Monday, January 7, 2013

Weekly Creative Writing #6

       
       The radiance of a fiery dawn felt its way through the clouds and it scattered itself across the dew-studded field, which was thoroughly unadulterated except for an old cypress tree.  Underneath that solitary tree was a modest grave - newly filled and wet from the last night’s rain.   The headstone was imprinted with the name of Levi Merrill, a soldier only twenty-eight years old, married, a father, and dead - in the company of a mourning cypress which had been planted there only ten years before, by two loving sets of hands.   Gentle sobs came from a young woman sitting at the foot of the fresh grave, holding her small child tightly to her bosom.   Her hair was dappled with water - she had lingered by this stone since the darkest hours of morning.  Tugging at her mother’s damp red dress, the baby asked to be put down.  Hesitantly, she placed her down, whispering a soft command mixed with the name of Iris.  She handed the baby some white rose buds she had found along the trail to this place of joyful memory, yet painful circumstance.   Black roses were scattered around the gravesite by mourners, so that the white, girlish rosebuds yielded a hopeful contrast to the deathly appearance of black.  According to childish whims, the baby crawled happily away towards a field full of dancing grasshoppers, but the mother stayed facing the grave.  Reaching into her small sack, she pulled out a dried red rose from last year’s deployment and placed it on the grave. 

        Black, white and red.  Black, the color of despair.  Red, the color of desire.  And white, the color of childlike innocence.  His life had ended.  And with that vanished the ghosts of two sweethearts dancing around innocently on the dew-studded grass and the echoes of their sweet, care-free laughing as if eternity was theirs, whispering across the green - all that must now end, and find its rightful place in her memory.  Yet, the life of the baby beside her was just beginning - rising brilliantly out of the dark of ages past, out of the black roses - a white, innocent light.  

       Light... A fiery dawn like no other had come upon her soul when they met - red like the color of desire, and crimson like the blood he spilt fighting.  And yet, as the light had set in the West with his cold body, it rose once more in the East with the light, and warmth of a baby girl - a world about to dawn, and the night that ends at last.


For the fantastic counterpart of this weekly themed writing project:  http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

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