Another Short Story

Another Short Story

I fell down a well when I was a child,
or was it into a ditch or a ravine.
No it was a well, on an autumn day;
the wind was whipping by blowing my hair all about,
I had long hair for a boy, then again boys are often excused for their long hair.
It is merely a phase we go through, a form of rebellion or emulation,
for me it was both. I was on a journey at the time, an adventure,
or was it a quest. I was biking through the woods, the leaves red,
orange and yellow. It was a quest, I had a purpose. I wanted to see a tree with its leaves still green among the forest of fall. A sign of vitality and growth among the sea of
mortality and frailty. The wind picked up the leaves that lined the path and curled them
as if they were a wave about the break upon the beach.
Instead they split upon my spokes, whistling through them, some caught
and created the noise which boys use baseball cards to make. It is supposed to sound like a motorcycle, it really does not. I ride on or over there was a bridge at one point,
a small rickety thing, that makes you wonder about how your life has
been so far as you cross it. It creaks, it squeaks but it holds strong.
There is still no sign of what I wish to see, the tree that is,
but I am enjoying the ride. I am at ease, I am one with the trees, the leaves,
and the squirrels as well as the associated woodland creatures. The path ends,
I dismount from the bike and lean it against a tree, any one would do,
so I picked a particularly large and barren one. Taking a sip of the water,
I had with me, no it was gatorade, of the lemon-lime persuasion.
I walked on, my helmet still adorned, I may have been a bit of a rebel, but I
respected the helmet, it was the law after all.
The path was no more, over grown by the roots of trees
become greedy for more dirt, or I suppose water.
The wind whistled above a rattled the trees
I looked up and fell down.
My foot snagged a root and I flew forward down a hole.
It was a well, what are the odds!
I remember the fall the wind screeching past my ears and the crack
of my helmet when I hit the ground. It was a good helmet
after that it was a broken helmet. But it had been a good one
not one of this juvenile ones that mothers buy
but the cool ones fathers do, that skaters wear,
that protect the back of your head as well, the base of your skull.
I laid there for awhile, absorbed in the pain.
It was the pulsating sort I was battered and bruised, everywhere, a heavy thud
that had shook my core.I embraced its rhythm and moved my muscles with it.
Then I stood up and shook off the pain, I looked at around for the first time
and discovered I was in a well. A dried well at that lucky for me,
or unlucky, well I lived, water could have been cold , could have drowned me, so lucky.
It was recently dried too, the ground was soft and spongy not arid, and wide,
a very wide well, more luck, a smaller diameter could have caused an awkward landing.
Yes wet ground with a few weeds growing along the edges of the ground,
the kind that can live of little sunlight, that thrive in darkness.
And vines ones not so accustomed to darkness reaching up to the light,
like a new born babe trying to grasp it; spidering upwards crawling around the stones.
Old stones, and I mean stones, something cut from a mountain
or from a stone mine: a quarry. It was not some sort of block,
some sort of concrete mix but stone, living stone,
or used to be living stone, in as much as stone can live.
The stones where uneven they were in and out, pushed up and down.
The roots that had done me in were to save me as well,
They had pushed in bits of the well’s stone making hand and foot holds.
I ascended them, back into the light, and found myself starring,
At a big green leafy tree. Flanked by its fellows in browns, reds, oranges, and
Golds. A king in his court surrounded by great guards, but it is clear the king is the greatest,
The strongest, perhaps then more like a young prince full of life, vibrant with potential.
I had yet to fully ascend out of the well, transfixed by this image,
I finished my climb and the wind picked up;
I stand in front of the tree,
feeling dwarfed by its height, no, by its majesty.
Time seems to slow and I take it all in.
The leaves swirled about the tree in languid loops, artful curves,
up and down moving about and around.
The branches of the other trees bend, in the wind as if
To bow to this great tree, whose upper branches heavy and strong
With leaves only rustle in the wind in appreciation of their praise.
I stand a while longer and the sun reaches its zenith shining down through the trees,
The leaves, through me. I feel as though I am on fire, enlivened so,
and because it is getting rather warm out, I recall the ache in my bones and feel quite tired.
So under the grand tree I go for its cooling shade and a great rest.
I awake, to the sun
setting. A single green leaf falls down upon my chest,
To say goodbye. I get up and shake in the dirt, and walk back.
The sky is now red, orange and yellow, I find
my bike and ride off, away from the sun, the forest,
and the grand tree. Rays of fading sunlight follow me,
out of the forest and light my way.
I climbed out of a well when I was a child,
At the beginning of Autumn, no
At its end.