There’s something trickling in the distance, she can hear it. It must be water, what else would it be? Blood. This isn’t a horror story though, and there is doubt in credibility when the writer squirms at their own words. So it must be water. That’s the magic of writing, the sheer possibility of it all. There’s no water in the distance; yet for you, at this very moment, there is. My mind is past the trickle though, already onto the future.
Someone must go see this trickle, find out what it really is. So she gets up, and leaves her spot on the grassy floor. There’s a blue dress dragging against the knees, she likes it since it covers her arms. By the time this story is over you may have forgotten that her eyes are green. There’s a park around her, and two trees at the edge. That is where she heads, she’s sure the trickle is coming from there. I can hear a trickle, but it may not be the same as yours. My trickle is soft and slow; melodic, hypnotic. Drip... Drip… Drip. Each drop is a new life. Your trickle may be different. It may be fast, persuasive. Drip. Drip. Drip. Or then again, it may be one continuous stream, bigger sounds coming when a rush overflows. Driiiidrrrrriiipppppdrrriiiddddddrrrriipp. Everyone’s trickle is different. I’m the writer, and you’re the reader, but no one’s trickle is wrong.
With all of this she reaches the trees. There’s no water, not a pond or a just a drop. There’s still a trickle somewhere, she can hear it. She’s been invented by me, created by you, but even her trickle is different.
It has to be known where this trickle is. As her curiosity grows, does yours? Mine does, and it should be thought that I already know where it is. Just as she is honest, I am when I say that I do not know.
She puts her hand upon a trunk, there was a root that she almost tripped on. She pokes her head through. And she stumbles.
Perhaps it was a mirror, or maybe just a dream. Maybe it was her yearning for treasure, a yearning for love?
She can see the trickle. You can’t, not yet. But she can, and what she sees is beautiful.
She asks a question, and he gives her his name.
In a mountain, a trickle falling from the top can only be heard by those below. They cannot see it, the water too small for their eyes. One day someone will climb to the top, to see the trickle. She has, maybe one day you will. I never will, I prefer the suspense.
She’s still looking, listening for the sound is still coming. It’s emanating from him. She wonders what will happen if she passes back through the trees. Maybe she will lose this trickle, she never wants too. She hears on a whim, for this writer gives whims, that she cannot step back through the trees with him. This writer want this story to be a heartbreak, love that can never be. What is the reader thinking, what do you want?
She smiles whilst taking his hand, she knows what to do. They step together, the trees are right there. She passes them. But she doesn’t go through them, she goes around. Trickles can go anywhere when held by another. She’s defied the words wanted, broken the law of the writer. There shall be no tragedy.
She walks off with him, leaving the grass, and the trees, with a blue dress dragging against her knees. She prefers brown eyes.
Now all that’s left is for you to stumble through trees to find a trickle. There’s a trickle for me and a trickle for you, trickles of many things. Your trickle is different to my trickle, just as her trickle was different. Just remember to go around, not through, in case you lose your trickle to ease.
She’s happy that her curiosity took her to the trickle, and she’s happy that she saw a way around. This writer is happy that it wasn’t a horror, and can smile at what’s been created. Now all that’s left is for the reader to think, to decide if they are happy.
There’s a trickle out there for you; it could be water, it could be a horror. That’s up to you to find.
Anyone can create their own story.
She’s found her trickle, I’m looking for mine. And you, maybe you’re just beginning to hear the trickle. Or then again, maybe it’s already in your sight.
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