Fray

First Attempts at Flash Fiction....This is a terrible genre

Fray

 

A warm wind rustles through the swamp red maple trees carrying the promises of spring. Delicate red flowers peak from the branches and birds chirp their love songs to the wind despite the snow not yet forgotten. A metallic squeal drowns out their gentle twittering hymn as its forced into motion. Rusted chips fall like rainfall and mingle with the soft wood chip coated ground as the welded steel moves. A distant giggle of children is heard, if listened for, over the groaning sound of the faded metal as two pairs of feet fuel its movement. In the small park of Sumrall, Mississippi upon that aged and rickety seesaw they sit.

Two little girls, whose dimples still shone and with ribbons so delicately tied within their hair, teetered and tottered, clashing against the other striving for the advantage.  Back and forth, up and down, high and low these two pushed never breaking pattern or turn. One, a girl who by all appearances could not be much past her toddler years, gleams in the sun as her small white booted feet shoot her high into the sun. The golden locks would catch the light and spread like wings behind her soft pale pink spring dress. The green in her eyes would glow almost ethereal as she lifts her face to catch the warmth of the breeze coating the other in shadows. In the shadows the girl, not so different in age from the first, has hair like an ebony raven. Her eyes the color of green vines turn to charcoal and her delicate hands morph into talons that grip the bar with such force that the metal seams to groan beneath her. But as gravity starts to pull her counterpart towards the ground, her smoky black booted feet shoot her high into the sky and she is once again delicate.

And so they continue, each dueling against the other to reach higher. One, and then ultimately, the other. No giggles, no expressions, no eye contact. Just the continuous pressure on their toes to never fall behind the other. Deeper and deeper the divots become in the ground with each perpetual propulsion from their feet. The sun hits low among the trees throwing shadows along the ground. Pushing, lifting then pushing again and again. The metal begins to cry in outrage, as it is demanded into a daunting rhythm. Back and forth, the squeaks and squeals, the aria to their fray, is heard as the dark begins to take over the day. High and then low, tiny sweat drips from her chin as the fatigue hits. The other grins a toothy grin and propels the scuffle onward. Soon sweat coats the bar as the clammy hands of the conquered try to hold their grip. Useless and wavering she slips from her seat and rolls along the wood chips. Her other, victorious, stands casting a shadow that towers beyond the trees as the sun finally cowers behind the horizon casting the day into darkness. 

Author's Note

First attempts at flash fiction. be gentle