The Wind

The Wind

A Story by Ray

The wind blew the sound of a flute to his ears, and air so sweet began in the early morn, amongst the green leaves of trees and grass. He walked slowly around the trees, listening to this beauty tone, that so long ago had been sung, a despair, a love. The magic of the forest mesmerized him. He touched the bark of an oak tree. It was as soft as skin under his fingers. He could almost see her eyes between the brown cracks, bright green. He could not take his hand away, and she smiled. Under his hand, the wood hardened and she was gone. The melody went on uninterrupted. Wait. He followed her trail amongst the trees. Are you going to the fair, my friend ? A smile, a soft word. Whispers of past conversations. Tell my love. They encircled him, and he could see how the woods might have been a great place once. He walked through the houses, great majectical trees. Where are you going ? The words were clear in his mind, a question directed to him, out of this past. To seek you. There was a good breeze that passed over him; blew his hair back, and gripped his clothes as if to pull him into a wild embrace. He unpried the fingers, and looked down into the face before him. But it was a flute’s air, already gone, before he could touch the cheek. He ran after the airlike ghost. Madness ? Are you going to the fair ? A little chime of a giggle. Then came the sound of trickling water. A stream lay not afar. He walked to its side and looked into the stream. There, he could see his perfect reflection in the flowing water. And over his shoulder, the face of a nymph, golden hair and green eyes. He turned abruptly around, but there was no one there. He looked back into the water. She was smiling at him, reaching out as though to touch him. He moved a finger towards the water. The water became skin but the face disappeared. Remember me. Are you leaving ? He listened and waited, standing by the little stream, watching the trees move of themselves, watching the leaves whirling, hearing the voices. He will be a true love of mine. Who are you ? One who dwells here. He looked into the water again, and there she was. Salt water and the sea strand. She looked suddenly quite distressed, which emphasized her beauty. I am the forest and the stream. He stood and went to a tree, and touched the soft skin. Come out. My love has gone. I am here. There was silence, and the skin began to withdraw. Do not go. He once was a true love of mine. Not I. No, for love as true as was cannot be again. I love you. The skin was softer than anything he could have laid hands upon. She did not come out of the tree, nor of the ground, but from the stream. Her golden hair fell on her shoulders and she smiled. Her green eyes sparkled. He stepped towards her. Are you going to the fair ? It has long gone on. I know, beautiful woman. She looked very real, and sweet music rang in his ears. The leaves offered a good bed. He sweeped her long curls back and discovered unspoken beauties. They lay on the leaves together, looking into each other’s eyes. He once was a true love of mine. I have not gone. A kiss, a gentle touch, but a fire, tender and wild. And together, they lived something beautiful. She had such a body that it was beautiful to look at, from wherever he was, and she arched her back so majestically, and closed her eyes holding him close. The leaves blew over them. I must return to my realm. Do not leave me. I have lingered long with you, longer than was allowed; must I completely disappear ? He looked at her, and his fingers contoured her breasts. She smiled, but sat up. I love you. Are you going to the fair, my friend ? No. He once was a true love of mine, between the salt water and the sea strand. Don’t go. I am in the trees, the ground and the water that surround you; you may love me for the rest of your days. Remember me.

 

The breeze blew over his face, his eyes closed. The flute fading away. Soon, only the wind whistled about him. He opened his eyes and found that he lay by a stream, alone. And the trees were black and burnt, and the ruins of city lay about him.

© 2013 Ray


Author's Note

Ray
don't hesitate to leave any constructive criticism, comment, reaction ... :)

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He walked slowly around the trees, listening to this beautiful tone, that so long ago had been sung, of despair, of love.
I would suggest changing the format. It gets confusing. Happy writing!

Posted 6 Years Ago


Thought-provoking, for sure. I enjoy the imagery of the lover seeking to take hold of his beloved. It reminds me a bit of of Song of Songs.

Posted 6 Years Ago



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Added on November 14, 2013
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Ray
Ray

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"Let us remember: one book, one pen, one child, and one teacher can change the world." - Malala Yousafzai "To hold a pen is to be at war." - Voltaire "The pen is mightier than the sword." - E.. more..

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