1000 Words. A Picture's Worth.
Vivid greens. Each blade of grass visible as a darker strand in the sea, bending in the wind, amongst waves made of hills. A blue sky stretches up from the farthest reaches of that sea with no visible sun. Not unnatural in itself, for do the skies reflect the water or the water reflects the sky? Neither clouds nor birds make their mark, creating a sacrosanct illusion. Pale though, not a startling blue or a dark navy that would go so well with the myriad greens below, but a pastel sheet, the open roof. A black speck in the distance, and only the most fanciful stretch of the imagination would lead to the conclusion that it is an otherworldly body and not a hawk. A blemish that serves no greater purpose than to defeat the illusion for those that would search for such weaknesses. Dragging the eyes in, while the sun might remain hidden from view above, a golden sparkle lights the stream like the graveyard of so many fairies, shimmering across the surface to meld together the blue, white and yellow. Winding like a sea snake through the green mounds rising around it, the colours fading in and out with no hint of those as cast their shadow upon it. The flow direction is exquisite; coming in from the distant horizon, majestically clear of anything that might shatter its deceptively still surface. Only the depth variations break the illusion that it must indeed be surging from its source with a force greater than the casual glance might imply.
There’s something almost spectacularly simple about the arrangement. Perhaps that is the day with its uniqueness. And then again, perhaps it is how the land was shaped by a hand so skilled that painters of the renaissance would go weak at the knees for a chance to capture it on their canvas. The gentle slope of the land, as it rises and falls to hide the water coursing through it, with the sparse sprinklings of dandelions on that side where the hidden sun might fall. Though the tiny stalks merge into their background as they float away, the bends and shifts in the grass give evidence of a wind that must surely force them to fly and keep watch on their unspoilt lands.
But where such an image is slightly blurred, one object stands out in sharp detail and stark contrast to the surroundings. Closer to the edge where all in front is a foot of grass looking painfully ordinary, there is a boy, standing in that most traditional of poses. Thumbs tucked in his pockets, fingers outside curled into half-fists. One leg slightly bent with the other straight, leaning against an invisible support. A scene otherwise devoid of life, with nature ringing out in all her glory, one-man stands heroically stationed, the victor in an empty battlefield. No flowers to shatter the green, and just the clear blue providing its stark outline from his face to his shoulders, below which the land stakes its claim to the rest of him. The stream comes gushing out near the base of his back, a sparkling disembodied tail twirling its merry path away, singing a silent song so different from that of the invader, the owner. So stands the conqueror, frozen still, being not of evil but bringing it forth upon shoulders sagging under its burden.
Dark hair slightly ruffled, thin strands coming loose from the head where the rest remains fixed in a wave, shining golden-brown. Pale skin soaking in the rays of the sun, forming a face well proportioned. Lips set in the beginning of a smile, straight with just the edges turned up. Eyes the colour of his hair, visible amongst lids just beginning to close. Black plain t-shirt hanging loose, showing hard wear. Faded jeans, the belt shining to mark its own on the sides where the shirt is raised to make room for the hands ceremoniously placed within. Thick black walking boots end the body, lending substance to the thought there might be a pattern here.
That which might otherwise look like a simple stand, evolved over generations, reveals more only where the signs would be sought. Shoulders slack on a person built to hold them high. Eyes alight with the wonders that surround them, yet the pupils too dilated for a scene so well lit. The mouth that remains indecisive over whether it might split into an open expression of joy over the find, yet made humble by the weight of such a discovery. An aura that portrays victory and defeat, the conflict visible at anything past the casual glance, for here is one who knows the deathblow that so simple an action might become.
Only the closest examination would reveal a light held in those eyes. A sparkle held there from the moments before the final capture. And what such moment could ever be complete without the touch of him behind the shutter. Timing that is not required in such unmoving perfection, experience of what would build in the minds of men an image of heaven on earth. Men as are wont to begin with admiration and turn to destruction. Long do men such as are here roam this planets ancient lands looking for some sliver untouched by this corrosion. And more often than not are their efforts rewarded by the draw of others to these places, forever pushing their beauty into the history vaults of giant treasuries.
It is such knowledge that makes the task most rewarding and painful. Beauty untouched, experienced and then handed over to the masses for the ravaging. Such knowledge as sets fire to the image. And as the red flames twist their way upwards and turn everything before them into black tendrils of smoke and falling ashes, the image falls, floating slowly to the ground lost forever to men, and preserved for humanity in the souls of two brave conquerors, privileged to find the sweet taste of victory in defeat.
Two of one, to one, of one...
The black flakes stuck to her lips, crumbling and occasionally making the long journey to the void below. Love Fool by The Cardigans came and washed over her, doing no more for her parched tongue than a tear could do for a desert plain. Possibly less. She tried to speak but her throat had something heavy clogging it, a hamster somewhere down the endless mouth of a snake. Drenched in her own sweat on a day warm only by Antarctic standards, the absolute loss of moisture in her mouth caused a dry, shrill sort of chuckle. With the cogs in her mind jamming and rusting in place, some senses were more alive than ever. Like how her dear friend, dearest sweetest Ellie had let loose her supportive hold when her arm was so slick that her purse barely stayed. She looked down to where Detroit was emblazoned on her T-shirt, and for the first time she wished she were there. Detroit, New York, any town bigger than a couple of football fields. Any town, any place, where there was more than just the single solitary public house of Amsher.
