curiosity has all but evaporated.  Vertigo too had turned its unpleasant head toward him; and fear had revisited to play a bit part in the family of things. It was time to leave the forest then, but …

     “Where is the way?”

     Eli began to walk toward the rising sun, although he knew not the reason why. Maybe it was just assumed that if one walked in any one direction long enough and far enough, one should, by all logical and rational means, reach the end of such a place. Then again, maybe he wasn’t thinking much at all.

     Hours slid past. The pit of his stomach is hollow, empty. Nothing fills it. His skin was red and stung like an inferno from the cruel cold. A breeze began to pick up and Eli tucked his arms under his shoulders, and his chin to his chest for warmth. The whispering of old wood, groaned as it strained against the cold which filled his ears. Clenching his fists, he kept walking. The pain of his nails digging into his palms kept his mind off the trees and predicament. Some of their bark, so wanting of color it looked to be blackish-gray, seemed warped. Knotholes made misshapen eyes, apparently peering out at him from mutated skulls of wood. The wind traced over his shoulders. There were the spreading stages of giving up hope of ever escaping this hopeless place.

     That was when it was heard again.

     The voice. Her voice! The Lady’s exquisite voice was trickling through the trees. Soon it began to ring loudly and distinctly through the crisp smells of forest pine. It was coming from the direction he was headed! Eli ran.

     Wasting no time he was soon racing up the gentle grade at a full on sprint, heedless of stray branches that may have drifted in his way. With every beat of his heart, with every breath of his lungs, her voice grew louder, and in some unknown way even more wonderful. He ascended the rise, and the river below began to impart harmony. The sweet melody resonated as he ran down through the trees faster and faster, kicking up clumps of snow in his wake. Some might propose that it was the running through the forest that had made every part of him regained warmth. But no one would be able to convince Eli, now, then or forevermore, that it could be anything but her.

     Finally he skidded to a stop, and away went the voice.

     Eli was there.

     She began to sing again. It was still so beautiful. The beguiling tune made gentle love to his ears. It was as delicate as a Lotus petal, yet as powerful as a full symphony performing Beethoven. Standing at the mouth of the river, frozen with both ice and time, he finally saw her. She was walking along its solid surface, singing her pure melody, and without as much as a glance, toying playfully with his fascination. She, with her long silver hair, and elegant long ivory colored dress, was as beautiful as the song she sung. From the beginning he just wanted to lay back and watch her sing. Just to pass the time looking into her eyes, and engaging himself to her song, was everything Eli would ever need to do.

     As she walked there was heard a cracking beneath her feet, a minor fracture, and an imperceptible slim line. Quickly a spider web of crevices spread across the surface with growing speed. The ice groaned and popped. Abruptly … The Lady fell into fragments of crystal, plunging into the freezing depths, and the song drowned away with her, taking with it every part of Eli.

     He needed it back. “I need her!”

     Without thinking, without logic, without rationality, and so swift as to be without fear, he leaped into the abyss after her. It was a mistake he would ever regret. They were both in the water. There, together, they at last looked into each other’s eyes. And in that split second, they knew. And suddenly the world was warm and soft – suddenly, time stood frozen, spellbound.

     Eli outstretched his arm and extended his fingers. She clung to them, and he pulled her to him. Together they swam against the flow of the river towards the chasm in the ice. The struggle was excruciating. Each stroke was a meager attempt against the prodigious current. Every second seemed like an hour, every minute seemed like an eternity. The frigid water seemed as a vice holding on to him. Yet … with her he felt warm, with her, they prevailed. Reaching the fracture, Eli pulled with everything he possibly had left, and lifted her onto the ice. She turned to help pull him on the icy surface.

     Arm in arm, she helped him to the bank where she laid him down in the snow. She kissed him sweetly on his forehead and whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”

     After that his memory dissolves …

v.

     Eli awakened in a cabin which was clearly in the woods. The scent of cedars and firs hung in the air. Across the room was a fireplace, its lingering crimson color, dancing around, painting the walls. And she was there, gazing very gently towards him. She rose from her Bentwood chair, bent over him, hair softly brushing his arm and touched his face with her smooth hand. “You saved me” she began, “Thank you, thank you so much.”

