Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are heartache, jangle and reckless. Sometimes, it’s fun to do some timed writing, just see what comes out. This was the result of 30 somewhat tortured minutes.
Heartache
Plunging temperatures leave a coating of frost across the fields of my parent’s farm. It’s past midnight and the harvest moon still hangs brilliant in the sky and blots out the Milky Way that usually speckles so brightly this far out of town.
I stand in the chill, reckless without a jacket, and watch my hot breath turn to short-lived clouds.
All is quiet in the world.
And then I hear it, a soft, metallic jangle in the distance.
I creep through the tangled windbreak to a pasture that rises to a hilly peak behind the house. There’s a trail of footprints stamped into the frost, tiny and barefoot.
I follow and at the apex of the hill stands a girl, her breath clouds escaping in hiccupy, short bursts. She’s quietly sobbing, and as she hugs her arms to her chest, a tangle of silver bracelets around her thin wrists clatter softly.
She wears a willowy white nightgown that shimmers in the moonlight.
I go to her.
She does not shy away at my presence.
I blow on my fists to warm them, then offer up my hands to her. She entwines her fingers within mine, and as she puts a tear-streaked cheek on my shoulder, a gasp escapes her lips.
And my heart soars on the hope that I’ve settled whatever heartache that’s befallen her.
Heartache
Plunging temperatures leave a coating of frost across the fields of my parent’s farm. It’s past midnight and the harvest moon still hangs brilliant in the sky and blots out the Milky Way that usually speckles so brightly this far out of town.
I stand in the chill, reckless without a jacket, and watch my hot breath turn to short-lived clouds.
All is quiet in the world.
And then I hear it, a soft, metallic jangle in the distance.
I creep through the tangled windbreak to a pasture that rises to a hilly peak behind the house. There’s a trail of footprints stamped into the frost, tiny and barefoot.
I follow and at the apex of the hill stands a girl, her breath clouds escaping in hiccupy, short bursts. She’s quietly sobbing, and as she hugs her arms to her chest, a tangle of silver bracelets around her thin wrists clatter softly.
She wears a willowy white nightgown that shimmers in the moonlight.
I go to her.
She does not shy away at my presence.
I blow on my fists to warm them, then offer up my hands to her. She entwines her fingers within mine, and as she puts a tear-streaked cheek on my shoulder, a gasp escapes her lips.
And my heart soars on the hope that I’ve settled whatever heartache that’s befallen her.
Comments
About the highest compliment a writer of fiction can have, I suppose.
Really nice take on the prompt...urges you to read on.
I've been away for too long, Thom. But I do want to share my condolences on the loss of your father. I wholly empathize your loss.
b
http://torristravels.blogspot.com/2009/10/habit-of-thinking.html
Patsy
A great piece (wow, in 30 mins!!!)
So the suspense about this little girl is killing me!
I love the line, the thought behind the line and the piece.
Wonderful.