Leaf and Tree

Em embraces Trev, her heart healing his.

The door closed and upon the closing the world within and the world without seemed as distant as a leaf falling from a tree. Like the tree, she wondered if the parting was not as natural and the separation as permanent; that what only a moment ago was living, was now without life; and she wondered how just a few seconds ago could seem as far away as Hyneria; and how her feet now, felt as the roots of the tree and Trev seemed as the leaf, blown apart by some emotional wind she never saw coming, sudden as lightning in a blue sky.

A few moments later . . .

As a race car late from the pit, Em shot for the door. In the hallway stood Trev, his hands holding up the wall, a small trickle of blood running down his nose; his bloodshot eyes staring at the floor between his feet, gasping for air or dry heaving could not be ascertained. As quickly as she had flown into the hall, she froze, mind shuffling the images before her, searching for a pattern, something, anything to make the scene comprehensible. Returning quickly with a wet towel, she approached Trev with eyes to match. Taking his head in her hands, he looked without speaking and she looked without judging.

With her hand gloved around his, Em turned, her arm a tether, her hug a vest, her spirit a buoy of hope in his wan sea. Together, one heart towed the other back to safer ground. Wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last. This, she told him, was love. He looked upon her visage with glassy eyes as child to teacher, ears wide in the wonders of an undiscovered world.

They sat, knee to knee and forehead to forehead, the warmth of the one flowing like current into the other and where one soul gave, the two, together, grew stronger. Lips gazed as ambassadors of breath, a mingling of essence, magic of the ninth order and what was sour became sweet and what was hurt became healed. Whispers laced lobes flush as the cheeks that touched and where there had been two beats, evidence suggested just one.

Soundtrack: Priscilla Ahn's Masters in China

 

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[AutumnStorm]

Writing at its best changes forever the one reading. This story is special. You, as a writer, are something special. The wave of hope and love, of glee and of appreciation, appreciation that extends beyond the simple act of reading that is found time and again among your words. It is the continuance that astounds, how in an image, in a phrase, in the happenings of a particular chapter, the characters, how there is always something, how quite often it is everything, that warrants the distinction of special. I get lost in the words, engulfed in the beauty of phrases like 'Whispers laced lobes', the notion behind those such as 'the warmth of the one flowing like current into the other' and as I do, I feel what can only be described as blessed, what's more I feel it on a wider scope, you've a gift, a gift for touching, for creating love through these mediums (art and prose) and that you are using it, sharing it, giving it, therein lies the blessing. It is there for all to take pleasure in. To be loved without condition, to be wanted completely, to be accepted without question, without judgement, with an open heart, to feel this close to someone, forehead to forehead, breath to breath, soul to soul - this chapter is perfection, beautifully written, lost in the words word by word and with an incredibly high so-dubbed sigh-of-bliss factor. Sublime. Simply. I fell for the story with the first chapter that I read, and I have done so again time and time again. There just aren't words that suffice for how marvellous a writer you are, for how deep into one's heart the story pours. Special.