Fabala
01-05-2006, 10:38 PM
Block setting assignment in my writing class. This is a play on another piece I did, based on a real event. The original is true. This is not, obviously. *shrug* I had fun writing it anyway...
The sun sparkled not unlike several thousand, even a million, stars choosing to blink at precisely the same moment. From the view on the windowsill the light was mercifully filtered through great branches of leaves of the grandfather trees. It was as though they had raised their arms in protest to the cruel ball of fire. Not beckoning in the least. Their leaves quivered. The fool wind bustled in, forcing the trees to behave as if frightened. The grasses, too, were not to be left alone. Like a wave of delicate green arm hairs, they were compelled to bend, bow, in face of the sun.
Pillowing clouds, the sun’s most feared adversary, were nowhere to be seen. Blue sky sparkled back, peeking through the grandfather’s branches and leaves, twinkling like the milky eyes of a decaying man turned childlike once more. The view from the windowsill portrays a world of elements as fearful and wary of one another, as they are dependent.
The windowsill is nothing special, certainly not when faced with the brilliant, jewel-like colors of the outdoors. It sits as a gaping hole in the upper side of the house, a mouth hungering for the outdoors. Half the glass is frosted with a chain linked white design. When scraped open, screaming in agony all the way, the chain links are dulled behind the second side of untainted glass. The design, then, is meant only for those outside. The windowsill itself is slender, narrowed to fit comfortably the backside of only a small scrap of a child. Splinters from painted wood, once a warmed tan, poke through, striking fear into even the bravest of children attempting to climb up. It is there that I perch, allowing the wind to tease my pale, bare toes and long hair into dancing and whipping, but refusing to bow.
“Stubborn child. It took you a long time to decide.”
Somehow I am not surprised by the presence of a man I have never before seen. I keep my gaze on the weaving of greens outside. “I haven’t decided,” I hear myself say defiantly.
He snorts. “Always the same. Haven’t decided? Are you not the same girl who climbed up there with one goal in mind.”
I could not admit the truth. “No.”
“You did. And you carried through, though I must say it took a long time.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes…and no.”
I turn sharply, fingers gripping the sill, “No?”
“Yes.”
“I’m right here.”
A pause. The wind rushes in to remind me of its presence, ruffling my hair into snaky tendrils.
“Look down,” he says.
I go cold with the possibilities, but comply. My mouth gapes in horror, and I am grateful for the vice-like grip on the splintered wood.
“You are a stubborn child.”
“I… Bu…But I’m right here! Who is that?”
“It’s you,” a pause, “…and not you.”
There are no clouds to be seen, but still I sense a darkening of the sky. Or perhaps it is my eyes shutting of their own accord. I look to the deepening blue blanket, refuse to gaze in his direction.
“I climbed up here to do it,” I say. “I climbed up with one thought in mind. I knew what I wanted to do.”
“Good child.”
“But when I got here I stopped. I couldn’t do it!”
He heaves a sigh.
“I don’t know why. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. And I’ve been sitting here since.”
“Then explain what you saw outside the window.”
“I…I don’t know.”
“You did it. You climbed up and did it, and only in waiting for me have you forgotten. Don’t you remember how it felt?”
The wind. The falsely warming sun. The flashing colors. I remember. “Yes.”
“Very good.”
It is then I hear the sobbing, the screaming, the faintest of distant sirens, growing ever louder. I’m drawn to the sound as the sailors were. Drawn to their deaths. The windowsill has grown cooler, though the sun as brightly hot.
“I did it…but am I going to accomplish my goal?”
He lets the question sit in the air a moment, mouth forming a smile I can feel burning into me without looking. The grin deepens. He answers.
The sun sparkled not unlike several thousand, even a million, stars choosing to blink at precisely the same moment. From the view on the windowsill the light was mercifully filtered through great branches of leaves of the grandfather trees. It was as though they had raised their arms in protest to the cruel ball of fire. Not beckoning in the least. Their leaves quivered. The fool wind bustled in, forcing the trees to behave as if frightened. The grasses, too, were not to be left alone. Like a wave of delicate green arm hairs, they were compelled to bend, bow, in face of the sun.
Pillowing clouds, the sun’s most feared adversary, were nowhere to be seen. Blue sky sparkled back, peeking through the grandfather’s branches and leaves, twinkling like the milky eyes of a decaying man turned childlike once more. The view from the windowsill portrays a world of elements as fearful and wary of one another, as they are dependent.
The windowsill is nothing special, certainly not when faced with the brilliant, jewel-like colors of the outdoors. It sits as a gaping hole in the upper side of the house, a mouth hungering for the outdoors. Half the glass is frosted with a chain linked white design. When scraped open, screaming in agony all the way, the chain links are dulled behind the second side of untainted glass. The design, then, is meant only for those outside. The windowsill itself is slender, narrowed to fit comfortably the backside of only a small scrap of a child. Splinters from painted wood, once a warmed tan, poke through, striking fear into even the bravest of children attempting to climb up. It is there that I perch, allowing the wind to tease my pale, bare toes and long hair into dancing and whipping, but refusing to bow.
“Stubborn child. It took you a long time to decide.”
Somehow I am not surprised by the presence of a man I have never before seen. I keep my gaze on the weaving of greens outside. “I haven’t decided,” I hear myself say defiantly.
He snorts. “Always the same. Haven’t decided? Are you not the same girl who climbed up there with one goal in mind.”
I could not admit the truth. “No.”
“You did. And you carried through, though I must say it took a long time.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes…and no.”
I turn sharply, fingers gripping the sill, “No?”
“Yes.”
“I’m right here.”
A pause. The wind rushes in to remind me of its presence, ruffling my hair into snaky tendrils.
“Look down,” he says.
I go cold with the possibilities, but comply. My mouth gapes in horror, and I am grateful for the vice-like grip on the splintered wood.
“You are a stubborn child.”
“I… Bu…But I’m right here! Who is that?”
“It’s you,” a pause, “…and not you.”
There are no clouds to be seen, but still I sense a darkening of the sky. Or perhaps it is my eyes shutting of their own accord. I look to the deepening blue blanket, refuse to gaze in his direction.
“I climbed up here to do it,” I say. “I climbed up with one thought in mind. I knew what I wanted to do.”
“Good child.”
“But when I got here I stopped. I couldn’t do it!”
He heaves a sigh.
“I don’t know why. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. And I’ve been sitting here since.”
“Then explain what you saw outside the window.”
“I…I don’t know.”
“You did it. You climbed up and did it, and only in waiting for me have you forgotten. Don’t you remember how it felt?”
The wind. The falsely warming sun. The flashing colors. I remember. “Yes.”
“Very good.”
It is then I hear the sobbing, the screaming, the faintest of distant sirens, growing ever louder. I’m drawn to the sound as the sailors were. Drawn to their deaths. The windowsill has grown cooler, though the sun as brightly hot.
“I did it…but am I going to accomplish my goal?”
He lets the question sit in the air a moment, mouth forming a smile I can feel burning into me without looking. The grin deepens. He answers.