#FlashMobWrites 1×21 : Song Of Sorrow

We have been here since the day the first drop of water fell from heaven. We watched as one drop became two, became hundreds, then thousands. We saw the birth of the oceans, the sky, the clouds, even that of life itself. We will be here to see the end. The death of life, the last cloud, the sky fade to black and the last drop of water boil away as the Giver of Life grows old, burns away the sky and sets fire to the Earth. We walk the days of life, each of us follows another in a circle made by the Giver of Life.

Summer brings heat. Long days filled with light, color, and life. Life grows in Summer’s wake. The newborn become children. Children become the grown. The grown watch the generations who follow them, and wonder if they’ve taught them enough of life.

Fall follows Summer, when each day grows shorter. Fall warns of what is to follow, stands on the mountain tops, and cries, “Beware! Beware! Prepare! Prepare!” The children cry when the days grow too short, and they can no longer play. The grown gather the things they’ve learned to gather from the generations who have gone before. They know what is to come. They gather wood, cotton, and grain, so they will survive. For they know who follows Fall.

They know Winter comes, when the days are short, the light is dim, the air is bitter cold. The plants hide in the ground and wait until it’s time for them to grow again. Life sleeps. It curls up in its bed, in its home, where they’ve stored the wood, cotton, and grain, and they sleep, and hope the circle continues, unbroken, once more. It is the old who feel Winter the most. The old who surrender to the cold, as the fire of life in them finally burns out.

I am Spring and I follow the sorrow Winter brings. As Winter walks away, I begin to grow the days until they thaw the ground, melt the snow and ice. Once the ice is gone, the plants push from the ground, and once more reach for the heat, and the warmth of the Giver of Life. The grown give birth to another generation of the newborn. The colors of the world fade back into existence, replacing the white and grey of the snow and ice. Everything, and everyone awakens from the sleep of Winter.

Then Summer follows me, and our circle starts again, as it has countless times.

We have been here since the day the first drop of water fell from heaven. We have seen all of this world. We know all everything about this world. About life, and death, joy and agony, laughter and tears. We have seen life come and go, thrive and fail, rise and fall.

And we have many stories to share.

483 words
@LurchMunster

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This is my entry into #FlashMobWrites 1×21, hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels. Please, go read all the stories in for #FlashMobWrites 1×21. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?

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Fall Flash Festival : My Fall

I stood on the beach, watching the waves, wondering how long it would be until I struck the ground again. Like I do every year. Every fall. Sometimes, I think they named this time of year perfectly. Fall. And every year, I do.

It was good to stand on the beach and watch the sunrise. The sun always brought color back to the world. The blue-green, grey, and white of the ocean and it’s waves. The pale blue of the sky, with it’s wispy white clouds. The green and gold of the sea oats. The shades of brown and tan in the sand.

Watching the colors come back reminded me, like all things, Fall and Winter eventually ended, yielding to Spring. In roughly 26 weeks. Spring. I always look forward to that. Fall. I never look forward to that.

As I stood in the dark, before the dawn, everything was a shade of black, or gray. I knew, as the leaves changed from their many shades of green, to their painted shades of gold, yellow, red, and brown, those leaves would fall to the ground. And leave bare trees. All of them, shades of gray. All of them the same.

I knew, the roses would bloom one last time. Defiantly painting themselves in oceans of pink, yellow, white, peach, bronze, and red. I knew those brilliant splashes of color would fade, the petals of each bloom would curl, and fall, beneath the ocean of gray fall always brought.

Already I could feel a nip in the wind, a hint of the biting cold that would grow in the days ahead. That little hint of the coming Winter. The playful nip of cold, like a puppy’s playful nip. A nip that grew throughout the fall into the searing bite of a full-grown, predatory wolf. Hunting every last shred of life it could find. Hell-bent on sinking its teeth in, and crushing that life in it’s jaws.

Fall. That time of year where all hope faded. Where the bottom fell out of my world, my life. Where the ground I’d stood on, the hill I’d climbed in Spring and Summer ended. And I walked off a cliff I never saw coming. A cliff that just appeared. Where the solid ground I stood on simply fell away. And I fell too.

Fall. At least it was named accurately.

There had been a time, not so many years ago, when Fall brought despair. When Fall heralded the return of the demon my depression was.

Until I learned to walk along the beach. In the hour before the dawn. And watch the sun climb out of the ocean, into the sky once more. And watch as the shades of black and grey faded away. And the colors of the world came to life again.

