Autumn Signs

 

Quiet was the day, the only sounds being the rustling of trees in the wind, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. Autumn the season of change had begun.

These woods have changed since his first walk though them so long ago. Saplings now become tall trees, their leaves turning golden as they fall to the earth.  The sun peeked though the wood setting the trees a glow.

The hollow of a pine filled with acorns, a woodland creature’s winter store. Soon the mild temperatures would turn into bitter cold winter. Snow replacing yellow and orange leaves on the branches.

The sound of a heavy branch falling caught his attention. His heart sped as he stepped off the trail to inspect. Such paranoid caution had kept him alive for so long.

Creaking of wood in the stiff breeze led him to the source. A large oak, trunk blacked and split from a summer storm. Lightning had carved a dark line down the thick trunk to the roots.

As his fingers traced the scared bark it felt like a sign, a sign of dark days ahead. With a sigh he turned back to the trail perhaps he can pretend the earlier peace of his walk was never disturbed. Change was coming but not yet, he would enjoy the quiet autumn day.

 

 

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One Word/60 Seconds: Octopus

OneWord.com is a website for getting the muse warmed up. Each day you get one word and sixty seconds in which to write what it inspires. This was my entry today.

The eight arms writhed as the great creature moved though the sea. He sought out his prey, a large dark ship. A ship known to his master. The he would wrap tentacles around the wooden hull and squeeze until it cracked. Down into the locker would her captain fall his fate for crossing the lord of the sea.

One Word/60 Sec: Seat

The seat was still warm from her pres ence. The lin ger ing of her per fume in the air around him. He sat back and inhaled deeply long ing for her to be there.

Dance of the Rose Petals

It was dark in the chapel, a new moon shed no light in the old abandoned building He sat on a pew moved under a window watching, waiting. Tonight he was prepared with camera, recorder, extra batteries, a thermos of hot coffee to combat the chill of the night.

His hands wrapped around the tin cup absorbing the heat s he took at long sip. It was almost time, almost. He was afraid they wouldn’t come, he wouldn’t see her again. That it was all a figment of his drunken mind.

Every night since that first one he had waited to see her again. Glancing back out the window he saw a glow fill the ancient graveyard.

The glow was a soft bluish green like the ocean. The air felt damp heavy as he tossed aside the half full cup getting up on his knees for a better view out the broken window. His camera was in hand as he searched the worn headstones.

The earth below a few of the stones shifted as a mist formed above them, taking shape. Arms stretched toward the sky as feet touched the ground. The figures yawned and moved as if waking from slumber.

He watched from his perch in the window holding up his camera to get the proof he wasn’t mad. They were real. The women there were like wisps of wind, ethereal. He could see them clearly in their ivory burial gowns, their skin fair as fine porcelain. But there was a touch of dream about them as they moved. Shifts in the misty glow would show them transparent.

His interest focused on one as she turned her skirt swirling the brittle leaves over her grave. She seemed to dance to some silent tune, perhaps only her kind could hear. Suddenly she stopped and walked back to her tombstone.

A cream colored rose lay on the aged marble. A soft smile of wonder touched pinked lips. She touched the petals gently as if it would fade away. When it didn’t she picked it up brushing her cheek against the silken petals before inhaling the sweet scent.

A few of the other spirits began to gather to see the flower. Some searching their own stones. She smiled and held it out for them to sniff and touch lightly it had been so very long since anything but decay grew here.

The wind blew leaves around them, though their delicate forms. One jealous spiteful spirit marched over. Around her the mist seemed darker, and aura of her cruel days in flesh?

Her hand closed over the petals and crushed the flower leaving on the stem in the sweet spirits hands.

The others began to walk away to play on their night of freedom.  The dark soul raised her chin and moved as far from them as her existence would allow.

He watched wanting in that moment to run out and tell her not to be sad. The expression of loss on her sweet face was almost to much for his own heart to bare. How was he to know something so simple as a rose would cause so much.

Looking out the window he saw her chest rise and fall in a ghostly sigh. Kneeling on the dead grass she picked up every petal. Caressing it lightly in her hand. When they were all gathered she sat on a cracked marble bench and marveled.

She could still smell the sweet fragrance, the petals were still soft like her favorite velvet gown. She held them to her face and smiled. A petal escaped slipping though her fingers floating to her lap.

Standing she watched it float gently to the worn earth. Suddenly she raised her hands and spun around tossing the petals in the air. As they fell around her catching on her hair and dress she danced in them.

When they had all fallen she gathered them to dance again in the glow of the mist. Her gown flowing around her, arms gracefully moving though the air, her dark hair flowing free around her shoulders lifting as she turns.

There was no sound but a soft rustle of leaves but he could imagine her joyous laughter. Something made her pause and look up. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and sighed. She gathered up her petals and carried them lovingly back to her grave.

Holding her hands over it she slowly turned her palms letting them fall like soft rain over her stone. With a gentle smile she yawned and stretched as the mist appeared to grow thicker. Soon the others were in their places as well the mist starting to fade until a glimpse of the sun could be spotted over the trees.