     “You want to thank me?” Eli asked pulling away. “More than anything!” she exclaimed, her eyes watering, smile spreading.

     “Then let me close my eyes …” he said, pausing again, “… And sing to me.”

     Every so often there is a flame that was so full of magic that burns brighter than the rest. All Eli did know was that he wasn't dreaming. And he had taken the final step into the light.

*The End*

Those Summer Dresses

This is the first "real" story I ever wrote. I was in a beginning Fiction class and people were writing all sorts of stories, mainly sci-fi, stuff that was at least somewhat violent and had orks in them ect. I was about to drop out of the class, I just couldn't write like that and my classmates could write rather well, how was I to compete with that? So a germ of an idea appeared to me while sitting in the commons on a rainy day and that weekend I locked myself in an dingy motel in the middle of no where, the rain continued to pour, and here is the result. It was make or break as far as I was concerned for this class as it was so different than what others were doing, I was going to drop the class the next day. Somehow it was well accepted and I was shocked! Its even going to be in our College's literary Journal coming out next month!

Here is my first story ...

Those Summer Dresses

Another rainy evening finds me sitting by the window.  I am watching the drops of water as they fall against the glass, the streaks of light as the streetlight shines brightly. The pane is cold to the touch; my fingers leave a small vapor from their trace.  There is the tinkling sound of wind chimes coming from the porch. My cat Izzy has somehow found a spot to curl up in on my shambolic bed and Charlie dog is snoozing in front of me with his chin on my feet. What is it about rainy days that make you feel so alone?

On the table a small candle is burning sweetly in its light as it flickers slowly. I have a very warm cup of coffee, not so much because I need it, but because I love to feel its warmth in my hands as it flows into the coldness of my fingers. The TV is on atop the small wooden dresser with the sound off, and the stereo is playing this Coldplay tune. “Look at the stars, look how they shine for you.” I’m listening to music as it seems the only thing that relaxes me, for a while I don’t have to really think of anything. Glancing at the tube I can’t help but notice a cute young looking brunette actress, flouncing across the street in the rain, wearing a fluttering red and white flower print sundress. Damn. What is it about summer dresses that breathe their life into a lonely man’s soul?

Laying back in my overstuffed recliner, I recall sitting on a graffiti scared park bench, with the summer heat on my skin, and glorious treats filling the senses. The summer dresses would pass by; they would sway and voice their concerns to the playful wind. They would soak up the daylight and were worn like the sunshine itself. They would light up the world with their amazing colors of yellow, pink, green and white, dancing in the sun with the grass and wind. There is no music but I feel it flow through me and come alive. How many are hoping for someone to dance with? What is it about summer dresses that make a man want to get up dance? A smile cannot help but to cross my face …

Ah yes, I remember back in high school when I met an angel named Judy. She bought this dress, made of the lightest green with little white flowers all over. She wore it from dusk to dawn, sometimes for days at a time. She danced in it, drank in it, ate and slept in it. She sometimes did things we sure as hell didn’t want her Daddy to know about in it. It was a billowy, spaghetti strapped dress made of cotton that was perhaps a size or so too loose. She oh who she loved it!  Memories, drifting like feathers softly through my mind. Never will I forget Judy and that simple green dress!

I remember another one, a taller one, a clean sleeveless white, with ruffles down the side with a touch of lavender embroidery at the hem. I couldn’t help but to wonder if she is wearing anything under it. She still believed in magic, unicorns and fairies. It is so easy to imagine her, with perchance a small white headband to support her auburn hair streaked with grey, capering through the woods. She probably took a penny with her, or maybe a special quarter, hoping that perhaps that whatever she was wishing for would come true just a little bit faster. Everything about her seemed so childlike. “Dreams are priceless”, she said, and you can’t argue with that I suppose. For a moment the vision was perfect. Then again memories can make things that way.

I remember a third, a blue and white one, which would flare up about her knees when she spun around. I would see her by a massive oak tree, the one with the smooth little bench that was under it, writing about thoughts, desires and dreams. Oft times she would ask me to join her and the warm summer breeze would gently sweep leaves about us. The writing would stop so that she could take it all in. I look up to the sky, let my hands reach over my head and I feel the grass with my fingertips. Time would be delighted in looking at those lofty clouds, as free as the open air ourselves.  Sometimes you would kiss me; sometimes you would run your fingers through my hair. Sometimes we would sit there in silence. Silence with her was beautiful too. Eventually she would put her pencil to paper again, and the words came out evermore enchanting.

