Three Landscapes
by Derek Hugen, 5-19-04
1.
In a wood, each arrow of the quiver had been laid out on the pessimistic leaves which try their best to blow or crack away from a chance or Fate. It was no good though, and the arrows were each black and black, pure ore black, black as the night black, black and white, and white like a dragons tooth on the tip of the head, sharp enough to slit its own wrist with enough pressure applied, not too much though, or you'd cut right through to the bone, so sharp and black.
2.
Then the leaves move. The grass moves. The trees. The flowers. The loose petals. The branches. The soil. The birds. The gray haze boiling the afternoon. Wind whips stupid, searching out the chaos theory for any flaw, but whips too fast to notice anything but the rays of sun passing it light speed and laughing, "Mary Had a Little Lamb," years before the phonograph ever got the joke.
3.
And Gareth bowed so deep his hair fell into his eyes, and it never apologized as he pushed it back behind the ears which were always before the sun. He cut off his ears with a black blade and sent them to the maiden. He rolled his eyes, walked away from the black weapons laid out before him. The breeze was stupid, but it understood the joke. |
