The music of wind. A short story

The wind it was said to blow down from the high hills around this time of year. As she lie there, head down in the grass, she thought about the evergreens far up on the hill as they swayed in the Autumn cool wind. "Honey," a voice said from her side, "they are on the way." The grass she was crumpled on was damp from the previous night's rain. The yellow patch of flowers growing like weeds in the grass surrounding her boomed with the fortissimo hum of honey bees. As it grew louder she began to lose the feeling of the wind that blew down from the high hills around this time of year. Her breath began to shorten and her mind wandered. She remembered the porch of her grandmother's Victorian home and how the chestnut floor boards would creak. As a young girl, she would slide the door open and sneak up to the edge, her small fingers grasping the banister. In the garden her grandmother would be humming and digging in the soil. The girl would sit quietly, all the while her grandmother had heard the creak, and watch as she planted vegetables.

The light began to fade and the wind became still as it does during the Winter. "I told her to be careful," the voice in lentando from her side said. "Oh I cannot stand to see her suffer." The wind could not escape; like a jar with its lid sealed too tight, the air turned rotten and the small and fragile flame suffocated.

The world was black now. The stars hidden behind dark rain clouds like during the summer months. The stinger still throbbing in her arm.



If you like what you see, please remember to share it with friends. Thanks!