September 10, 2012

the art of falling, and the trouble with it: an autumn story.

     she had been cold as she left her apartment on temple street. the air was chilled and outspoken; she liked that about autumn mornings. she appreciated the way they refused to apologize for their curtness. autumn was impolite, a trait she had come to love.
     he missed the sun. he caught himself wishing it would return to paint his skin, change his natural pale. he loved the hot pinches that came when he stood still for too long, and ached for the spots he saw in the sky while looking too close.
     she wondered when the leaves would begin their change, basking in the anticipation that came with the changing season. she looked forward to the melting of each snowstorm, sure, and rejoiced in renewed blossoms, too, but there was something silly about the autumn harvest, something that made her come all unglued. the way it didn't last long, but managed to satisfy, somehow, each of her senses at once made her smile. the dying earth and the hope of it resurrecting in just six short months made her fingers tingle. she marveled in all of it, trusting in something bigger than herself. she stood still on her walk, letting the wind play in her hair, taking in the scent of one last summer parade, for she knew its time had come, and this would be its last warm breath until next june.
     he noticed the grass on his way up the stairs. it was coarse and feathered. the small pieces of green were static and hard to come by. he stared, knowing what came with it: cold winds and a sky that knew only grey. he stood unmoving for a moment with all he had, pleading with the sun to stay just a few more sundays. and then, as if bidding a bitter farewell, the ball of light disappeared beyond the clouds, not to be seen by summer until the next solstice hit.
     and then she quit her own still charade and walked into his view.
     she was delicate. she wore a thin, woven sweater of cream yarn. the wind brushed a wave of hair to the side of her face, and with a book pressed to her nose, she crossed the courtyard before him.
     he watched her from three feet behind, examining every step she took. her eyes were intense on the pages of her book, with not the slightest trip in her tread. he particularly adored that.
     "excuse me," he pressed, scaling to her side. her eyes stayed focused on reading.
     "yes?" her reply was sweet like powdered sugar. he caught up further and cleared his throat.
     "do you always walk and read at the same time?" he asked, timidly. this was new for him. he'd not had a shy spell all of his life, though he'd never seen a more interesting girl so pressed into a book, either. he figured it was no coincidence that the two rarities happened on the same day.
     "often," she remarked, still without a flinch.
     "ah," he said, dipping both hands into his pant pockets, "and it has never gotten you into trouble?"
     "trouble?" she flipped the page, "what sort of trouble?"
     "the kind that would have knocked you into me, had i been walking just three feet ahead of you." the woman's eyes met his.
     "oh, no," she shook her head, intriguing him.
     "no?" he wondered.
     "it would have been no trouble at all," she began. he listened intently, "if that had been the case, i would have looked up, apologized, wished you a well morning, and continued on my way," she was abrupt and matter-of-fact--the way autumn had taught her to be. her eyes broke into the book once again when he stopped just before her, halting her, too.
     "well then," he started, "thank goodness you've trained yourself in the art so well, for otherwise, you'd have been gone before i would have had the chance to open my mouth." he spoke softly, his green eyes smiling.
     and for the first time, as she walked with a book to her nose, she fell the way he'd hoped she would.
     ironically in a moment that she'd been standing so still.

i have officially dubbed monday as a writing day. because i'm going to go crazy if i can't write for myself at least one day a week, and my pen needs exercise beyond scholasticism. so, consider monday a day of word clusters and stories. all of them true, though, with small embellishments. because embellishments are additions that make writing pretty.
this is going to be fun.

label: true stories.


i like words. and you. write me a few?