Here's a little story I wrote at random while I was away at bible school last year; if you have a minute, maybe you could give me some feedback?
He was sitting in his living room, by the fire. The fire roared and crackled and sung a song of beautiful destruction. And he whistled a tune in return.
The book was laying before him, a feast of unopened thoughts. It was dappled with firelight, and the cover winked and laughed with the motion of the flames.
He watched the book and allowed the anticipation to wash over him and he tasted its sweetness. He savored it, let it roll over his tongue and fill his body with warmth. His hands ached to leaf through the pages, but he had to wait until the proper time. No book became his master. Instead, as the book whispered promises and sang of untold secrets, he waited for the desires to pass. When the book's voice grew dim and its cover no longer shimmered with mischief, he knew it was time.
His smile faded as he eased open its cover and began to read. To him, the book told of deceit and espionage. It held the key to the hearts of men and women alike. It narrated to him an adventure of mystery and intrigue. And with every page, the book asked him, "Who are you?" And when the last page had given up its secrets and the book lay exhausted before the quickly dying flames, the smile once again played at the man's lips.
As the flames staggered and gasped for breath and the room grew darker, he answered.
"I am fear," he said, " I am darkness. I am a weight at the ankle and a chain at the wrist. I am the desperation of depression and my fingers are the cold fingers of despair." With this, his eyes became bright and cold. The smile grew tense and excited.
"But most of all," he concluded, " I am a lie."
She was in her room. The room was bright and the incandescent bulb above her was pleased to fill each corner with a cheery glow.
The girl herself wasn't warmed by the glow. To her, it was harsh. It seemed to prod and taunt at her. It threatened to expose the wretchedness of her heart and mind.
No, the light wouldn't do. The girl hurriedly flicked the switch and allowed relief to flood her senses as the light and its accusations left her and she was clothed in warm darkness. The darkness was her faithful companion. It did not expose her weakness or force her problems to the surface, it merely embraced her and wrapped her in the warm folds of its cloak as she cried. Darkness never laughed at her tears, as light had mocked her. It cradled and soothed her.
Though the darkness often had secrets to tell, this time the secret it held was different. In the darkness her fingers wisped across an unexpected smooth surface. The book. In the darkness she heard the echoes of mystery and meaning that whispered from its pages. The call was captivating and she relented to its cry.
As the wavering light of a candle slowly gained confidence, the book wove her a tale of sorrow and heartache. It spoke of abandonment and confusion. The book sang to her with the song of a thousand broken hearts, and the sound was sad and sweetly intoxicating. It filled her head and then seemed to spread within her, a melancholy refrain. And while the melody continued its lamentful story, the harmonies cried out to her, "Who are you?" Finally the book came to an end and the music faded. She blew out the candle with trembling breath and darkness greeted her softly. The room was still and silent, and though her lips moved not and her breath remained steady, her thoughts cried out the answer, and tears once more blurred her vision.
"I am afraid," her thoughts said, "I am alone. I am empty and in pain, I am the one who was left behind, the last one picked. I am the one who softly and silently shattered."
It was a different man this time. He was not idling in the living room, but was contentedly working in the shop.
The wood shop was friendly and smelled of sawdust and dreams yet to be realized. His hands were strong and sure, well weathered and calloused from years of conscientious work. The book lay on a corner of the table and was now covered with a fine layer of saw dust. After he had finished his last measurement and cut for the day, he put each tool back in its place and turned his attention to the book.
The book held no mischief nor any mystery, for he knew its pages well. Instead the book greeted him with a smile as an old friend.
The carpenter took it gently in his hands and blew the dust off, sending it in a scattered panic to dance slowly to the ground.
He opened it with care, but not a distinct sense of reference. He knew it too well for such formalities. The pages were eager to give up their story once more. The man's eyes twinkled as he read it and though his expression remained serious, his eyes shone with the excitement of what the words told him.
The tale was beautiful, and it began with deep, incomparable love. It was pure and sang with youthful innocence and immeasurable depth. At one point the pages turned somewhat slower as the song they sang darkened and deepened with evil and suspense. The pages slowed further as the eerie tune became a lament and at this point, one watching would have been shocked to see the way the man wept. Most would have produced perhaps one single, shimmering tear, but with him it was not so. As he read, tears ran like rivers down his face and his throat and chest began to contract and convulse with heaving sobs. At this point one would have thought he was about to put the book down all together, overcome with grief. But he read on, and the tune of the pages began to change once more.
Now their song was clear and sweet, though with an edge of remorse. It spoke of the love lost and the fight to win it back. It whispered of the beauty come from ashes and the warmth of the sun that came after a cold, starless night. He loved the end, because the edge of melancholy wore off and there was only an overwhelming sense of peace; it was as though someone had enveloped you in their warm embrace and promised never, ever to let you go. And when the book asked who the man was, it could answer for itself, for the man and the book were well known to each other.
"You are the one who picks up the broken pieces and makes them whole again. You are the one who pursues and loves until it hurts." The book continued, "You are the peace after the storm and you're the one who takes the bullet just to save the one he loves."
There was even more to what could be said, for the man was full of facets, but this was enough for right now, and both the man and the book knew it was true.
Heidi Laura; 2009
