untitled
This is the first bit in a short I'm working on. Please, tell me what you think, where I can improve, what you think is going on. I should post another bit soon.
The wind pushes its way through the window that was left ajar. It throws the window the rest of the way open, and catches the curtains. The black stark against the white room, they are pushed futher and farther from their normal vertical state. The branches of the snag outside the window reach in, too, seemingly coming after the curtains as hunter and hunted both flee from the wind’s touch. The curtains and branches dance to the storms ethereal music; thunder clashing, rain beating out a staccato rhythm, strangely enhanced by the stirrings of the leaves littering the ground outside the window.
She sits up in the bed under the window. The sheet that had been covering her shoulders slips down, leaving her in white. She looks at the wind and curtains and branches in their careful dance, and smiles.
Later, you can see her outside of that bedroom window, laughing as she plays tag with the dancers who woke her up, all beautifully choreographed to the symphony of the storm.
----
I don’t know why I watch her. She seems so . . . different. Insane, almost. She scares me, she’s so different, but I can’t look away.
----
The branches of two ancient trees clashed in combat. This is the epic war, the battle that will define their worlds, it will decide who lives or dies. It’s hard and it’s loud, the deep beat of the tree’s irrational anger untempered by any melody.
She stands between them, trying, with just her slight frame, to keep the two combatants apart. They do not heed her, and continue to break themselves against each other, destroying themselves over some forgotten slight. Still crying, she finds a long branch from each of them, and joins their frenzied fury. But for her, it’s not a battle of rage, but a strong and slow movement for harmony, a plea for a rhyme and reason, for a theme, in the broiling sea of chaos.
As she dances between them, for that is what she is doing, her own swords of wood fencing with their own weapons, the world slows. As she dances, the tree branches calm, now not fighting, but are swirling in tempo to her bare feet as they hit the ground and the reverberations of wood-on-wood that seem to be the heartbeat of the world, slowing down to peace after its edge-of-reason war. They swing together as the leaves swirl up from around her feet, and lightning strikes down from the sky.
Still dancing as the moon rises and watches over them with a benign and knowing eye. She laughs, for the first time since the beginning of her epic dance of death and life and love. The sound echoes off the hill on which two bare trees stand, branches and dead leaves moving in the frantic wind and where a slight girl in white laughs as if the world is about to end.
----
I don’t understand her. She is so beyond anything I’ve ever know, it’s hard to even describe her. She is more, and at the same time less, than any other person I have ever know. She is so . . . I can’t even describe it.
And I can’t stop watching her.
---
review.
The wind pushes its way through the window that was left ajar. It throws the window the rest of the way open, and catches the curtains. The black stark against the white room, they are pushed futher and farther from their normal vertical state. The branches of the snag outside the window reach in, too, seemingly coming after the curtains as hunter and hunted both flee from the wind’s touch. The curtains and branches dance to the storms ethereal music; thunder clashing, rain beating out a staccato rhythm, strangely enhanced by the stirrings of the leaves littering the ground outside the window.
She sits up in the bed under the window. The sheet that had been covering her shoulders slips down, leaving her in white. She looks at the wind and curtains and branches in their careful dance, and smiles.
Later, you can see her outside of that bedroom window, laughing as she plays tag with the dancers who woke her up, all beautifully choreographed to the symphony of the storm.
----
I don’t know why I watch her. She seems so . . . different. Insane, almost. She scares me, she’s so different, but I can’t look away.
----
The branches of two ancient trees clashed in combat. This is the epic war, the battle that will define their worlds, it will decide who lives or dies. It’s hard and it’s loud, the deep beat of the tree’s irrational anger untempered by any melody.
She stands between them, trying, with just her slight frame, to keep the two combatants apart. They do not heed her, and continue to break themselves against each other, destroying themselves over some forgotten slight. Still crying, she finds a long branch from each of them, and joins their frenzied fury. But for her, it’s not a battle of rage, but a strong and slow movement for harmony, a plea for a rhyme and reason, for a theme, in the broiling sea of chaos.
As she dances between them, for that is what she is doing, her own swords of wood fencing with their own weapons, the world slows. As she dances, the tree branches calm, now not fighting, but are swirling in tempo to her bare feet as they hit the ground and the reverberations of wood-on-wood that seem to be the heartbeat of the world, slowing down to peace after its edge-of-reason war. They swing together as the leaves swirl up from around her feet, and lightning strikes down from the sky.
Still dancing as the moon rises and watches over them with a benign and knowing eye. She laughs, for the first time since the beginning of her epic dance of death and life and love. The sound echoes off the hill on which two bare trees stand, branches and dead leaves moving in the frantic wind and where a slight girl in white laughs as if the world is about to end.
----
I don’t understand her. She is so beyond anything I’ve ever know, it’s hard to even describe her. She is more, and at the same time less, than any other person I have ever know. She is so . . . I can’t even describe it.
And I can’t stop watching her.
---
review.