The Woods

The fog stopped dead at the treeline, as if terrified, and rolled no farther. Had it not been for this immediate dispersal, we would’ve – one of us – walked right into that giant oak, setting loose our hands from one another for a sullen decade of a brief moment. Cautiously, we veered left around the oak and made our way into the woods. It was here that we began to breathe deeply with one another, our chests rising and falling in symmetry. A smile, then in.

The frost-bitten leaves lay shattered under the weight of our naked soles, their corpses strewn ever so respectfully in the wake of our midnight wandering. Though the trees were thick and stood in groups, huddling in any vain attempt for warmth, the moonlight shone through their naked branches. An act of arrogance, we agreed, for that proud old man provided us with far more than the light we would need for an adventure such as this. That noted, we traveled on northward in a straight line, veering northwest once we reached the river, frozen solid as it was.

Your hand freed itself of mine and you repositioned, finding yourself more content in the crook of my arm. I retreated to my pockets, feeling the shiver creeping upward from my knees and through my thighs. It was colder now. The wind must’ve found itself less daring here in the darker part of the forest where the trees stood even thicker and more ominous. We pictured him back at the treeline, boasting to the fog at his making it even this far. How much more brave of the children he was.

When we came to the place where we could see the city lights speckled through the thinner trees, we stopped. Seeing you shudder, I gathered the fallen leaves and branches nearby and made a fire. How long that took! They were cold and stubborn, the kindling, as if this cold was so endless and unforgiving that it made them abandon any hope in the idea of warmth altogether. The smell of sulfur and traces of orange hue cupped in my hand, though, convinced them in time.

You leaned against my shoulder and melted, as if I were the fire and not the light in front of us. We gazed again at those speckled city lights, telling stories and imagining us there. You asked me to talk longer, for you loved to listen; and when I paused to breathe, I could hear you smiling.

The flames grew too short to stand and were now dark red embers, glowing in the blackened cold. The fog and wind had worked together to hoist themselves above us, clouding the moon over in thick layers, fraying at the ends. The cold crept around us and more intensely, no doubt resentful of our companionship with the fire. We gazed once more at the city, whose lights were fewer now, but just as luminous and inviting as they had been in the waking hours. We leaned back against the leaves, softened from our heat, and stared up at the cloudy night sky. Having taken our jackets off, we cushioned our heads and surrendered to the cold.

Smiling now at each other we lay still, hand in hand, knowing we would both die here.
In pieces, sure, if not our wholes.

Filed under: Prose, Writing

The Storyteller’s Gospel, pt. 1: The Amber Sky at Sunrise

His story begins as any epic would.

The world had, for many years, been without the light of hope. History had become shapeless and void, a repeating cycle of kings and wars, birth and death, inescapable from the dull and constant pain of monotony. Day was a steady burn of dry and unrelenting heat, although the sun didn’t seem to shine quite as brightly as it had before. Night was cold and silent, devoid of a gentle wind or soothing rain. This cycle held strong for hundreds of years. Generations of mankind lived and died, ignorant to the sweet taste of the fruit of change.

There were those, however, who held on to what little hope they found. Many still whispered in locked rooms of the promise of a prophecy fulfilled. Some even dared to speak openly about this man who would come and breathe life back into the world. Most, though, just rested wearily in shadow.

Rumor began to grow of a child whose parents had narrowly escaped capture by the King’s men who had wanted to kill him. The general consensus was that they had fled the country. Whispers grew louder and louder. People were becoming curious as to why the King wanted this particular child so badly. Most people dismissed it as a wive’s tale or urban myth. But, for some reason, they could feel the foreign twinge of excitement in their bones.

A man living in the wilderness began to gain a good deal of attention. He was widely considered insane, but skeptics who went to see him found themselves in shocking agreement with him. He said what most had wanted to say, but couldn’t utter it any louder than a whisper. This man shouted openly about the end of these dark times.

Crowds gathered to hear him speak, most just feeding their curiosity. He began initiating people into the hope that a man would someday bring. He spoke of this man as if he were here, among them, weaving through the crowds. Skeptical, people questioned when this man was coming, if at all.

A morning came that was different than those of late. The sky was amber bright and the wind came in like a soft, flowing silk draped over tender skin. More people than ever had come to see the man in the wilderness that morning. Something was different, something they could feel. Even the man in the wilderness was different. He did not shout, he did not preach. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He stood devastatingly still. After several minutes, his eyes glistening with the clear and honest heat of tears, he simply pointed.

The crowd stood silent in confusion for a moment, then slowly turned around. On the hillside behind them, silhouetted by the amber bright sky, there he was.

The child in exile. The embodiment of their trembling anxiety. The man who had been born into legend.

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Filed under: Prose, Theology, Writing