[Hirak]

Synopsis: Love is an eternal feeling.

The early morning mists formed gossamer trails through the valley, their frail beauty a stark contrast to the dark, forbidding forest that loomed behind them. Here and there a hare sprinted through the unkempt woods, and the sight was a guerdon for the solitary trekker. I could hear the sound of rustling leaves, or was it just the heavy wind? Maybe it was the fata morgana of a waterfall looming up ahead. Many a traveler had spent mornings in the beautiful early sunlit hours in these parts, but unless one can reach the ultimate aim, he will always be a tourist manqué.

I paced past the little boulders that swept over the specious grass in search of further adventure. The wind was strong yet mollifying, and the fungible weather was a beau monde in the backdrop of the rising sun. A peculiar warmth had spread over me with the first tinge, just like the feeling of first love. Through the foliage was a transpicuous sight of freshness. The mist was still allowing vision for only a distance, but it was unusually lenitive. The favonian winds blew like a zephyr, and the mirage of this morning spread in my mind as an intoxicating soporific, while the virgin aurora was like a sip of newly-brewed coffee.

My walk was taking me uphill, and I had cottoned to these straits now like heat to fire. There were no footprints in the rocky path, but I knew people of many versatilities had traversed here. I like to think them as snowbirds, who have flown along this hewn road to summer lands. They had a vision which I share, and there was no way to know if nature had mulct them of their victuals. I felt that this journey was not for me alone, but for all of those wary wayfarers. To prove that they had not been wrong, and to show myself that I was not alone.

I am a writer. Nothing out of the ordinary, but a struggling writer, nevertheless. After years of solitude and recluse, I wove my dreams into a fable called Snow Flower. It was a book, a long one, that spoke of the clairvoyance of a peasant. I liked to think of myself as that peasant who suffered for his simplicity. In each section I have envisioned myself as the different seasons, and portrayed his life, his love and his tragedy. But after two years of the release of my book, only two hundred and twenty six copies had been sold.

She walked in that day bathed in the morning light of the dawn. Off the dust laden book shelf she picked up a copy of my book and started reading the first page. Her pellucid self and honest expressions commoved me. By lunch, she had covered half the book.

At the end of the day, during which she read and I watched from the counter, she had finished the book. She finally came over and asked, "How much?"

"It's not for sale," I said. "In any case you have finished it. Why do you need to buy it?"

"So you were watching me the whole time?" she ventured.

"You were hardly hiding," I joked.

As her lips broke into a smile I took the book and opened the front page. Her name was Rose. I wrote:

"To Rose, from Hirak."

And the rest, they say, is history. If only it had been otherwise...

Sometimes the things we do in life are just the things that we dread. The desuetude of life fails to imprint in us the lessons one learns from experience, and for me, one who has lived in his symposure of dreams, life was a confabulated reality.

It was a williwaw that now blew from the valley side, and the first drops of rain seemed to etch five years of lonesomeness. The tears that had magically appeared from the vague memories of happiness were now washed away by the lithe droplets. I walked along like a myrmidon towards the destiny that awaited me. The rain drizzled its fealty over my volatile senses, as if to assure me of its company. Oft in the svelte trailside I could now envision the foundlings of nature. The mist had now evaporated, and the calcavade that composed me and my paraphernalia moved ahead in search of alleviance. The forest had now cleared and I could see the peaks in the distance. They were the famous Blue Mountains above the Valley of Waters. The sight of heaven seemed to slake my year long thrist, and to awaken my extant self once again.

I had now walked quite a distance, and my vantage point was not far. I could sense the change in the winds from the west to the east, from pace to slow. The rain had once again magically gone just as it had appeared. It was the feeling of anticipation at this time of the year that I yearned every moment of my life. It was the cynosure of a palindrome that was my life.

As I swept past another final rockface I had reached the point that they call the Empress Point. Slowly I walked to the edge and looked at the vision that awaited me.

A year after our marriage I had brought Rose to Australia on a summer trip. She loved to trek and I wanted to feel nature to look for fresh inspiration. And it was here that we had come along one day.

I remember how she had slipped on those very pebbles that I now pulled out of my bag. I remember how she had slid along the edge of the cliff. How I wanted to grab out for her but with cowardice I had fumbled. I remember the feeling of remaining there, alone, waiting for something to happen, for someone to tell me all of it had been a dream. Or a nightmare.

Now when I looked out into the Valley, the distant music of the waterfall greeted my cottoned senses. Above the horizon lines I could behold the conglomeration of the clouds kissing the sun. I was once again in her arms today, and she was speaking to me just as she did every year on this day.

"Forgive me once again, dear," I said, as the rain hit me again and rendered me divine.

"My love," she replied. "I loved you that day when you let me go, I loved you when you told me you really loved me so, I'll wait for you here, but I want you to live, and keep our dreams aglow."

The words from her lips turned my tears into a smile. I put the effete pebbles back into my wayworn rucksack and paused. Across the miles the clouds had now disintegrated into separate masses and were drifting away in different directions. Her empyrean self was gone, but she held me like an adage in a nonplus. I turned back towards the direction of the busy world, my destination isle.

