A moment alone

It was the kind of day where the sun would only shine as it set, casting a pall over the riot of color in the trees. Even the chill which had crept in over night, bringing an anxious demeanor to the squirrels zigzagging over the lawn, could not breathe life into the day. It was as if the day had died. The fields filled with broken corn stalks and dried soy beans only added to the somber tone. Summer was long gone and even the bright patches of Fall could not hide that fact anymore.

She sat quietly with the gray light of the dead day and let her mind turn to horror movies, it was the season was it not. Would she feel more alive if a child walked out of the corn with bright blue eyes or a red ballon drifted by? She doubted it, but a part of her still waited for the goosebump shivers and startled scream as if it were a lifeline.

She was sure people thought her odd, not many walked in graveyards just because or stared at shadows till they took shape, but that wasn’t hers to deal with. That was the concern of others. She just wanted to enjoy the numbing void for awhile before they ruined it all.

Her fingers itched, all sticky and tacky, but it was the sirens that bothered her the most.

She had just wanted a moment alone.

It was already over

Fall rolled in like a thunder storm, dark and ominous. In New England the changing season was more than a damp heaviness in the air, it was an assault to the senses, and it sent the many inhabitants of Concord into frenzy. It seemed to Abigail that the riot of color came with a warning call only the busybody could hear. In her limited experience, it seemed, people’s minds got smaller when the nights grew longer. As if the dark could shrink a person’s world view.

She had seen the hold fear could have during the last smallpox outbreak, which had taken her mother and Daniel two winters back. It still woke Abigail in the night, the way hatred had filled eyes and soured words when she had begged for help that never came. Her Father had preached forgiveness and fortitude of spirit, and she had done as she was bade, but now he too was gone. His last breaths rolling out as the fall thunder rolled in.

It was hard for her to define the venom in every word cast in her direction, but after he was buried Abigail could sense it. While the ire of the town chafed at Abigail it did not stop her. She tended the geese and family plot earning coin with her own hands.

Abigail might have felt put out if not for the pleasure of providing for herself. All the while thinking that the dreadful future Reverend Burroughs had spelled out for her after the funeral was disappearing. With each successful endeavor Abigail became more certain that independence suited her and that she did not need to take a husband. She was not just surviving hand to mouth she was thriving, with no time for mournful thoughts.

Abigail had dismissed the town’s importance.

And the town was infuriated.

It happened in an instant. One second, she was harvesting the last of her wheat by the light of a full moon. The next, she was in the commons surrounded by the light glinting off their unyielding stares. It was in their bright eyes that Abigail finally discovered the emotion’s name. Paranoia. But it was too late.

If she was honest she would have admitted it was over long before the end. When they force-fed her the tooth they plucked from her jaw, it was already over. When her joints snapped as she tried so hard to avoid the touch of their hot irons, she was beyond salvation. It wasn’t until they tied her to the sugar maple, and piled the branches filled with flame red leaves around her that finally, wordlessly, she called to me.

But I offered something other than salvation.

Seasons change, tides turn

As she walked purposefully toward the hill crest the leaves didn’t crunch underfoot, they whispered. Still their message was clear.

Respect the passage of time.

Diana didn’t need the reminder though. Everywhere she looked the delicate balance of life and death was being played out for all to see. Healthy feed corn on withered stalks. Vibrant colored trees dropping leaves like rainclouds. Even the air seemed to spin with wild abandon from sunlight warmed to bonfire perfumed icy breath.

She like the manic feel of Fall. The frenzy of soaking up every last dappled drop of light before night overtook day. The rush of completing each autumnal event on the list. Apple picking, check. Pumpkin carving, check. Cider mulling, double check. Each outdoor activity fighting off the not so secret fear of a pending winter. To Diana euphoria tempered with melancholia was the ideal mindset for this moody season.

From August through November she had watched the world change before her very eyes with each storm or frosty morning. Finally, perched at last upon her vantage point the whole of Diana’s small town was laid out before her. It was quaint, her town, filled with a bright history, like so many others, but it’s future was shadowy at best. For a moment it seemed to Diana that she could see both past and future in that panorama. For a second the frenzy gave way to clarity.

Seasons change, tides turn, and time marches on.

In the face of such certainty Diana felt easy for the first time in months. We are all in this together she thought, looking longingly over her shoulder jealously wanting to hold on to her moment of peace, during dark winter nights and balmy summer days… only time would tell which way the balance was falling.

Autumnal Blur

The world wooshed by in an autumnal blur as the Starling Express sped onward.  Even though the blur left Lonnie feeling slightly dizzy he never looked away, like his sister Katrina did, he stared barely blinking.  He was so transfixed so expectant that something exciting would happen that others often found themselves staring out his window too.  Lonnie never noticed them shaking their heads as they walked away.  This was how he had first seen a deer, once a salmon swimming up river jumping a tiny waterfall, and town after town fade away as rails zigged and zagged.  Secretly he felt that just as the train ate mile after mile of track his eyes drank in panoramic sights and slightly smudged Kodak moments.  It was his little blurry world and he loved it.

