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Wild Violets

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Two tans hands interlocked, resting on the solid ground. Golden stalks of grass, taller than the sky, reaching up and extending into froever, prodding the fairytale sky like millions of needles piercing glass balloons. Two pairs of legs, sun kissed, stretched out on the ground. A pair of Nikes and a pair of flip flops. T-shirts and tank tops, the breath of fall infused in the sun-warmed air. A black camera, too dark and heavy to fit in with the scenery; a thick click and an image captured: two tan hands interlocked, resting on the solid ground.

The smell of Tide laundry detergent and cologne from the navy baseball hat a few feet away. The sun warming brown faces and shoulders; the sloping ground of the grassy hill creating a rugged line. Smooth, sticky blades of grass, running between fingers that brush the grass back and forth, back and forth. The taste of sickly sweet air, lifting strands of hair and swirling clouds around like paint on canvas. Wind whistles with a cold chill to it. Wild violets sprout through the smothering grass, tiny shots of color.

A young couple visits the hill, bracing themselves against the bitter, angry autumn gusts. The woman wears a black quilted jacket and the man a thick sweatshirt. Chapped, bare hands grasp each other, a single link between two bodies swirling around the universe like flags whipping in the wind. The man had visited the hill in the pasture when he was just a boy and had marveled at its beauty. He had brought his love to the hill now, feeling like a teenager again, where he would wrap his letterman's jacket around his girlfriend's delicate shoulders and feel worth something. The two stood at the top of the hill, feet apart from each other, watching the world below and letting the gales whip her hair and his sweatshirt around. They were statues of marble, ravishing, still and unmoving, simply breathing and being alive. After the wind died down, the man reached for the woman's hand. Mutely, they left the hill.

A wild violet, its thin stem too weak to support the flower that was so large in comparison. The brilliant blue-purple petals stretched out across the stamp, the ink glossy on the paper. It was the fancy kind of stamp, she noted, where there was already adhesive on the back so one would not have to lick it. The seven year-old girl stuck the postage stamp to her cork bulletin board, as to save it forever. The contest had been simply to send in a picture of nature, something stunning that took away the breath of the customers who stopped in distractedly and in a hurry to buy stamps from the post office. It was meant to make the customers stop and admire what they were buying. She had captured the image on a brightly gray day. The stamp stuck to the cork easily. She hoped that, someday, it would peel off so she could use it for an important letter.

A fire erupted in the middle of the pasture with the grassy hill, charring each tree and creating cinders of every blade of grass. The heat of the summer was settling into the earth, loosening the dirty and making the ground uneven. The grass had been a jewel tone of green. The sky had been a clear watery blue of a lake. The great plumes of smoke had turned the pasture into a maze of foggy emptiness, a vast ground of mystery. The fire had crackled and devoured anything living. The cause of the fire is unknown, reported the staff writer, quipping a canned statement of loss and recovery. The beloved pasture where many have visited before will soon thrive again, she promised. What will be, will be.

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alymarie3 said...
Jun. 26, 2011 at 5:24 pm
amazing i loved cherry cough drops then i saw this and its amazing too!
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