As I retraced the footprints that a lonely traveler had created with his wet feet while on the forward journey after a brief spell, I knew that I would be back here amidst her sagacious collage. But for now, another year would be mine, if only for this little while...

Hirak.

[Venomous Vixen]

This is truly beautiful, touching and heart breaking. The ending, it holds traces of sadness but they seem to almost melt away with a sense of forgiveness and letting go. I found some of the descriptors in the beginning a bit heavy, I had to push myself forward but as soon as I hit the fourth paragraph you had me. I like the fact this is, or reads like a truthful account. The emotion is raw and really. Besides maybe simplifying the beginning a bit, or adding in a bit to break up the thick images, I do not have much more to offer in the way of advice. It was a brilliant piece.

[Hirak]

Thank you and sorry for the late reply.

Well, I am sorry that it sounded heavy because I usually try to retain fluidity in my pieces. But one thing is true that I tried to be consistent in terms of word usage throughout the piece. The plot was not woven during the writing, but rather this was written for the pleasure of the writer's images, to quench the visions into words.

Well, even if you cannot realize all the meanings, its just good to read it in a flow and figure out the essence rather than every single word. I believe simplifying it would defeat the whole purpose of this piece to me. which was to write it in my way and not the plot itself.

Thanks a million,

Hirak.

[WorldWarCheese]

................... Holy shit.................
That broke my heart, you son of a bitch. It was so well written, the story built so well on itself and so subtly leading to the end that took me both by surprise and like I had known all along what it would be at the same time. It was crushing and yet uplifting.

Also, lemme guess but you're so verbose in this story because the character's a writer right? The only complaint I have is one of myself: I thought I was good with vocab words, only to find myself not knowing 2 words in every sentance! >_<

Anyways, it was one of the most touching things I have EVER read be it book, story, professional or amateur, on the web or on a page and if my friends ever knew I said that I'd never hear the end of it. (Don't tell, okay?)

[RENA HANDS]

The usage of vocabulary was superb. The imagery was fantastic. The emotions throughout was spectacular. I mean the whole idea behind this story was so heartfelt, poignant.

[Gurdit]

Although enough has probably been said about your choice of words, I'd still rather mention that it did make reading this a little tougher for me. But I think that's what gives it part of its charm. A lot of writers can express beauty in simple lines, with descriptions. They make the reader see flowers and sunrises, butterflies and grasshoppers, but here, your words themselves are a bit like the flora of text. They give your story a flowery feel, a special feeling.

I normally don't particularly like it when people talk to the deceased, especially when the dead talk back. I know the dialogue adds effect, but I much prefer it all being a monologue of thought rather than an actual conversation. I do, however, love her poetic speech, that was wonderful. I read those lines more than once because I liked them (there were a few other lines I read more than once, but that was because I was trying to understand what some words meant )

[Hirak]

Yes I have understood your point esp after your pm And I will keep it in mind for all my future ventures. Thanks..

Also to WWC and Rena Happy new year (belated) to you guys.

Hirak.

[WorldWarCheese]

Why, happy new years, Hirak. (I'll extend mine to the upcoming Chinese New Years instead of being belated. Rice Wine > Champagne anyways)

[Hirak]

I don't like Champagne and I've never tried Rice Wine either!

[Nupur]

Whoa! You’ve rendered me completely speechless with this one. Your descriptions were frickin’ fantastic and word selection exquisite. There was no real plot, but it had an amazing Stream of Consciousness feel to it. The lovely imagery, poetic dialogue… everything about this one was terrific. I love the first person narrative and the semi-autobiographical feel this one has got. It was incredibly original. Most of your word placement was very unique. I like how you went deeper into the word, taking out not just its primary meaning but also the rest of the definitions. Enough has already been said about the vocabulary, but honestly I did not find it heavy. In fact your descriptions painted such a beautiful picture in my mind that I was so totally overjoyed on reading something so breathtaking. Your dialogue is as natural as it can get keeping with the voice of this story, and that’s another fact I like. I loved most of your lines, in fact I think I loved all of them and how well they formed the collage that your story is. However, I’ll pick up a few lines that were so damn original that they completely blew me away:

It was the cynosure of a palindrome that was my life.

‘cynosure of a palindrome’. Wow. Totally understand how you’re such a fantastic poet.

Her empyrean self was gone, but she held me like an adage in a nonplus.

‘adage in a nonplus’. Another one that completely blew me away. Wonderful. Absolutely stunning.

There are lots more but I’ll just end up quoting your entire text if I start highlighting them. I do have a couple of suggestions though:

…he will always be a tourist manque.

Might be the font that’s at fault here, but isn’t it manqué?

The sight of heaven seemed to slake my year long thrist, and to awaken my extant self once again.

Since you have used the word ‘extant’, according to me you should use ‘reawaken’ instead of ‘awaken’. If it was ‘extinct’, then ‘awaken’ would have been good. Just my thoughts, either way, this is fantastic! Marvellous work on this one!

[Hirak]

Thank you Nupur, and I believe that being original is something that is being lost in today's world. I often make up some words or phrases in my pieces, and I hope that it will encourage development in the reader as well.

I changed manqué, I didnt know how to put the apostrophe in earlier. Actually I still don't know, just copy pasted after you..

Hirak.