Last Signs of Autumn

The writer sat at his desk. The cursor on his computer's monitor blinked, while he stared out of the window. He had been at this for hours, gazing out into the world, silently asking it to let him in on its stories. There had to be one, but what was it? Where was it? And when was it going to come to him?

He sat, waiting. A breeze moved invisibly outside the window and caught the thin branches of the tree, gently dragging a few of the branches with it. The writer's eye caught a branch, and he looked in its direction; on the branch were two leaves, sharing the very tip. They shuddered at the breeze, and even though he was on the other side of thick glass, the writer could feel the breeze's chill: it evicted the warmth from the air, occupying the vacant space soon after.

At this sight, a thought crossed his mind: Autumn gives way to Winter. A bittersweet smirk crossed his face, and he blinked. Autumn.

His memory took him back, spanning many years in the twitch of an eye. In a single moment, his mind took him from the office on the second story of his house, to the hallways of his old high school. They were noisy from the echoing chorus of students, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the busses. School had been cancelled for the rest of the day, due to weather: freezing rain, sticking to the ground and making it dangerous to be out on the roads.

Thinking back on this moment, he chuckled softly, reliving the irony of the situation, all over again. Sending us home, in dangerous conditions; many of us, handing our lives over to bus drivers, of all people. He had laughed then, like he was doing now, his puffy coat bouncing up and down as his scrawny frame joined in on the joke.

The irony - however funny it may have been - soon turned to confusion followed by irritation, as the red-headed girl made her way toward him. She stopped directly in front of him, impeding him from getting where he needed to go.

Before he could say anything, she screamed at him, blurting out demands and threats. You leave her alone! she had shouted. Or you'll regret it! And no sooner had she stepped into his way, she was immediately out of it.

The incident had made him wonder about people: their incredible way of putting themselves into situations that hadn't even involved them, to begin with. As far as he had known, the red-headed girl had merely been a friend, looking out for another friend. At the time, he considered it rude; however, as many years had passed, and he found himself reliving the incident, one thought occurred to him: I would have done the same thing.

Comfortably sitting in his chair, the writer continued to stare at the last two leaves of the skeletal tree. The wind moved them around in a way that reminded him of dancing, of laughter.

He was sitting in a darkened room: the high school's main auditorium. Everything looked the same, but the time wasn't. A year had passed since the incident with the screaming girl, and he found himself sitting next to the same girl. Only, this time, she wasn't screaming at him. Her mouth was open, but in lieu of emitting threats, the girl's laughter was what came out.

She sat next to him, looking up into his eyes, asking him why he was doing this. He had simply shrugged, giving her a smile, and continued with his story. It made her laugh even harder; she grabbed his hand, giving it a firm squeeze and waiting a long moment before letting go. Thank you.

The writer blinked, and as he focused once more on the two leaves, he felt saddened: only one leaf remained. He stared a moment more and, as if he had willed it, the breeze shook the branch, and the one leaf had suddenly returned to being two; now, they were much closer, sharing the same space.

He sat on the couch, the images on the television going through their motions, throwing flashes of light on the otherwise darkened walls. The movie was halfway finished, and they had already decided on what to watch next. She was curled next to him, her red head on his shoulder, her arm crossing his chest, wrapping him in her firm embrace. Without knowing it, he let out a deep, contented sigh. As if on cue, she crawled onto his lap, embracing him even tighter.

She sniffled, and he gave her a light kiss on the top of her head.

Looking up at him, she smiled warmly and leaned forward to return the kiss, to his forehead.

He smirked. You missed, he had said.

She winked and leaned forward again, this time giving him a kiss on the very tip of his nose.

Close, he teased, but not quite.

Her playful expression twisted downward, slightly. She looked down, avoiding his eyes. You know I would, if I wasn't already... She stopped, sniffling again; he could feel her body shuddering against his, and in his mind he saw the tears streaming down her face, once more.

Wrapping his arms around her, holding her gently, he apologized. Her grip around him tightened, and she forgave him: It's not your fault. She had taken a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and after a moment, she had fallen asleep.

In his arms.

The world outside the writer's window allowed the wind to run rampant. As it twirled around the tree and its branches, it teased the bare ones and then concentrated mainly on the two leaves.

His head quirked to the side, and he watched as the two leaves were pushed away from one another, shuddering once more.

He hadn't liked where things were going with her. In her own way, she had let him in on her biggest secret, her feelings toward him; yet she was unable to see them for what they were. Trapped in a loop she from which she couldn't tear herself, she had done what came naturally to her.

The message had been clear. When words are written out, especially when those words are three and very short, interpretation is not called upon. She had sent it, faceless and without regard to response: Leave me alone.

Simple as that. In his mind, he tried to reason, tried to make sense of what had happened. But in the end, it hadn't made sense. It never did.

Never did, he thought.

The breeze grew rough, shaking the leaves in its wake. As he stared at the shaking leaves, he gasped: in a smooth moment, a gust of wind pushed one of the leaves, broke its hold of the branch, and carried the leaf away. The writer's eye didn't follow the retreating leaf, however; it stayed staring at the leaf left behind.

After one last stare at the leaf, he blinked. He shuddered and turned away from the window. The blinking cursor sat on the screen, waiting for the writer's input. His fingers tapped the keys lightly, as he thought of what to put. Something funny, perhaps. Make people laugh. Make them feel good.

He took a deep breath and poised himself over the keyboard. Before he could start typing, he took another glance out of the window. He shuddered, once more, as a thought made its way into his mind: Winter is never its coldest, after one endures the last signs of Autumn.

Reviews

[Lucky Me]

This was nice. I really felt for our character during the second to last paragraph. He is sad yes, but doesn't want to portray that in his writing. He wants others to smile and feel light hearted because he doesn't. The leaves breaking away from eachother was a nice metaphore to run alongside the romance. He was the leaf left and she was the one tearing away. Yes maybe it was the wind that took her and maybe there were contributions that enabled her to love but she still had her will. She could have willed herself back to him. The ending was nice. Those leaves breaking symoblised the "the last sign of Autumn". Nice.

[Gandré]

wonderful piece, very much enjoyed. perfect !!

[Jole Provost]

Another great work-one major part that stayed with me is the lone leaf. How it feels to be solo...I'm just glad I don't have those feelings now.

[Jadarae]

I agree with Roxx... WOW. Felt like I was in every scene. Your detail was perfect. I even shuddered while watching the two leaves in the wind. This was a beautiful piece.