I came up with this in a Creative Writing class. There are a few mistakes, but hopefully it's enjoyable despite them. Copied and pasted from my blog.
My eyes trail her as she exits the house, her dress lifting as the wind's fingers play with the delicate material. She hardly glances my way though even if she does she won't see me. I crouch in the shadows and watch like something poor and jealous.
She moves with a secret grace that I know naught of its origin. I suppose it's something a lady picks up as she ages. Even from this distance I can see how her slender fingers pinch lightly at the clasp of her purse, which matches perfectly with her dress and scarf. In that beauty my eyes are opened to the natural beauty surrounding her; the green, green grass, the trees swaying and whispering, the faint bubble of water in the background. It's as if it all radiates from her.
I stand, then, and walk among the growing bush and flowers bursting like living rainbows from the fresh grass. Their colors distract me and I pause several times but I never loose sight of her. Her sandals crunch against the ascending road and I find the way the sun paints a bright stripe of white against the backs of her legs interesting. The sun never collects so becomingly on me.
Soon we are lost in sun and wheat. The dull tan of dead things stretches on and on around us. I find the wheat annoying as it whips against my legs and face but it pales in comparison to seeing her eyes flicker up to the clear blue sky and the faint smile that follows when she spots the same lone cloud. I think as I look up at the sky, that maybe that cloud is following her as well. It seems to purposefully shift and stretch into shapes that will amuse her.
Her skin is now alight with moisture, the droplets of sweat roll down her face and cling to her arms. One of her hands dips into her purse and she pulls out a white handkerchief and smooths the cloth over her forehead. She puts it away and sighs. She must be thirsty but her legs never stop and neither does the crunch, crunch of her feet.
Hours, minutes, months seem to pass and then the air is buoyant with her voice. She sings unbidden and tips her head this way and that as if music rings clear out into the open fields. I don't know what she sings but it is beautiful. Her arms are sweeping wide, inviting in the world and for a moment I am tempted to come out of hiding, to bound forward and fling myself into her but then I remember and I steady the adrenaline pumping through my legs.
Then we are not alone and her singing stops. Her head is low and her fingers fidgety. The wheat has disappeared and I hide behind buildings and trash bins instead. I notice the change every time and it always saddens me to see it, to see her light dim before that of the world.
Other's watch, I see their eyes flicker across her image, admiring, but I was first.
She skips her house and I feel unsure because she never skips it. Instead she turns and heads for the field. I smell the ripe cherry blossoms before I see them and she sits amongst them and watches the sun streak across the sky and disappear. I watch from a distance and blink at the way the shadows play across her features.
Time slows and she stands and dusts clinging petals from her dress. Finally she heads home and there I am dutifully sticking to her side, blanketed by darkness, my natural sheet.
My feet ache and my mouth stretches in a yawn as she disappears through the thick wooden doors. I lay on the ground still warm with the sun's rays. My ears twitch and I stretch in that satisfying way and settled down for the night in the bushes by the door.
But I wait because I know I have not seen her for the last time that night.
The door opens and I see small hands cupping a smooth white porcelain bowl. Her face comes into view, framed by the yellow light from within the house. I smell milk, rich and fresh and I am on my feet in seconds. She crouches by the bowl and looks about, never searching in the right place. I am right beside her, so close I can smell the cherry blossoms still clinging to her hair. She never looks my way but that is fine.
Alone again and licking at the cool milk, delicious on my hot tongue. I feel eyes heavy on my shoulders and I turn my gold gaze over my shoulder. Her face peeks through the thick curtains and she stares back with light brown eyes. She blinks and smiles and I stare then she's gone.
In those eyes I see the same girl who first fed me, the same innocence. I see change and prospering and I see that she will not be forever but, neither will I. I can only hope that her beauty still turns the hot days bearable. I can only hope that she never looses her grace.
I can only hope that she likes me, too.
Fin.
+Secret Grace+
My eyes trail her as she exits the house, her dress lifting as the wind's fingers play with the delicate material. She hardly glances my way though even if she does she won't see me. I crouch in the shadows and watch like something poor and jealous.
She moves with a secret grace that I know naught of its origin. I suppose it's something a lady picks up as she ages. Even from this distance I can see how her slender fingers pinch lightly at the clasp of her purse, which matches perfectly with her dress and scarf. In that beauty my eyes are opened to the natural beauty surrounding her; the green, green grass, the trees swaying and whispering, the faint bubble of water in the background. It's as if it all radiates from her.
I stand, then, and walk among the growing bush and flowers bursting like living rainbows from the fresh grass. Their colors distract me and I pause several times but I never loose sight of her. Her sandals crunch against the ascending road and I find the way the sun paints a bright stripe of white against the backs of her legs interesting. The sun never collects so becomingly on me.
Soon we are lost in sun and wheat. The dull tan of dead things stretches on and on around us. I find the wheat annoying as it whips against my legs and face but it pales in comparison to seeing her eyes flicker up to the clear blue sky and the faint smile that follows when she spots the same lone cloud. I think as I look up at the sky, that maybe that cloud is following her as well. It seems to purposefully shift and stretch into shapes that will amuse her.
Her skin is now alight with moisture, the droplets of sweat roll down her face and cling to her arms. One of her hands dips into her purse and she pulls out a white handkerchief and smooths the cloth over her forehead. She puts it away and sighs. She must be thirsty but her legs never stop and neither does the crunch, crunch of her feet.
Hours, minutes, months seem to pass and then the air is buoyant with her voice. She sings unbidden and tips her head this way and that as if music rings clear out into the open fields. I don't know what she sings but it is beautiful. Her arms are sweeping wide, inviting in the world and for a moment I am tempted to come out of hiding, to bound forward and fling myself into her but then I remember and I steady the adrenaline pumping through my legs.
Then we are not alone and her singing stops. Her head is low and her fingers fidgety. The wheat has disappeared and I hide behind buildings and trash bins instead. I notice the change every time and it always saddens me to see it, to see her light dim before that of the world.
Other's watch, I see their eyes flicker across her image, admiring, but I was first.
She skips her house and I feel unsure because she never skips it. Instead she turns and heads for the field. I smell the ripe cherry blossoms before I see them and she sits amongst them and watches the sun streak across the sky and disappear. I watch from a distance and blink at the way the shadows play across her features.
Time slows and she stands and dusts clinging petals from her dress. Finally she heads home and there I am dutifully sticking to her side, blanketed by darkness, my natural sheet.
My feet ache and my mouth stretches in a yawn as she disappears through the thick wooden doors. I lay on the ground still warm with the sun's rays. My ears twitch and I stretch in that satisfying way and settled down for the night in the bushes by the door.
But I wait because I know I have not seen her for the last time that night.
The door opens and I see small hands cupping a smooth white porcelain bowl. Her face comes into view, framed by the yellow light from within the house. I smell milk, rich and fresh and I am on my feet in seconds. She crouches by the bowl and looks about, never searching in the right place. I am right beside her, so close I can smell the cherry blossoms still clinging to her hair. She never looks my way but that is fine.
Alone again and licking at the cool milk, delicious on my hot tongue. I feel eyes heavy on my shoulders and I turn my gold gaze over my shoulder. Her face peeks through the thick curtains and she stares back with light brown eyes. She blinks and smiles and I stare then she's gone.
In those eyes I see the same girl who first fed me, the same innocence. I see change and prospering and I see that she will not be forever but, neither will I. I can only hope that her beauty still turns the hot days bearable. I can only hope that she never looses her grace.
I can only hope that she likes me, too.
Fin.