The sky turns turbulent colors, as the animals scurry helplessly for cover, into burrows, into caves, underground and into trees. The thunder booms and bounces off of the earth, lightning walks across the raging black and purple clouds. The merciless winds scream through the trees, tearing branches, plants and lives in its path. It roared through the trees as a warning, a warning that may be too late. Will the animals be safe? Will the forest soul be saved?
In the distance on a small hill, stands a weathered brown cabin, grey smoke billowing from its blackened chimney, dissipating into mist in the fierce winds. The old family chimes made of brass and tin long ago by some forgotten craftsman’s hands sing out a wild angry song, they cry for the things that may come and things best left forgotten. The porch is so dilapidated it is already a part of the scrubby bushes around the poor shelter. The very walls of the little home are gray with age and yet for reasons unknown they still stand firm against this terror from Mother Nature herself.
Vaguely seen, through the western soot-stained milky window, stands a tall slender figure, alone. There is no fear of the storm in the stance of the figure, only a kind of disparity. The sparkling sapphire blue eyes are sad, there is a trace of a bittersweet smile upon the rose lips. In the hands are such objects of intense loving memory, being held so tight, the fingers are growing white and cold with strain: a single black rose and a veil, both objects dusty and dry as though they have been around for an entire era and in these hands for all that time.
The room behind this figure is simple, her dress just a faded worn shift. A warm fire is crackling with warm invitation in the blackened, notched gray hearth. There is a table and two chairs in the center of the room, carved from the finest cherry wood. Two cherubs stand guard on each leg, two chairs mirror the pattern. The table is set for two, with handmade cream-colored candles and the finest of old painted china, although the glasses are cracked and the plates are worn from age. A quick look would make one think of a small intimate celebration, two lovers sharing an evening of wine, warmth, and love. Look closer at this carefully set table; this image of happiness is out of place, for this can give us a clue as to the cause of this figure’s despair: one setting is clean and shining, the other has the dust of years upon it, as though it too is waiting; for who we may never know. So there at the window this beautiful woman still stands, as the wind itself calls out to her, ‘don’t cry my love, don’t cry’.
The forest falls silent for moment untold as the cabin is now in the terrible eye of this vicious, bruising storm. All creatures freeze in their movements to look up and track the circle of black furious clouds as they swirl in to strike once again, once more in awe of the Gods and their anger. In this moment, the only sound to be heard was of the very earth itself. All the creatures were feeling their own mortality as they watched the final onslaught begin. With a deafening crash, and a blinding flash, suddenly the storm raged again, the thunder came roaring down upon all, and the lightning resumed its angry walk in the sky, the flashes outlining every movement, every sound, and each soul within miles of the little cabin and the forest around it.
As she stood watch a solitary tear formed at the corner of her sapphire eye, it sparkled and hung for a moment like a perfect crystal before it slowly ran down her porcelain cheek. There was something more to this storm than fear or sadness, something of which she could never be made to tell, for she knew no chosen one would come to her aid this time. Before emotions could overwhelm this sweet mysterious lady, she took up her lantern, went to the cot in the corner of her one room home, and turned down the blanket. Then she slowly turned down the light, and lay down, until sleep could eventually take her away from this deep despair and the foul darkness that seemed to be closing in on her spirit and soul. She watched the flames as they slowly died out in the hearth, and as their light and warmth disappeared, her eyes seemed to lose their own light as they slipped closed.
The storm raged on through the night, blowing and rattling the cabin, tearing the nearby trees from their roots, obscuring some paths, and making new ones in other places. The animals did their best to survive; any humans would have been lost in a storm such as this. The sky seemed to have grown a mind full of hatred as it tore at the forest. Nothing except the cabin was left unscathed in its path, infuriating it even more, or so it seemed.
Unknown "Cheeky" Frisky
- 16 years, 5 months, 17 days ago
