The Meadow, A Song

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short prose piece about a meadow in the night comprised by a song.

Submitted: May 27, 2013

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Submitted: May 27, 2013



I am standing at the edge of a meadow, the grass wheels in spools like flashing minnows. You are singing a song & I cannot remember the melody. I can only remember the words & that some day I should like to kill you.

The moon casts a foil curtain upon our skin so that we may shine silver. Somewhere in the distance another pair of people are taking pictures of the purple lupin in the midnight. The white edges mark deep the purple of their petals, the cool purple of the flowers reach toward the sky, drawing out a tint of angry red. The flash lights up the landscape violent.

The song now has stopped or I can no longer remember the words. Perhaps you just move your lips wordless, perhaps the music you make is beautiful & wild & not measurable by language. I have to admit thinking about it leaves me a little uncomfortable. It has made me tender. I also remember that I should like to kill you, this memory too stirs the pool of guilt in my chest. The pool also holds the foil from the moon, I cup my hands & drink it. It tastes not of the moon, the reflection recedes back into the shrinking surface. It ripples, the moon foil distorted. My expression now is one of panic. Once more I place my cupped hands into the pool. Once more I place my hands to my mouth. I drink. There is nothing to taste, yet the reflection of the moon recedes. It does not leave my skin, which is left foil. The haphazard movement of the grass has begun to quicken now with the wind, as if the minnows caught sight of their predator, as if the wind had bones to betray it's position.

I move my hands to the grass, but I am not gentle. I am not tender, as I was with the pool. As your song has made me. I am digging my fingers past the grass, they have long since reached past the lupins. I am shoveling into the dirt. I am soft when I place the dirt, affectionate as I lay it down. Roots, grass, the spines of the lupin flowers. I stack. The sky is still tinted angry with red, though the moon remains calm. The clouds filter it's cool light as if they where made from the scattered & transparent ribbons of jellyfish, there tattered fringes made into patterns with the play of night edging close. Cast into an unforgiving sea that has chosen a moment of reprieve. The sky partitioned in moonlight.

As I lay the dirt into a layered castle I become very aware that I've gained the other couple's attention, that they now know I'm there. You are not singing your song any longer, they have stopped taking pictures. The only thing that pierces the night now are the stars. The people move closer. They may have heard your song, though the distance would have muddied any meaning your words might have carried. They are trying to be quite. Perhaps they should like to kill me, though we have never met. I am sure that I do not have any love for them. The pool of guilt ripples. I begin to doubt whether I understood the meaning of your words. I am not sure now what had moved me.

When they move closer it becomes clear that they are cruel, they crush the lupin, grass & dirt beneath there feet. Their's is a different form of digging, a different form of burial. The sound of their movement is punctuated by cricket burst. Loud then, silent as they draw closer. The crickets are singing a song & I can only remember it's rhythm. There are no words & there is no melody. Their song continue on flat, lifeless like the uprooted stems of the lupin with their color still vibrant. They continue to pulse, like an frantic heart beat. Maybe, like the uprooted flowers their lifeless song betrays their motionless bodies. The crickets do not sing any songs that are worth remembering. They betray their motionless bodies by asserting the pulp of their existence.

The grass does not try to remain still, the grass only sings when the wind urges it. Even then the grass only sings in murmurs. The crickets are not gentle with the grass. The grass is their prey, they leap from one prey to the next. Though sometimes their prey becomes their shelter, they are not affectionate. Sometimes we all move into the shade of our prey with a cruelty in our heart. Often we are most cruel in our shelters.

The unkind footsteps are growing closer & the crickets have stopped their singing. They are leaping from prey to prey. They are looking for prey to hide under. It is a violence. I remain crouched, my hands dark with dirt, no longer capturing any of the moon's foil curtain. I am neither gentle nor cruel, I am still. The bones of the wind urge the landscape once again, urge the meadow's song. There is a shudder. 

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