To dance with the wind…

‘Twas only a game, merely a show-

when many a child flew off into the night.

Poor Mary.

Under the trees and through dense foliage.

The leaves inked with the dead of night

and trunks pushing the shadows with all their might.

Poor Mary pale as the placid moonlight.

Once upon a time, there was a village set in a wood so fine and dense with opportunity. A night of gale and devils dew: a possibility unseen by the villagers, happy and content behind a veil of ivy and leaves. As every man and women slept peacefully in their beds; the children fitted and fretted instead. For just beyond every window pane, the wind playfully tapped and danced away.

The days grew long for tired wee boys and girls. “We’ll make a plan” She said. “When heads hit pillows let feet hit soil as we dance with the wind and air.” So it was done, and when daylight hours were gone, children would play in crystal air.

Cold: the ground was cold on their bare feet. Patiently they waited.

The crisp air embraced them all with clawed hands and springing feet. They played and whirled and whistled through the night. Around and around with each new gust; further and further, through brambles and logs. Glistening eyes and pointed red lips. The night gave way to new places and noises but a bubble and a gurgle broke through their senses.

‘Pon reaching the river they all turned on home, for the cold was upon them and the day was arriving. So they all left; all but one. The child whirled and bound so caught in the web of dark beauty and cold caress. But slow the water did make you and fast was the wind. Breathe child, breathe.

Poor Mary.

(Author’s note: this is one of the first ever short stories I was able to finish, having only ever written poetry before hand. It was done as part of an assessment about 4 years ago in school and this is the unedited version (sorry), I’ve never been a confident writer but hopefully I’ve improved since then and fingers crossed this will inspire me to write more short stories and improve my writing- anyway I’ll stop blabbering now and thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed! 🙂 )

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Symbols

The room hummed in the humidity, the heat suspended in the still, wet air: dense with energy. Floorboards creaked under the weight of it, as if some invisible form was testing the waters- eager to progress forwards towards that lonely door. But anticipation had it hesitating- wary. Another board groaned under the imaginary footsteps, moving ever closer to the door that stood solitary at the other end of the room. Stifling air followed the slow progression of that transparent figure across the room. Though, before one could even think to visualize a ghostly hand reaching for the handle, that lone door was thrown open- rippling the air into nothingness.

A small boy entered the empty room. Small though he was- and very frail- his eyes were a sky of blue, undisturbed by clouds or planes or stars just a ceaseless sky that shifted through day and night relentlessly determined. His hands where lined with bone the knuckles prominent and knobbly, the skin stretched thin. And in them he held a single piece of white chalk that dusted his gaunt fingers translucent.

Sure of his steps, he approached the yellowing walls.

Protruding elbows and malnourished arms, moved the chalk across his unsightly canvas. The chalk screeched as he forced it along in swirling lines and nonsensical patterns. Muscles jerked violently, unused to the strain, but he persisted through the aches and pains- too important was this task. The door swung softy on its hinges.

Soon the air was again heavy with the boys warm, rapid breathes and the wall filled with streaks of white- the chalk reduced to a stump and the boy’s face, arms and hands smeared a dirty white.

A curious rat wandered about, unafraid of the large boy. Its nails scratched the wood as it moved and the little pink nub on the tip of its face twitched in youthful wonder. A heavy boot crushed the rats tail and remained there as it struggled- detaching the limb, taunting the rat as it cried and scurried away.

He had heard the man enter and the rat’s screams of agony but chose to remain passive, staring stonily at his wall. He felt the hand as it settled lightly on his narrow shoulder.

“Wipe it off.”

He felt the thick fingers that crushed into his flesh: indenting fresh, dark bruising.

“Wipe.It.Off.” The voice was gruff and ferociously angry.

Shifting the air; the man leaned forwards till his thin lips hovered by the boys ear.

“You are the devils work.”

Cold and smooth against his flesh.

“So I will do God’s”

Warm and silky down his neck.