Unbound by Direction

Good morning! As far as Monday’s go, I’ve never been one to heap my hate of a particular day of the week. I will admit to grumbling about it, but it is not an exclusive hate directed at the day simply because it happens to fall at a certain point in the work/rest cycle. Instead, I am willing to hate all days of the week equally. If there is a trend for Tuesdays to be particularly irksome, or suddenly I find my Friday’s to be overly complicated, I will fluidly shift my Garfield emotions.

I offer up some very short experiments in creative writing; they have no real plot, and no real direction. They are written simply because I had the urge to write something, and they are what happened to fall. They may have a future, they may not. I have not thought to constrain them to a given set of circumstances, and I have not assigned the narrative voices a goal to fulfill. They just wanted to be heard.

1.

From her first breath she knew that something had changed; the air trickled down the back of her throat, carrying the burning cold that she could only equate with the fact that the sun had yet to rise. Her limbs felt stiff as she arched her back, digging in the soft, yielding ground beneath her. A shuddering tremor ran from her shoulders down the deep road of her spine, tension releasing from all the muscles along the furrowed path. Though the cold had come, the earth beneath had yet to be covered in the thick blanket that signaled the deep sleep, when stirring in the branches was limited to the drab brown sparrows.  It was the snap of twigs that caused her head to turn, her eyes to focus in the pre-dawn light, dim and shadowed. She focused with all she had in the direction of the sound; it grew steadily closer. The air seemed to crackle, to shift and fill with something new. She could not place it in her memory. Low to the ground she inched forward, placing each step  perfectly so as to leave the ground completely undisturbed. Where she passed it looked as if nothing living had walked, the earth did not give below her, the grass did not sway at her passing.

2.

The simplicity of it all was what first caught her attention, what drove her to continue observing, dismantling, and analyzing the whole thing piece by piece. The material felt like water in her hands, and yet the integrity of it was closer to the gossamer of a butterfly’s wing. The gown was something out of fantasy, a thing of beauty that every woman envied when they saw it on the body of another; a thing that drew the eyes of single and married men alike, with hushed whispers of desires and thoughts that had little place in casual conversation. Her hand traced over the barely apparent seams, along the cinched waist and the flowing neckline. What she wouldn’t give to be able to wear the dress for one night, to be the envy of every woman, the focus of every man, and the topic of every sentence. Unfortunately, much as it would have pleased her to do such a thing, there were no gallant soirée’s for her to attend, there were even fewer chances of her acquiring such a marvelous piece of clothing for her very own. Instead of working, as many women her age did, she spent her time training her body and her mind, and truly had little time for idle fantasies of being swept away by some gorgeous creature. The only men she was on speaking terms with were her trainers, her guardians, and her teammates, and she knew that none of them even glimpsed such a facet in her persona that would tempt them to be interested in her in any other way then what they already where as friends and allies. Sighing softly she let the material fall from her hand and left the display, pulling her jackets more closely around her lithe body to guard from the winter wind as she stepped out into the evening lit streets, slipping into the crowds heading home from work to their families.

3.

The scent of sandalwood drifted up to her through the haze of her sleep, pleasantly assaulting her senses and reminded her exactly where she was. With an languished stretch she felt the warm that rested at the middle of her back, reassuring pressure that reminded her she was not alone among the sea of sheets. She feels the warm hand on the small of her back curl around her side, slipping to her hip and gentle pulling her back into the warmth of the sweet-smelling sheets, until she rested firmly against his chest, his skin adding to the already comfortable warmth she was feeling. His other arms pillows her head as she closes her eyes, taking another deep, soothing breath of the smell that is completely him, that reminds her of everything about him. He chuckles softly, his breath ruffling her unbound hair, ghosting across her ear as he squeezes her gentle, assuring her that he does not plan on going anywhere.

She nestles herself back against him, letting her eyes drift closed as she basks in his warmth. It is not often that they can be together like this, alone, quiet, comfortable, and without the intrusion that usually plagued them whenever they attempted to garner a moment alone together. Every single moment they shared was special, a hope held for the future when the world around them, their families and friends, would be able to settle down again and breath, without jumping at shadows and jumping from country to country.

The hand at her hip crept slowly up her taut stomach, brushing over her navel, and coming to rest below the intercostal rib, feeling her lungs expand as she took each breath. His hand could easily span her waist, a mass of tightly knit muscle that so very rarely relaxed. But it was different with him. When they were together she dropped all her guard, all her safeties; she knew that when he was nearby she didn’t have to be afraid of what was coming from behind, because he was watching her back, insuring that nothing happened to his little bird, and she watched his likewise. For now nothing mattered beyond their shared warmth, the soft sheets, and the scent of sandalwood which settled over it all.

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Filed under Musing/Thoughts, Short Story

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