Creative writing Litterature

Orianne MARREL

CREATIVE WRITING LL

           It had been a long day of work. The hard labour in the fields drained my energy, sucking out my air, burning my muscles. The soreness was now bearable, as my body was getting used to the constant aching of my limbs. I dragged myself sadly to the sink in the hope of finding refuge in warm water. It was at that moment I felt her presence, the moment I entered the kitchen and advanced to the window.

There she was.

Again.

               The same time, the same place on the top of the cliff, her long, curly hair undulating gently in the evening breeze. Her simple white dress fluttering silently in the wind. Her face was steady, her deep green eyes in silent focus on the distant horizon. As if she were expecting something. She was under the spell of her thoughts, and her steady breathing gave a rhythm to the twilight.

Again.

                She was young, but her emerald eyes betrayed a sense of infinite sadness. It was as though through her young age she had already lived a full life. The experience of brutality and violence could be seen through the way she stood, unmoved by her surroundings; a tall thin figure, swaying in the zephyr of dusk.

           And it was that moment I realised what she was always looking at. Her frail fingers were holding a small piece of light blue silk, the kind of blue the sea is after a storm. It seemed in the shape of an uneven square, ripped off a bigger piece. And that was all there was to it. A small square of blue silk. Just as simple as she.

               As I spied from my window, the sky darkened, first becoming a pool of pinks and purples, then sinking to the deep black of the night. And she was still there, beautiful, barefoot in the soft grass, her white skin glowing ghostlike in the moonlight. The whisper of the wind urged me to go up to her, to ask for a name, an identity. But her pureness, the delicacy which emanated from the whole of her body, made her seem unattainable, disconnecting her from real life.

No.

Life seemed to have given up on her. The simplicity of her being made her invincible against the world. She was like a white pearl in a sea of blackness, and I was completely defenseless and she was endlessly captivating.

 But yet,

                   That night, as I shuddered in the cold and curled up under the soft wool of my covers, little did I know that the only thing I would ever see of her again would be the little silk square, lying innocently in the green grass, where she would have stood. She would be gone, but yet not entirely, as I realised that although the girl had disappeared, the silk had endured, leaving me with a piece of that person whom I had never known.

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