There was no more dancing the only evidence of the night being the cream colored rose petals strewn over the darkened marble stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the Air

It was getting harder to breathe, the air felt thick like breathing soup. There was no energy left in her body to try and fight for deeper breaths. The white of the walls seemed to glare.

Across from her on the floor her college lay stretched out. His eyes were still, Evan could see there was no life left there. Hot tears began to roll down her face as she summoned one last effort for breath. Forcing her arm to obey her command she reached for the keypad by the door.

The tips of her fingers could only reach the bottom few. Pressing until she heard the horrible honking alarm signally invalid entry to the lab. Her hand falling to her lap Evan waited. Breaths shallow, coming slower and slower.

Outside the lab they had given up hope. The chemical content in the air of the now sealed room was too much for any survivors. Then the alarm.

One of the security ran over to the door peering into the small glass window set in it. “It’s Dr. Lane. I think she’s still alive.”

Renewed efforts to open the contaminated lab began with zeal. Problem was they couldn’t just open the doors with out contaminating the building. They had to find a way to vent the toxins faster than the present plan.

From inside the lab Evan heard her name shouted. Someone was banging on the door trying to get her attention. They had it, she just didn’t have anything left with which to acknowledge it.

Pain began in the center of her chest and worked its way outward. There wasn’t even any air left in her lungs to groan. Evan knew the end was getting close, she was seeing things. In the corner of the white room stood a man surrounded by mist.

When their eyes met he started to move forward. The pain has spread though her body taking over all her other senses. Lungs burning as if she’d run a hundred miles. Evan’s mind struggled to hang on even though her body was spent.

She wanted to cry and scream but nothing would come out. One last time she tried to take a breath only there was nothing to breathe.

The man from the corner knelt beside her. His eyes were green and ever changing like the sea. He reached out a hand gently caressing her cheek. “Take a breath Evan.”

The stranger knew her name, but he didn’t know she couldn’t …. Air filled her lungs slowly. It wasn’t the poison air from the room there was a touch of something in it. Something sweet like honeysuckle. The next breath came easier, then another. It was impossible wasn’t it? The room was still filled with poison.

Even began to come back to herself as the strange man caressed her face. Her eyes focused and she realized, he was there but not. As if he were made of air himself.

She could hear calls from outside the lab saying the venting was working the particles were clearing. Soon they could open the door.

The man of air caressed her softly, brushing her hair from her face. Evan was sure she knew him. But this was impossible he was a figment of her dying mind.

Cool air brushed the side of her face, it was his breath. It smelled like honeysuckle. There was a gentle smile on his face as she took a deeper breath. Evan lay her cheek against his palm taking comfort.

The palm was soft, warm, there was a pulse that beat from his wrist against her cheek. He looked up at the door. There were more sounds and activity coming from out there now. The strange man cupped her face softly. “They are coming. Do not be afraid, you will be well.”

Evan wanted to ask his name, how he got into the lab. But he pressed a soft kiss to her lips distracting her thoughts.

The stranger began to fade changing into fog then less…then nothing but air. His touch gone her lungs began to burn again. Aching for a breath of the honeysuckle sweet air. She gasped and struggled as the door slowly slid open.

She tried to scream hurry but there was no voice. Only squeaks as Evan took in a little of the fresh air coming from the open door.

Paramedics, scientists, security all rushed into the lab. A paramedic wearing oxygen masks lifted her up from the floor to a gurney. Shouts began all around her as a mask was fitted over her own face.

None of them were the strange man. She turned her head as much as they would allow to look into the corner where he had appeared. Nothing but air stood there now. Evan grabbed the EMT’s arm and forced out the words. “The man… that was… with me…”

With a somber face he gave her hand a pat thinking she meant the dead scientist they were wheeling past them in the hall. “Don’t worry about that right now. Just concentrate on taking slow deep breaths. Let’s get you oxygenated. You’re a real miracle surviving that long in that toxic soup.”

Evan shook her head. “No… someone else.”

The paramedic walked beside her as they wheeled the gurney to the ambulance. “There was no one else in the room, Dr. Lane.”

Why writing is important to me

Writing is a huge part of my daily life. I do write almost every day on articles or fiction works. I began writing V fan fiction. (the original with Marc Singer, you know the good one.) Now I have worlds of my own creation to play in. Though I admit to playing in the fan fic world too.

Though writing I met one of the most important people in my life. My best friend and sister in heart Rose. We both belonged to Russell Crowe fan fiction boards. We started joking and playing around on the board then chatting though Yahoo IM.

Three years later and we have never missed a day of chat. We have written many stories together fan fic and original fiction. We’ve laughed we’ve cried and fought for each other. I was given this gift of close friendship though writing.

It’s not just a place to express myself it’s a part of my life that I hold dear.  Other people and opportunities that expand outside of weaving words have been discovered because of writing. Now my son who is 13 is getting excited about doing NaNoWriMo with me this year. Seeing him begin to enjoy something that could turn into a life long practice makes me even more proud of what I do.

I love being a writer the sense of accomplishment when holding a book with my name on the cover, my words on all the pages. A reader saying how much they enjoyed your work. Nothing gets better than that.

 

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