Until I learned to Fall heralds the return of the Camellia trees to full bloom. Their shades of white, pink and red, reminding me the Fall and Winter don’t last. They end. As if the Camellia trees catch me as I fall, and gently place me on the ground.

I knew Fall would grow the demon of depression within me. The darkness of my life would grow, just like the length of each night. But I’d learned. The darkness would never win. So long as the Camellias bloomed in the dead of Winter once again. So long as the sun rose every morning, and painted over the darkness of the night, and brought back the colors of life.

588 Words
@LurchMunster

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I wrote this for the Fall Flash Festival, hosted by Eric Martell and Daniel Swensen. Please, go read all the other stories written for the festival. They all show the magic of words.

Fairies : Happy Tears

Sunshine woke up one morning.
Just as the sun was peaking
Over the trees
And lighting up the lake.

“Oh, pretty,” she thought.
So she pulled her sun-dress on,
Went to the hole in the floor of her home.
And dropped to the ground below.

She walked to the side of the lake,
Where she turned to the East,
And watched the sun
As it peeked through the top branches
Of the trees.

“Oh, pretty,” she thought once more.
So she stood there for a while,
Watching as the sun slowly rose
Above the trees.
And brought all the colors
Of the world
To her eyes once again.

Sunshine smiled.
“Good morning, Mr. Sun.”
She laughed.
And then she waved at the sun
Up in the sky.
“Thank you for today.”

Sunshine walked
Along the edge of the lake.
Until she reached the trees
At the lake’s Northern edge.
And that’s when she saw
Her favorite wild rose-bush.

It was her favorite bush.
With hundreds of pink flowers.
Like the ones the villagers
Had put on the cake
They’d made for her
One day.

Sunshine looked at the rose-bush.
And saw that it was wilting some.
She knew it would be.
It had been slowly wilting
In the past few days.

Sunshine had been very happy
Living by the lake.
In a home all her own.
With her big sister, Musica,
And he little sister, Dream.
And her favorite Mother ever,
Mystica.

Sunshine knew she could make it rain,
Just by being sad.
By crying tears of loneliness.
And she could make it storm
By crying tears of hurt and pain.
But the weather got really bad
When Sunshine got mad.

She liked to be happy.
Because on the days she was happy.
It never, ever rained.
And the sky was always blue.
With cottony white clouds
Floating up above the trees.

Sunshine wished there was something
She could do.
To help the rose-bush out.
She knew it had enough water,
It was right next to the lake.

But she’d begun to think
That living things,
Like trees,
And grass,
And roses,
Needed rain sometimes.
Just to be OK.

That if rain didn’t fall
Every now and then,
The plants would miss something.
And it would hurt them.
And make them sad.
And they’d begin to wilt.
Like her friend
The rose-bush had.

So she closed her eyes,
And thought real hard,
About what to do.

She wasn’t sad at all.
That meant it wouldn’t rain.
So she reached out her little hands,
And gently touched the rose-bush
While she apologized to it.
“I’m sorry my dear friend.
That I haven’t found a way
To bring to you today
The rain you need so much.
Please tell me you’re OK.”

She stood there with her hands
Touching leaves on the rose-bush.
And each leave she touched
Was so beautiful to her.
She got so very happy
That she cried.

At first she didn’t understand
How she could cry and be happy
At the same time.
But she realized
It was a natural thing.
Just like sunshine.
Just like rain.
That sometimes you could be
So very, very happy,
That you cried tears of joy,
Not tears of pain.

And as Sunshine stood there
Touching those rose leaves,
That’s just what she did.
She cried tears of joy.
For that rose-bush
Was so very beautiful to her.

And as she cried,
It began to rain.
But it was not a cold rain.
There were no clouds at all
Up in the sky.
Oh, no.

This was a spring shower.
A gentle,
Soothing rain.
That brought water to everything
Above the lake.

It only lasted
For a little while.
Just ten minutes
At the most.

But it was exactly
What the rose-bush needed.
And the rose-bush thanked her
For the shower
As Sunshine stood there
Amazed,
And watched the wilted leaves
On her friend the rose-bush
Perk right up again.

That was the day that Sunshine learned
That not all rain is bad.
Sometimes rain is good.
And gives each one of us,
Plant and animal,
Something that we need.
Something we’re not whole without.

That was the day Sunshine learned
Nothing can live at all
With out the rain.

The day she became no longer afraid
To cry
Ever again.