Originally I had an idea. Perhaps it was from the hard times I felt I was in, or the new experiences that I had overcome. I was emotionally beaten, so to speak, at the time of the first thread of inspiration. For over a year the idea remained and developed between heart and mind. My first attempt to putting it on paper is directly comparable to pulling out my heart and slapping it on a sheet of paper. In essence, it was all metaphorical, dramatic, and impossible for anybody else to understand. It was good though, and something I never had expected. It was a free written poem. Yet, like my young heart, it wasn't fully developed. I still had much to learn, and I needed to continue my life's story to know how to complete the story. I abandoned my project for a year, the idea still growing within me.
I'm not an experienced writer, and completing this story has been a difficult task for me. I have never written in this style or emotion before. It is composed sheerly of the few lessons I have received, and the many examples I can relate to. It's a student's work. I've rewritten it two times, and drafted it countless times for the result I have come to. The story is not perfect, and neither am I. That's the beauty of it. You may interpret the story how you wish. The true meaning may only be seen through my eyes, but the words I have decided to share.
The paining imagery and extended metaphors drove me insane at times when I wrote my first draft over a year ago. It's almost as though the story itself was trying to force itself out of my body. My life's emotions at the time were very unpleasant, yet I had to deal with them. That's life. As I finished my story, however, for the last time, all the original feelings were relieved and went away. I was supposed to write this story, and I am glad that I have. Now I feel better. Writing can give the greatest sense of relief. In this case, it has healed me. I suppose it's much like an artist's need to paint a picture of the Savior, or a composer's to write a symphony. I chose to write.
Old Pictures
He sat down in his glossy leather chair, once again resting his gaze upon the oak framed pictures that stood heavily upon his desk. He sighed deeply, releasing air from the top of his lungs. He looked through the office window one last time, missing the view of the dirty city that he would never again have. “You no longer fulfill our expectations. Your work is unsatisfactory and inconsistent with the needs of the company.” The middle aged man with a nearly faked solemn face soon returned to his dark cave as quickly as he had appeared. “No point lingering on the past” said the no longer working man.
He looked back at his old pictures. Within the frames her large brown eyes seemed to pierce him to his heart. They always had. Her figure would forever be trapped within the wooden walls of his old memories. “Charles, what troubles you?” she would have asked, her nose pressed to his neck, hands embraced. He recalled her spicy yet sweet aroma. He stood, holding his pictures in his arms. They weighed him down, pushing his feet into the floor.
He stumbled into the cloud of darkness that limply rested upon the city. His strides were long and unsteady. His hands still held the physical memories he treasured for a long year. He meandered past a little old authentic pasta shop. Claire used to take him there, sweetly persistent, taking him by the hand. She always spoke of the culture and foreign smells. He never understood.
He pushed through the eerie blanket that laid all around him. The sky flaked him with its salty interpretation, stinging his face and hands. It seemed to mock him in his frailty. He took no notice, lost in his own thoughts. His long walk was mindless; he had traveled this path a thousand times. Old images, scents, and dreams drifted through his mind and past his eyes, taunting his vision.
“One year has passed.”
“You counted.”
“Some days I can still hear her laugh.”
“You cannot travel forward with your eyes behind you.”
His footsteps dragged behind him, hiding in his dying shadow. His legs moved without him telling them to. Words echoed in his head: “Unsatisfactory,” “Inconsistent.” “Worthless,” he added, stabbing at his image. He trembled and walked, his head down. He was going to walk until he could walk no more. The world rotated beneath his feet, holding him in place while it moved.
He reached the city’s edge, looming in front of the dying past. Grassy fields surrounded, rolling eternally into a distance unfathomed. Small forests spuriously touched the outskirts, dotting the countryside. Magnificent white mountains stood the greatest distance, curtained by clouds lit with golden light. The land resembled a painting he saw so long ago. The breeze so silent breathed around his clothing, brushing his skin and tousling his hair. He listened, waiting for questions he already knew the answers to. So overwhelming, the scene slept before him. His shoes seemed rooted to the ground.
The pictures fell, twirling as if a dream to the ground. He paid no notice, willing himself to move forward. He argued with himself dishonestly as he always had.
“What is it that holds you still?”
“Only I have that power.”
