Candle lightA flickering sparkle from a world far far away. She eyed it for an eternity. Moments of thoughtlessness and vivid perception. Lucid and so vague. The slight wind walked around her, revitalizing, creating patterns. She took it in and let it travel in her. Charging. She shrugged under the sudden pressure, and bent down to write. She watched her pencil make exotic shapes, cursive and neat, words. They reflected little worlds. Worlds that lived in her, that orbited her life, her reality, her dreams, him. 

“You know you look so cute,” it was him, “all keen and on a mission.” She smiled and ignored him. Tilted her head and wrote. He stared at her patiently, smiling at her excitement. She gleamed as rays from the candle reached her. Her eyes sparkled. He pulled out the pencil that held her hair in an untidy bun and poked her with it. “Cut it out”, she turned to face him, “and give it back”. Her hair went down her shoulders like a brown waterfall. It slowly untwisted, and settled, almost touching the dusty roof top where she sat. It swayed gently in the wind.

He eyed her for an eternity, without a word. The pencil was returned, hair re-tied, and writing continued.

She was occupied, in her tales. She always wrote about love, because love eluded her. It was the enchanted sword that killed fierce dragons. The magic that broke all wicked spells. The remedy for the sick and dying. Love was ‘hope’ after everything was lost. But there was a trend, an obvious declaration. Of something breaking, a dreaded loss. It was in everything her pencil produced, a promise disrespected, a token cliched. It was there, right in the core, a tragedy, an uproar. 

She went on for hours, barely pausing. It was from inside her, and all she had to do was to put it on paper. She attempted with all her strength to quote her mind absolutely. Throughout she didn’t know what she was writing or why, or if her sentences meant anything. She merely obeyed.

She was done. She read it. Her eyes moved saccadicly and her lips shaped silently. Tears collected in her large brown eyes, and she bit her lip to overcome the horror. It was grand. Too good to have come out of her, again. She had created a cursive masterpiece. She stood up and looked for him. Whirled around once. He had left. She tore the pages out of her journal and secured them under a brick. Collected her things and climbed down stairs. She let the midnight breeze envelope her once, until she went inside.

The stars began to fade away, and the sky took a shade of plum. Slight chirps sounded here and there, and some cock’s confession filled the pause. Pink and orange escaped from the horizon, and marked their territories. Light enveloped the roof top, growing in intensity by the minute. Rustling of paper. The morning wind sniffed the pages, and relished one too many stories. It went from corner to corner and relived all of them. Many, rain stricken decaying memories, some crippled like dry autumn leaves. The wind whistled through each of them, a chorus, a heart warming symphony. They sang of their times, of the romance they contained, crispy unsaid tragic tales.

Photo Credit:

 Candle light by Alesa Dam via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

Guest Author Bio

Haania Khan
IMG_20140426_230701 I am a freelance writer. I write for fun. Most of my stories are based in a romantic setting and I like to believe that this is ‘my genre’. I am no English literature major so my writing may be less than conventional. I look forward to your feedback and thank you for reading. 🙂

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