The Night

Night is anything but silent yet here we are, watching time pass and press upon us.

The night is brilliant with sparkling stars and the harvest moon hanging heavy on the skyline. The breeze tickles over the grass and through the reddening leaves on tired tree limbs and trembling over the grass in time with the wind. The birds settle down against the autumn chill and the crickets burrow into hollows in the roots of trees that echo their song in safety. Miles away, the city lights dim and flicker out slowly. The low rumble of the city fades out.

She sits under the sky and stares into the emptiness. She doesn’t care to listen to the wind. She doesn’t care to listen to the crickets. Instead, she curls her hands under her head and settles contentedly into a divot in the grass and ground. Her ears are obscured by dark head phones. Her eyes are black and glassy in the dark. The stars reflect in the mirror of her eyes. She watches the molasses movement of the stars as night falls and rises. She doesn’t sleep.

He sits in the space beside her, studying the subtle curve of her back in the hollow made just for her. His hands are delicate with page and dark with graphite, recreating moonlight on milky skin and the motion of the wind through her hair. The night swallows him up where the moon illuminates her in every detail. The passing of night weighs on him but he does not sleep.

She takes the page offered to her as the sky beings to purple and lighten. The deep scarlet of early morning paints her skin and figure on the page. A light breeze tugs at the edge and plays with her hair. She stares into the sunrise, presses the paper to her heart. Her eyes fill and create rivulets of salt that refract the light from the soft scarlet dawn. She doesn’t speak.

He flips closed the pad and sets it aside in the dew laden grass. He follows her gaze into the red dawn for only a moment. His eyes wander from the heavy sky back to her lounging form. He lies back, pillowing his head on his hands. The red dawn claws at his eyelids but fatigue creates a shield against the light. He forces his eyes open and turns his head to watch the rise and fall of her calm. He seems about to say something to her but he does not speak.

Her fingers tremble with the chill. She turns to meet his gaze, eyes soft. She reaches out and he takes her hand. The grass cradles intertwined fingers. Their hands form their own personal yin and yang. Her body trembles with the chill and he scoots closer. The heavy weight of sleep pulls at his limbs and he curls his arms around her lightly. She hides in the sharp curves of his body. He shelters in the soft curvature of her body. The grass cradles their bodies.

The sun drags itself from under the horizon lethargically until the light is grey and clouded. The trees rustle with waking birds and the silence is broken by sleepy chirping. The lights in the city break through the hazy grey lit sky and claw at the peace of just nature. The breeze plucks at their clothes and hair. The wind picks up, sighing through spindly, empty trees.

Author's Note

Not going to be extended. This was an exercise to write something that felt like a full story in just one page, so, sorry if it seems unfinished.
The areas of concern is mostly syntax and diction. I feel like it doesn't give the romantic, sleepy feel that I want.

Reviews

[eallen]

It was dreamy, filled with allusion and illusion. I enjoyed the imagery and metaphors but it also seemed somewhat overburdened with imagery and metaphor so that the romanticism was subordinated. As to the diction and syntax, I would say maybe vary the sentences somewhat, especially in the last two paragraphs, so that is not so clipped. Because right now, it reads more like a poem than a story.

[Isole Beringer]

Thanks! Re reading it, you're totally right. It reads like poetry and I don't want that. I'll reword some things and ease up a bit.