“It’s a cold sort of life. You. Your brother. Just the two of you, come from God knows where. Most of us, we’ve been down here since our forefathers forefathers, and even that’s no real count. Sure them folks as come on over show us bits of the world outside, we’re no lost dingy little island in the midst of the wilderness, but now you planning on staying. And here. That’s a first, really, but can’t say as I’m not glad for the company, like I said a new friend being the rather dismal hope of most us local folk. Hoping you don’t mind of course, seeing how I get to be your friend, fought for the right good and hard I did.”
She wasn’t sure whether Ellie had prepared that little speech before she came knocking, or if it were really as genuine as her lopsided smile seemed to suggest. But making a friend here was something she had been afraid might never happen, and Ellie, with all her charm peeking out through her features, black cracked lipstick and a faded striped shirt was a more pleasant surprise than she would have dared to hope for. Ellie would grow into something to complement her as the year passed. Different as black and white, but there was no doubting the depth of their friendship. Never. Sceptics merely had to look to their lips, to see them smudged with colours so dark that they had become indiscernible. And good old Amsher, it wasn’t a place for sceptics. It was where the homely folk carried out their delicate balance between the centuries. Ellie just adjusted the weights a bit, so that she could fit in without tipping the scales.
“I’ll be out late tonight, so sorry about this. I know I said it would come to an end here, but you know how I have to work. It’s all for you, really it is. Just get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow. Night sis.”
Her brother walked out the door. The same words. Every time, more now than back in the big city. Any of the big cities, it had become difficult to remember how many they had been to any more. Coat wrapped tight around him, she watched the black figure fade until it become one with the dusk outside. She removed her face from the window then, drawing lightly where her breath had left its mark. A tear in the fabric. When he left, she was alone and the house was big and haunting. When he stayed, it was small, warm and comforting. When he stayed…
Three loud raps against the door snapped her out of the usual trance. When the one become two, the night that parts so cruelly. She shook her head in a violent little bob, clearing her thoughts as she got up and crossed the three yards to the door. Swinging it open, the braced position was instinctive as Ellie ran in to crush her in a hug that smelt more of bears than it felt like one. But when she stayed at the door, not moving to come in, the wind blew in more than just the cold.
“He’s off to the pub again. Let’s go there and surprise him. Night’s awfully cold as it is; don’t think I can stand to be indoors anywhere else. Nice drink, it’ll warm the both of us right up you’ll see.”
There are few things as loud as the beating of ones own heart. The dull thud as it pushes against the pitiful constraints of its cage, no master of handling details, pounding away in the ears to drown the brains futile attempt to make sense of things. Not her brother. He was her soul. Sworn to protect her forever, pure and angelic. No vice could touch him. And the pub, you could smell it. It lingered for hours after a visit, and he never smelt of it. He always smelt of the strong spirit aftershave. Of the deep woods he would frequent. Of bark and rain. She would know. She did know. Not her brother.
As she stood outside it still remained beyond her to ask why. Why she was there. Just a drink. To keep her warm, that’s all. No one she knew by name would be in there. One drink and they would go home to play with Ellie’s battered deck of cards. That was where she belonged. She hardly needed a drink now, perspiration making her glow fiercely. Ever nerve was on fire. Ellie had moved away, halfway through the door and staring at the half collapsed figure of her friend with a wondrous disbelief. She grinned in spite of herself, keeping her thought of whether 999 actually services Amsher to herself. The warm glow came to her through those heavy oak doors.
…pretend that you love me…
She pushed through then, a sudden burst of determination verging on hysteria. Every sense numbed. Her eyes took much too long to adjust to the light, her ears to the sounds. An ambience all its own. They had the right of that. Wood all around, everything made of wood, and the whole little town crammed into one small place to keep warm. To spend their night here, where the floor had turned dull from use, a sight rarely seen. Her eye wandered to the rows of bottles behind the bar, stacked to the ceiling. Glasses filled with liquids of every colour imaginable. And the smell. It overwhelmed her. The smell of wood. The smell of the people. And the smell of aftershave. She didn’t reel then. Spinning sharply on a heel her eyes bore holes through the nightly patrons. Faces swam past her, but there was just one she needed. Her gaze swept across the room. And again. And again and again and again until the floor rushed up to meet her.
Ellie was there then. She smiled her cracked black smile. And her dear friend, dearest sweetest friend smiled right back at her. They laughed then, loud and long. Neither knew what the other laughed for, but they laughed all the same, with not one curious eye upon them. This was Amsher. They’re good folk here. Decent folk. They wouldn’t gossip, not tell her about any other mans business. But there would be no asking. Because he wasn’t there. Not her brother.
