Green and Gold

I was walking my dogs over the field and I saw beautiful scenery and I thought of the peacefulness and what a release this was from the real world. And TAD DAAAAAAAA! This story was born. :P

It’s nine o’clock, but the house is still active, as it always is. My Mother is discussing a matter - trivial to me - with some client or other, layering on the compliments and sounds almost simpering, unless, like me, you can hear the underlying persuasion, carefully camouflaged within the buttery, sugary tone. Like a glass door to a two year old (or anyone feeling particularly unobservant) they won’t know it’s there until they’ve slammed themselves into it, beaten by something they couldn’t even see. My Brother is playing poker with his friends in the living room; it’s the only time he’s ever rowdy. As if those boys - no matter what they think, they’re still children, even if the more accurate term is ‘man child’ - have an unspoken vow to be anything but themselves and whoever can be the most ‘dicky’ is champion. My Father is making my Mother a steaming cup of tea; he has for the past seventeen years and any fool can see what once was endearing is now nothing more than a chore to him. His heart’s not in it anymore.

My cue to leave. That’s how it’s been for the past few weeks and unlike the rest of them, my motives aren't hidden, I make them clear: I don’t want to be here anymore.

It’s not just the house, or the street, or even this town. It’s this ugly, misinformed, stupid idea of the real’ world.

“Hey, there, sweetheart,” One of the idiots call, no doubt to me, “Come here and play strip poker with us, Darling, I’ll give you a tenner if you gimme a lap dance too.”

The others wolf whistle and jeer and reach out searching hands, all trying to be more empowering than the next, but my Brother does nothing to stop them. I imagine them all with baboon heads; it’s not that hard, “I’m not dancing for you, but I’ll gladly make you sing a little higher,” I threaten, but all I’ll really do is slam the door the way out to try to block their animalistic summons.

And that’s what I do.

The field near our house is still bright and clear, despite the darkening hour and the darkening sky. The path, rigid and worn, winds unevenly through the brambles and nettles, springtime almost regaining that tiny piece of stolen land, making it hard to distinguish and not such a prominent scar on the earth. I turn to the east, the sleepy sun behind, reaching sluggish arms towards me, surrounding me in a blanket of comfort. In the distance I can hear the trees wave and gossip with the breeze, engaging in a sweet waltz and gentle conversation while the blossoms kiss the evening goodnight and prepare for the moon and stars, whose beauty they try to mirror. The fresh greens sway afar in the silent music of twilight; they will most likely make merry all night. Purple bushes stand witness to the dance, closer to me, though still very far, only occasionally do they rustle and rock slightly along with them. Right before me, laughing with childish glee, is the grass and all manner of lush, emerald plant life, considered weeds to most, and the wild, gold grass breaking through the gaps, glinting in the setting sun, its last time to shine until morning came.

Green and gold. Green and gold. An earthly sea of green and gold.

No fakery. Nothing false. Everything genuine and sincere.

Natural not simulated.

I wade out into the foliage, the soft tips tickling my bare hips jokingly, reminding me of when Father did the same. When everything was authentic and make-believe was an innocent game and not day to day life for many people. When weaving a hollow story for people was a fun pastime and not an excuse or lie. Before Mother told me to wake up from my daydreams and go into the ‘real’ world, where I soon found out that the words of myths and legends were more factual than the words weaved on the news and far more than those of politics.

‘Real’ is what you make of it. For many people God is as present as the air around us, as real and tangible as the rock beneath our feet. Undeniable. Whereas others know for sure God is nothing more than desperate imagination. Not real.

I pull my tee-shirt securely over my bare skin, as if to block those thoughts behind the fabric, however, here in this sanctuary of definites, I am disconnected to the ‘real’ world. The mellow rippling of the sweet smelling grass around me tranquilises me and soon I am drifting with them, momentarily overcome by the honest melody of the wind.

Locked within a deep crevice in my mind, I suddenly feel a light, chilled prickling sensation on my shoulders and the back of my neck originating from above so I glance up. I finally realise how much the air temperature has dropped since I had been standing here, how the sky above me has gone from cornflower blue to swirling silvers and, turning to the west, I see the clouds in the distance are still a pale cream. Yet, in the sight of the sun and its weary ruby gaze, the feathery clouds have been tinged orange and I can easily imagine angels lying peacefully in their silky blankets, keeping an eye on me through the storm. I turn back and am reminded of what happens when light shines through the rain; you end up with something even more beautiful than either of them. As corny and sentimental as it sounds, a rainbow appeared before me parading its radiance for all to see. Scarlet, amber, buttercup, jade, aqua, lavender and more the human eye couldn't see. I wish that, for only a moment, I could be a bumble bee; to see the rainbow finish in ultra-violet, or a fox; to see its beginnings of infra-red. I think of the possible beauty I will never see. On the other hand, there’s plenty enough anyway, but it’s always the unknown you crave for even it’s really not that much better than what you already have.

I've always wondered if others see the way I do; if they see the same tantalising colours or the same mesmerising life, bursting though at the seams of nature. I hope they do. I am constantly in awe of the power of the earth and I hope, for whoever’s dawn it is now, that they embrace the daylight and the full body of being here - being alive - and don’t let go. Sadly, sometimes hope is unrealistic because some people are blinder than the earthworm crawling out of the ground beneath my feet (at least they know when a storm’s coming).

The sun has fallen, the rainbow has faded away and the rain sings a fresh song of freedom and truth with the grass, bowing and curtsying to such a high visitor, but it’s one I can’t sing along to.

Well, it’s back to the ‘real’ world.

Reviews

[DeusExMachina]

Carmela, this is fantastic!
That is all.
You just need to work on your titles.

[Caramel]

Yeah... I usually just give up :P