Kreema did not have to concentrate on where he was going, only on listening for who else might be out this evening. He knew the pathway from the village to Banoah as well as he knew the curve of his favorite mug, the one with the saber-toothed bear that his grandfather had sculpted for him from rich red clay.
Kreema sighed to himself, "I would love a cup of maracha." But he knew better than to expect warmth of any sort when he arrived home.
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cinnamonfern<q>Kreema did not view the loveliness of the tree or its organic synthesis with the world around it. He did not see the orange flame of reflected sunset in Banoah's canopy or the knotted tangle of her roots. As Kreema sat wedged in a small hollow between the base of Banoah's massive trunk, and his favorite boulder, he turned his unseeing gaze upward to catch the last rays of winter sunlight upon his brown skin and sighed.</q>
He linked his hands and stretched upward. His fingertips touched the top of the hollow and he stood carefully. Out, before him he heard the waves of the lake, growing softer now as dusk quieted the harsh day's wind. He shivered. Would his father still be angry? He knew he had to go back. The temperature of the winter air had already dropped and would drop colder still and he was damp and chilled from hours of sitting near the damp earth. He turned, putting the sounds of wind and water behind him, and began to walk up toward the forest.
He put his hand on the bark of the first tree, and began walking.
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The tree stood there, tall and majestic. The light of the setting sun set fire to its snow-covered branches. It had stood by the shores of the great lake for more than two centuries. It was alone, perched among a nest of boulders. No one knew if the boulders were there before the tree was sprouted from a seed, or if the tree had grown up out of a large rock, its roots slowly breaking the rock into smaller fragments. The wind and ice and water eventually would have worn the boulders into their smooth, lumpy shapes. But no one could tell for certain. The roots of Banoah, as the people of the great lake called the ancient tree, now wrapped over, around and through the boulders. They formed a beautiful matrix, as if they had always been that way, and would be until time stopped forever.
Kreema did not view the loveliness of the tree or its organic synthesis with the world around it. He did not see the orange flame of reflected sunset in Banoah's canopy or the knotted tangle of her roots. As Kreema sat wedged in a small hollow between the base of Banoah's massive trunk, and his favorite boulder, he turned his unseeing gaze upward to catch the last rays of winter sunlight upon his brown skin and sighed.
cinnamonfernWelcome.
As you read this text, know that these words are more than pixels. They are a portal for the imagination. Access is granted to all who long for escape from the dreary, from the ordinary. For those who love stories in all forms. For those who love to dream.
Welcome to a new world. Join in the story. Join by reading, join by writing. Let your mind flow free.
Welcome to the Luominen.