All rights to owner

Just to…

My Lady…

With dew covered lips you enticed me,

A maiden making promises of womanhood,

And I ran to you

Just to walk with you.

With honeyed words you called to me,

A woman in full bloom,

And I dreamt of you

Just to lie with you.

With heavy limbs you gestured to me,

A mother flush with life,

And I stayed with you,

Just to lose myself in you.

With bleak eyes will you beckon me,

A sage at the well of wisdom,

For I would sit with you

Till the end of you.

*******
Today marks the first day of fall, my favorite season. So… doubly inspired by the idea of the Maid/Mother/Crone female trinity, found in Celtic mythology, and the transitions from one season to the next I wrote my ode to mother nature.

Break out the sweaters, heat up some cider, and let the leaves fall ’cause its Autumn!

Her Spot

The Tire Swing by Shirle Reade

It was her spot.  Not as secret or hidden as she might have wanted, only out of ear shot not out of sight, but hers nonetheless.  Her coat lay in a puddle of bright bubble gum pink, forgotten, amongst the cool grass and wet leaves.  Her mother had insisted she wear it today.  Perhaps, needing to feel in control of something, as mothers often do, but the likely hood of her disobedience being discovered was slim.  So she chanced it.  Because her mother didn’t understand, today was perfect.  The sun was warm where it touched her with it’s dappled light, and though the wind was cold its bite was intermittent.  As the frosty air blew back her long chestnut pigtail braids she smiled at the blue sky and its heavy clouds.  Because it was fall, and from her tire swing perch life was perfect.

Fear the Reaper

The fear was palpable, yet everyone stood at ridged attention unable to hunch or hide from the coming of fate.  Even the slightest breeze could cause a flurry of turmoil here, as without meaning to one would brush up against the next, so tightly packed in were they.  That however was the way of things…here.  There was no escape, if you were born here then you died here.  The nights had gotten longer, and even those with the most closed of ears could hear the hum of the harvest getting closer.  Destiny was finally upon them and its name was combine.

Harvested corn field

This is a 100 Word Challenge for adults. The prompt was HARVEST, and the challenge is to use 100 words plus the prompt (ie 101 words total) to tell your story. The link closes on Monday. Have fun writing!

Autumn Rocker

Though the days were getting shorter a nervous bubbly feeling seemed to paint everything with brighter colors these last few days.  It was the subtle changes that were working their way into everything the first red leaves in the front tree, the cool evenings, and misty mornings; Fall was about drop right into everyone’s lap.  Sitting on the porch rocking gently he watched while a good storm worked its way by bringing flashes of lightning, a course of thunder claps, and the slap of rain drops on cement.  So what if this neighborhood wasn’t one of the priciest in town autumn was on its way and the riot of colors that preceded the cold of winter was not confined to the gated communities or the heirloom houses it would even venture across the Windy creek to this stoop.  Gently shutting his eyes he could almost imagine it what it would be like to live on a pumpkin farm or an apple orchard where life shined through everything, these were two of his most secret thoughts.  Which meant that he had never shared them with the guys he ran around with, who only thought of football or Halloween candy as the bracing weather started in, for fear of becoming the butt of any and all jokes.  However, try as he might he never filled with adrenaline while the timer ran out on the stadium’s scoreboard.  The maze was a different story altogether though, he positively danced with excitement at the thought of going out and working the corn maze all those chilly October nights.  A slammed car door to his left broke his retrieve.

In the gray drizzle he had trouble making out the silhouette of the woman who had exited on the driver’s side.  While trying to pierce the building gloom he grew anxious feeling out-of-place sitting on his own.  It finally dawned on him that it was his mother’s approach he was watching so closely and suddenly looked down as if he could not bear the sight of her or the rust colored mums she was carrying.  It was as if the sound had gone out of everything as he stopped rocking and held his breath.  She walked up the steps and crossed the porch to the door.  He stood and lunged for her free hand and in that moment it came back; the spiced scent of her fresh-baked pumpkin pie, the taste of ice-cold apple cider, her laugh which had colored all of his childhood memories.  Slowly she smiled and turned towards the lone chair which creaked back and forth from his hasty departure.

“I missed you,” he whispered so softly it was carried away by the wind which already held the rustling of leaves.

Her smile faltered for a second before returning slightly strained “I love you too.”

Tears stood in her eyes as she turned and entered the house where she walked over to the tiny picture window and set down the mums adjusting the curtains so that they could easily be seen from the porch or the street.  She watched the rocking chair her hand outstretched but not quite touching the glass.

Outside he sat back down and returned to rocking his eyes locked onto the sassafras tree at the end of the road which was doing its best to out do the red maple two houses down, and thought now I wait for the pumpkins and hay bales.

Inside she straitened the tiny card form the florist’s which read:

For Riley, never forgotten always missed.

Silently she left the window and walked through the nearest doorway.