Even though it was only March, the end of March to be fair, but still March, she thought she would be optimistic about the weather and try for once to make an effort. Feeling a bit down it was decided that wearing her scruffy jeans, the first t-shirt on hand and washed-out grey hoodie, wasn’t going to make it yet again today.  This dress has never been worn before, not even on vacation, despite how much she loves it. It is cream colored sun dress with blue flowers, tight at the top and then floats outwards, the skirt part of it was gently ruffled to give it more shape. She also chose her thickest pair of black tights, it was March and it was pouring rain after all. Though still a bit edgy and kind of close to tears, (though probably no more so than usual), she tried her best to smile and be chirpy. Like the way she used to be. An acquaintance of hers does the same, acting as if she's confident and happy and somehow it seemed to help. I have to wonder sometimes, how many people are acting? Sure some people thought that what this girl was wearing was daft, but there seemed to be a change. She didn't particularly remember consciously being miserable, but the world around her seemed to become a lot sunnier.

Some people like to say that looks don't matter, that they're not important. I thought that as long as you are comfortable that's all that mattered. But I think I may have to change my mind. It cheered me up a little to find that sometimes, when all hope seems lost, that a simple thing like dressing nicely can really cheer someone up, even me. What’s up with that? Obviously I'm not going to go and wear a dress now, though it may sound like fun in an odd sort of way, but I might try making an effort to look my dashing self someday and seeing what happens. But alas, today wasn’t that day …

The wind stands still, and clouds roll across the sky. I take a stroll outside, getting myself wet on purpose so that I could sit by the heater and look out the window. There was this itch to dance. The sky begins to darken, shadows seasoning underneath. Izzy and Charlie doze on. The rain continues to beat a tempo on the windowpane, though now appearing more soothing … calming. “Dreams are priceless”, she said. It sure does seem that way I reply.  I get up to and walked into the kitchen to ponder … What is it about summer dresses that breathe their life into a lonely man’s world?

Punxsutawney Phil Returns

There is a German tradition that holds that if a hibernating animal, the illustrious groundhog, sees its shadow on Feb. 2 — the Christian holiday of Candlemas — winter will last another six weeks. If no shadow is seen, legend says spring will come early.

The groundhog has spoken. And it's bad news .... Yep ... Another 6 weeks of winter!

Not the biggest surprise considering the dreary, cold, snow/rain/sleet action we got going on now here ...

Wisdom in a Nutshell

Check out this quote:

"The poetry of the earth is never dead."

~John Keats

A walk along the river ....

Instead of catching the Inauguration ceremonies on TV I decided on a walk along the river with Charlie dog. Why not you know ... chasing birds ... critters ... sounds of nature .... prayer and pondering ...

Today for me is a day of reflection. It is for me, a day of looking back and it is a day for looking forward. Which brings me back to the Inauguration … Its great seeing people looking ahead again, change is needed for sure. Lets keep President Obama in our prayers and continue to look forward.

Agency Lake in Ice

Ah winter …

It’s been sunny and in the forties of late here in the mountains and I thought to myself, “Hey …. It would be a great day to take the short little drive and shoot some great pictures of the mountains refected in the lake!” Alas … here is what I found.

Ah … Spring will be here soon … kinda …

Winter Promises

A short poem I can REALLY identify with this time of year ...

Winter Promises

Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby's buttocks,

eggplants glossy as waxed fenders,

purple neon flawless glistening peppers,

pole beans fecund and fast growing as Jack's Viagra-sped stalk,

big as truck tire zinnias that mildew will never wilt,

roses weighing down a bush never touched by black spot,

brave little fruit trees shouldering up their spotless ornaments of glass fruit:

I lie on the couch under a blanket of seed catalogs ordering far too much.

Sleet slides down the windows,

a wind edged with ice knifes through every crack.

Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers:

I want to believe every promise,

to trust in five pound tomatoes and dahlias

brighter than the sun that was eaten by frost last week.

-- Marge Piercy