Fiction Writers discussion

Lunariette's Writing > A Story About the Sky

Comments Showing 1-4 of 4 (4 new)    post a comment »
dateDown arrow    newest »

message 1: by Lunariette (new)

Lunariette | 3 comments The sky was so far away. The mountain wanted to reach out and touch it, but it seemed like the blue blanket was just out of its reach, as if it was hiding behind a hidden threshold, taunting it. The wind brushed silently across the bare mountaintop, sending stray pebbles skittering across its flat surface. The mountaintop wished the wind would sing. But there was no one here. Then again, that’s how it always was. No one here, no one there. The mountain was alone.

Birds would come and go, sometimes dropping small seeds onto the hard-packed dirt. But they never grew into anything. Then the mountain would sigh at the life that had befallen it, and look into the distance. But there wasn’t anything. The mountain was alone.

Then, one day, a small blue bird came flapping over the mountain, staying afloat on just a trickle of wind. The bird whistled a song of happiness, and the mountain sighed again. What feeling it must be, to be happy? The little blue bird dropped something out of its beak, something small. Then it flapped away on a tiny gust of wind, and was gone. And the mountain was alone.

A seed. Just another seed had been dropped. The mountain knew it wouldn’t grow into anything, it was so tiny and shriveled. Then clouds came rumbling over the mountain, and they cried. They cried all over the mountaintop, they made the mountain want to cry with them. So the mountaintop sobbed, while the rain came down, and when the clouds had enough of crying they dried up and went away. Far away, and the mountain knew they would never come back. And when the clouds came away, the mountain looked and looked, but could not find the seed. And the sky was blue, and the mountain wanted to reach up and touch it. But it never could.

A sprout. Just a sprout. “It will probably die,” thought the mountain. “Yes, it will die, and I will be alone again.” And the mountain stared up at the sky, and didn’t even try to reach up and touch it.

The little green leaves swayed and wavered in the wind, drinking in the sky’s light. But the mountain knew it would not be enough. “The wind will kill the sprout.” The mountain said miserably. “The wind that refuses to sing will kill the sprout.” And the mountain glared up at the bright sky.
The mountain wished the wind would sing. It wondered what it would sing about.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Let me sing with you,” the mountain would beg of the wind.
“I don’t sing.” The wind would mutter quietly.
“I’ve heard you in the distance,” the mountain would say excitedly, “I know you can. Let me sing with you.”
“I don’t sing for you.” The wind would correct itself.
And that always ended the conversation, the wind becoming silent once more.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A peach tree. The mountain looked at it in reverence. The tree swayed in the wind, still small and stunted. The peaches seemed to weigh down the branches, pulling it toward the ground. “The fruit it bears will kill the tree.” The mountain sobbed. “Those incredibly heavy peaches will kill the tree.” And the mountaintop looked up at the sky which it coveted, and willed it to come down and protect its little dying tree. But the sky simply floated up there, so high above. And the mountain could not touch it. Not ever.

A peach fell. It splattered on the ground after falling ten feet. The juice trickled in the smallest stream down the side of the mountain, a single tear pooling up on the ground. The tree stood tall and firm now. Its many green leaves danced in the wind, the bright, robust peaches swinging like acrobats on their tiny stems. The mountain looked upon the tree with wonder. “These peaches will fall off, they are so fat.” The mountaintop grumbled. “They will all fall to the ground, and the tree will be bare. Like me.” And the mountain looked up at the sky, and noticed that it was not blue today, nor gray like it sometimes was when the clouds came to cry. It was violet. The mountain did not know the sky could be violet.

A tiny gust of wind blew over the mountain’s flat surface, so tiny it did not even sway the rotund fruit that hung from the peach tree. A twittering could be heard, a high-pitched song of happiness. And, floating not so much on the tiny gust of wind as on the song it sang, came the tiny little blue bird, flapping its tiny little blue wings. The peach tree seemed to bend toward the bird, trying to reach the bird before the bird reached it. The mountain scowled. “Bird, you will kill my tree! You will kill my only friend!” it cried. Then it looked up, and remembered the sky. It sighed, and muttered to itself, “and then I will be alone again. And it will be the same once more, and the sky will not come down to meet me.” And the mountain sat back and watched the tree try to rip itself from the ground to come toward the little blue bird singing its song of happiness.

The mountain felt the tree’s roots untangling themselves, being pulled back up towards the biting, snapping air, and the mountain realized it did not want this. It did not want to be alone once more, and it would truly miss the glistening peaches swinging from its branches, and the slightly triumphant way it stood about, and the way that the wind could not kill it. Not ever. And so the mountain tugged, it tugged with all its might in order to keep that peach tree in its hard, earthy grasp. And the wind seemed to laugh as it pushed on the tree, towards the blue bird, away from its only home. But the mountain fought and fought, it fought the mocking wind and the tug of happiness. Then suddenly the little blue bird’s dainty feet touched a branch on the peach tree, and immediately it snapped back into place, swaying for a moment before coming back to its former glory, only now a new treasure had been added. The bird twittered and sang among the peach and landed in the fruitful branches of the tree, and it began singing, and the mountain realized the bird was singing for it. And the mountain swayed to the song of the little bird’s chirping, and the wind came and weaved through the branches of the peach tree, whistling as it went and harmonizing perfectly with the little blue bird. The wind was singing, no longer silent and mocking. It had a beautiful voice.

The mountain looked up at the violet sky, so high above. There was a tremor in the earth, and a ripple in the sky, and it felt to the mountain as if the sky had given its edict, at last. And the mountain reached out, higher, higher, brushing the soft, bouncing clouds.

And the mountain touched the sky.

message 2: by Lunariette (new)

Lunariette | 3 comments You can comment if you like. I'd like to know how I did.

message 3: by Lunariette (new)

Lunariette | 3 comments Oh why thank you! :B I will try to make more stuff, just for you!

message 4: by Roxanne (new)

Roxanne Shriver (roxannexshriver) This is beautiful! :)

back to top