He watched the doors swing violently behind him, his black coat tight around him. There is no sound so loud as the beating of ones heart. Once. Twice…
Eyes for you, only
It was a bright and sunny day. I feel that is very important. Very bright, as the sun beat down upon head and hair alike. Most certainly not the sort of day where I’d hide under my blankets thinking of some of my favourite things. The kind of day where the blue birds chirp and children hear songs of mischief. They say there is often a calm before the storm, and the eye of the hurricane is where no wind blows. Perhaps the storm had yet to come, or the day was in fact within its most fearsome portion. But for all that it mattered, it was a bright and sunny day.
That the young ones sprawled on the grass remained uncooked was only attributable to a lack of oil. With the mighty sun in the sky taking even from the once green grass, the children sagged and pushed their swings in a futile manner, hoping to catch the lightest breeze. I felt something of a hero, standing behind my rickety table laid with its green and white check cloth. The concrete of the little road cutting through the lanes of quaint little houses slowly baked, the air above shimmering ever so slightly. The houses were all the same then, triangular roofs painted brown over white block structures. Where the owners fought for a touch of character was in their lawns, each more well kept than the last. Finely cut grass with the smell that had once been so intoxicating now no more noticeable than that of Granny’s tobacco. There should have been flowers, but as wonderful as bright and sunny days might be, this wasn’t the sort that has sparrows taking leisurely dips in birdbaths. The kisses of the sun had left everything striking, refreshing yet bare.
The car drove in smoothly enough, coming into the driveway across the road. Bright red it was, glowing in a manner both arrogant and enrapturing. Might have been a Mini, but I never have known much of cars. Wishing I did changes few things, for the car is just another small detail. The door swung open and she stepped out. Been here long enough to know just about everyone in the neighbourhood, but I ain’t never seen her before.
Didn’t seem to matter though, the others knew her well enough, smiles flicking across their lazy faces as she started to cross. It was only then that I got a good look at her. If her car had been bright red, what she wear would have plain knocked a bull unconscious with rage. But where the car had looked arrogant, she shone. Not like a stop sign, oh no. Like a light from the heavens, in that red. There was more to her truly, but the overwhelming sensation of it made me indifferent to it all. What really doesn’t matter is beauty. I know that now. It doesn’t matter because she was the very epitome of it. There are some things that might depend on perspective, but what walked here was the very heart and soul of beautiful, her every movement capturing the sagging lips of the lawns denizens and pulling them from ear to ear. She went to Jan who sat on her little rocking horse next door, ruffled her hair a bit. And the air was full of arrows; green they were and shot from the eyes of every single sun-drenched fool who lay out there. But they turned to nought well before they reached her, guarded as she was in her flawless aura of fire. Jan whispered a word, and it was then that she looked at me.
To this day they tell me it was all wrong. No woman has eyes that are red, was just the sun reflected in them. But I know what I saw, and they held me there. My hand found the reassuring sides of my table and held it tight, the feel of a splinter cutting through my palm doing nothing for the trance I found myself in. She unbent her back, and started towards me. It was a long while until I realised she was standing right before me, saying something. But the scent drowned every word, the smell of burnt flowers, when all their fragrance escapes in one short burst. Only this burst would not end, it was a part of her, swirling itself around me, suffocating me. Only when she laughed and started to walk away did I realise what she had said.
Every movement hurt, as the jar tipped its contents into a paper cup that felt too fragile in my clammy hands. The once strong scent of lemons was lost as I filled it and tried to get around the table towards her. She was walking away, I could feel it more than I could see it. The others saw all right, with their eyes fixed on nothing else, but I was pulled. Her back covered in red was moving away, and I darted after it, pushing one foot in front of another with an effort altogether inhuman. She had crossed now, and was opening the boot of her car, the reds merging and twisting, one utter perfection, the other a loyal subject. They faded, and for a moment they became one. The moment when two reds met to become black, they never told me that happened in art class. The only other thing I remembered was the cool splash on my face, and the scent of a lemon.
It’s a terrible thing, and him so young. He’s seen but 12 summers, and that’s all he’ll ever see.
They said it was terrible. Others said I was lucky to still be there. The truck driver was a hero, braking when he did. No, he was a monster; look at what he’d done. Driving like so in a residential area. To me he was just the truck driver. I never learnt what became of him. And I never learnt what became of my lady in red. But it was no terrible thing. For I could still hear, and I heard how they all search for beauty in their lives. I had seen it. Truly. And whatever else the world might have shown me, what might have compared? I was blessed.
I have children now. The universe works its wonders, and they worked for me. So I had those things men crave. My family, my daughter. She’s the talk of the town, or so I hear. A child so beautiful, the like of which has never been seen. It doesn’t surprise me. I know who the mother was. And one day, when she’s old enough, I shall have her decked in red. She shall wear red, and she shall smell of flowers on fire. That, I swear, when the lemons sing to the water and sugar, my spawn shall go forth into the world, dressed in hells inferno.
