Shadows Of Dust | ✓

Part (II) Grey of the evening

     Morbid appearance never gets bored out from dull colours.

     Mercury red and black vet sky and the leaves— it was in flame red.

     All you could hear was a galloping sound in the distance. A dark figure rapidly ascended the hill. At a fast gallop, he's riding through the barren field. Leaves were finally getting rid finally, before the bleached bone white took over. The huffing wind barely passed through his vast; he rode faster now. 

    Fog-hinted fairy trees now stood alone in the field, a weak pitter patter sound was heard. It wasn't the sound of any children's feet. He whirled around to see. A woman's face appeared. He's too stunned to utter.

    He finally took off his saddle to visit her. He couldn't help but devour the eyes which cleverly smirk at his dusted appearance.

   "We met again."

    "Certainly."

    He noticed the graceful shape decorated with a white shirt, jeans and black boots.

    Spiders flooded the field now, clutching their snatch and eyes; full of hatred.

    Sweltering orange, yellow sands finally evaporating to fade away.

    It's a combination of waxing moon and waning sun, just like them. They strolled together in a vaporous silence where echoes of any prayer couldn't be reached. It was almost when the wind poke out the tree leaves he spoke—

    "Never took you as a wanderer. Shouldn't you be in a rosy attire where soft glossy lips only clatter with the news of latest affairs?"

    Her eyes were so luminous bright that her laughter filled out the eerie land.

   "You're supposed to say, a pretentious sophisticated lady. Why must you, young men, see ladies only to be decorated in exaggerated materials?"

    "Perhaps, they like it."

    She snorted at that remark but continued to walk.

    "It merely mirrored personality. How do you adore and wear your heart on sleeves when everyone is ready to point fingers?"

     Tremulous branches could barely bear the weight of immigrant birds; so the birds fled across the flamboyant skies where the shadows of flits stretched out. She languidly plucked out a daisy from the nearby tree. Circling around the daisy monotonously, she murmured—

    "You can't make out from a portrait of the artist's loft souls."

    "Do you come here often?"

    "I suppose, when the winged sing of birds died: it's a calling of coming out."

    He chuckled and softly took another glance of the mysterious beauty; so elusive and compelling. The dragonfly whirred and fluttered above the head. It must die too, as it's the tragedy and glory of the cycle of life.

   "What can you do for love?"

    He thought ruefully as if the question never bothered him until now. It's an universal excitement, felt by all but departed with many strange conjectures.

   "Aha, don't answer it actually."

    He made no answer, remaining gazed at her with intense curiosity. When she speculated her next words; it hinted with sadness as the winds now whistled through tree leaves.

     "It's alternating rhythm, jingled with bells and noisy, meaningless. Albeit, the heather cliff didn't think so. You must stamp on the ground, smashed the lilies when the wind is too hard."

    "So, you must lock them to be with you."

    "No, you must free them."

    "They should stay together."

    "What if one suddenly bored out of them and cheated?"

     "Then, you must kill."

     He looked at the sky, considering the weight of words. A curious sensation of terror came over him. He was so huddled up and shrunk together that he fancied he was almost on the level of ground.

     "Like jealous Othello, always ready for murder. But you must not be annoyed by it."

     He dared not to meddle with her words. After all, pages of history ought to be inseparable from human interaction. Fate had its part of exquisite joy and exquisite sorrows. He's afraid of interruption that once it's there, she would stop.

     The fading sunlight gasped in its last breath, as if convincing a shrill cry to be rescued.

     "I reckon, what must be the odds to overcome the stages of love. If one goes higher, the other must go down."

     "I suppose.  .  .

     "But all living things seem to shrink into themselves; shrivelled and withered."

     "As one is fated."

    The weather clenched its frigid fist and the last dragonfly seemed a flitting memory.

     Fire cluttered and cold crackled once more, the dew drops resealed as red; but it went unnoticed by him. He's too occupied to gather his thoughts.

     She, the beauty of undefined slope of intercept mystery left the daisy to burn in fire hills. One shouldn't be preoccupied with ambience that the shared experience resonated with one but ignored by others.

     The ignition of moulted portions were just a glimpse; the volcanoes were yet to come.

    "A variation of composition in each series. Don't you think so?"

    "Only the reflection bore the souls so that they are pierced," he added with a nervous laugh.

     Visions of witches stole dreams, bragging rights; no perhaps accused sound lacerated the sky. A fluid body; trying grasp wizened faces and peep closely but it went vain when the shadows of dust filled the vision.

     Unhinged by the wheezing wind, they rode towards the ripened berry trees.

     "Something tells me, it's the crisis of my life."

     "Oh, believe me it's not. Only consciousness makes you feel so."

     Suddenly they found each other face to face, their eyes met again and his coal-dusted hair fell over his forehead. Something stirred in their encounter, so spooky, strange yet not so reckless.

     "Strange so that I didn't get your name gentleman."

     "Paris— Paris Hilton," he was suddenly shy.

     "Beautiful like this atmosphere place."

     "Our meeting had to be one of the latent affairs."

    "Why, you must not die from the shyness that we're destined to meet. It was inevitable."

      He couldn't help but nod and added, "You're quite unique from others."

    "You can say, cynical. But being cynical is simply a pose rather than normal. To be normal is simply boring."

     The wind shook some blossoms along with the clustering stars, he felt he could hear the hammer of heart; wondered what's coming. They chattered aimlessly until the time of bid adieu came —

    "When do I see you again?"

    "Very soon, you must know we humans have to make an appearance from time to time in society."

     Society's too civilised to mention the few handles of gore. Obviously, the loss of kinship is never mentioned; only the honour of shiny glamours.

     The bees hummed for one last time, the world would be muffled with powdered silence, too blurry to mention.

      The red roots came over to the place where they stood; and it's not over yet as that evening.

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Following up — part(iii)