literature

The Traveler

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Daily Deviation

October 10, 2016
The Traveler by copper9lives - "Paints a gorgeous picture of autumn with masterful use of personification."
Featured by doughboycafe
Suggested by hopeburnsblue
copper9lives's avatar
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Published:
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Literature Text

She blew in on the last day of summer, arriving just as the wind began, clutching an artist’s portfolio and a hatbox. There was wonder and wisdom in her bright blue eyes, softened by time and crow’s-feet, and a perfect maple leaf the color of flame was caught in her unruly red hair… her perfume hinted of woodsmoke and oak tannins and the spice of faraway, foreign ports. I helped her carry her hatbox from the train station, and when she smiled at me, I knew everything was about to change.


We shared a cab to the little seaside town where we were both staying, there on the cusp of the world; it had long been one of my favorite places, my secret getaway. When life became too stagnant, the city sweltering in summer’s re-radiated heat, I spent a few days on the shore, staring out across the limitless horizon and dreaming of shanghaied sailors and full-bellied canvas tugging the great ships to the Orient, groaning hulls full of timber from forests that once seemed inexhaustible. 


It was a brilliant, blustery day, and the unfolding scenery seemed caught in crystal, as if it were made to be preserved in memory — a talisman against dark winter nights to come. As it happened, we were staying in the same bed and breakfast cottage, overlooking the harbor, so I helped her up the stairs to her room. Unlocking the scarred wooden door, she immediately crossed the room to throw the windows open wide, letting in the ocean air. It stirred the lace curtains with cool breath, bringing with it the sound of the sailboats fretting anxiously at dock, the cries of seabirds like lost souls. As I set the hatbox down on the carefully-scrubbed pine floorboards, my thumb ran across the scarred leather, the color of old leaves, the lees of wine.


“And now, it’s time to unpack,” she said — but she rubbed her hands together in glee, and her words seemed to hold more significance than mere statement of fact. Unzipping the portfolio, she pulled forth a folding easel, locking it into place with easy familiarity, running her hands over the stand in a half-unconscious caress. She hesitated a moment, poised in the attitude of a conductor, preparing to launch a great symphony, and then plunged her weathered brown hands into the depths of the case.


And she brought out… marvels.


First, there was amber. Golden afternoon angling across fields alight with their own inherent brilliance, the grasses dancing in dry whispers, shadows stretching long fingers toward day’s end. I could smell the dusty straw of broken stems underfoot, sun-baked soil and old stone…


And then she unpacked titian. A swirl of flame and light-limned leaf-edges, fluttering against the clinging grasp of bare-limbed trees, frost and the smell of burning in the air, mist lying heavily on the turning ground…


Scarlet and crimson stretched like torches into an endless blue sky, launching the spirit up and out and away… but underfoot, the earth smelled of decay, and red-capped amanita flourished in hidden dells far below the fiery canopy… 


Lastly, there were mauve and lavender and plum, bruised ripe fruit succulent with harvest and twilight tender with half-guessed secrets, the last light gracing distant mountains with the glamour of wanderlust.


Awestruck and agape, I looked up and asked breathlessly, “What is your name?”


Her smile was old, and slow, and magnificent.


“Autumn."

This was long-listed for the Brilliant Flash Fiction September Freestyle Writing Contest

Didn't place, but now it's back for your enjoyment, dear Deviants! :blowkiss:

I'm still thrilled and honored to have been given a Daily Deviation for this… thank you all so very much! :hug:
© 2015 - 2024 copper9lives
Comments63
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arosethorn's avatar
Absolutely lovely. This is a piece that will remain with me.