“The world lies before you. Your dreams, your future, your heart.”
“But, that is all finished.”
“This is only the beginning.”
“Truth is easy until your heart starts beating.”
He cocked his head to one side. A paradox, a risk, a leap of faith. He had heard this so many times before. He knew best things are worth giving all to grasp with just the ends of his fingers. He must hold on with every ounce of his existence, wishing and praying that he could reach a little further. He felt his empty hands, softly moving his fingers over small crevices and toughened skin.
He removed his shoes and stepped fervently into the fresh green opportunity. He kept his eyes fixed ahead of him. With the end of one journey begins another, more eager than the last. A hawk sounded, an impossible distance from the earth. He knew he had to move. Time and direction were what he needed; everything happened slowly. He walked through the sleepy hills, creating a new path as he moved alone, shuffling his feet through soft shaded strands slipping between his toes. He had no momentum. Every step was a new challenge, paining him as he sank into the night. He was cushioned and protected. The city shrank pathetically against his back. He needn’t look to understand. The woe of the world finally leaving him in peace.
The further he found himself, the stronger he became.
The face in the sky watched the man from his throne, setting a bloom upon the landscape. Dances flew swiftly in Charles’ eyes. A display everywhere, a pleasure to the eyes and soul. The edges of forests were alive and breathing. The mysteries of the world seemed to drag him in, taking him to their mansions of glory. His senses livened, and he began to run. He had shed a grand undertaking, and loosened the serpents that bound him. He never would stop for oxygen. His bare skin slapped endlessly upon the changing earth.
He ran with purpose.
He felt a prickle against the back of his head. He could not have seen reality, neglected like a banished storm bound to return. Folded against his mind, a small trickle seeped. He refused, shaking his head. His heart pounded like hammer against anvil. He should have seen.
With a roar, a push, and a thud, he was slammed to the ground. He let out a sharp cry. He hadn’t caught himself. His ribs were on fire, screaming horrifically. He gasped for breath, unable to take in any more than a groan. He rolled to one side, begging for a glimpse of his adversary. A beast of inconceivable definition loomed above Charles’ form. Lost in shadow, his lungs had lost capacity. The beast with his death jaws enveloped his feet and began dragging him at an impossible speed, whipping him across the ground. Darkness began closing around him. What he knew of the world had begun to be swallowed up within his eyes.
Fog shrouded his mind, slowly climbing deeper towards the earth. He was weightless, yet being crushed by the depth and despair of the air around him. He felt a yank like a stone from molasses, his conscious being pulled from him. He thought of her. “No!” he gasped. He would not allow what would come. He stretched and twisted, denying everything that made him lost. He would return. With a scream and a sharp tug, a sudden blackness overcame him.
He heard a voice just above his head “Have you given up?” He groaned and attempted to roll over, but to no avail. He knew the voice.
“I am disappointed.” She said. Her voice was a kind of sadness.
“Why did you leave me?” he said. He didn't need to think to ask.
“It was my time. My purpose was served.”
“Why so soon?”
She paused before speaking again. “There was one more lesson you needed to learn.”
He sensed her presence fade. He understood.
There was a glimmer, a glimpse, and a cough. Settled dew assuaged the air. The ground was wet beneath him, cradling his body in its wake. He felt the heat of the moon against his skin. It stung for only a moment. Cold air seeped into his throat and painfully his chest arose from dry pensive inconvenience. He rolled onto his knees, using his hands to withstand his stiff spine. His eyes lifted upward. He beheld his deliverer.
Not far beyond uncovered distance stood a glorious figure of radiance. On two strong legs and firmly placed feet, she looked through his weaknesses, into his submissive eyes. Against the forest, Claire stood. Charles’ feet found stability against all odds. He stood uneasily. He then knew something he never had before. “She never left me.” She showed a smile of relief at his new understanding. Time has His unlikely compassion, but an ally strong and purposed.
He listened. Crickets chirped all around him, playing their song. Winds spoke, caressing the penitent trees. He inhaled moist air awaiting opportunity. Atmosphere gripped him, holding him firmly against the ground. His breath was barely noticeable. He took in the sight where he stood.
She said nothing with necessity. A slow heartening nod was given to him. He accepted his indebted heart beating. She turned, treading lightly, and sank into the living forest.
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