Protege Moi [Foreward]

Winds blowing, breezes lining each face, murmurs of a gust on its way; sending everything into a depth of metamorphosis. A time of separation and unity: Colors defining character, shape defining self. The monsters in that park voiced its silent complaints to the charger at this spell of preparation, usually smiling to them at the outcome. Very soon, everything began to transform into its true being, the one it was destined to be, be it but a few moments. These creatures would, unexpectedly and profusely, initiate something within themselves. They would speak without words and talk…mouth-less. They would go about crunching and crackling, smashing and smearing; flying, whipping, falling, landing.

And the girl would catch them in her hands.

She could smear her laughter over these leaves with a joy that would burst along with her love of autumn-a love so kind, so pure, so genuine. A love almost as unbound able as the love a tree has for its little babes as they meet the dead ground before them. It’s own awaiting arms outstretching a single space, whispering lullabies, making sure they feel safe, secure, unafraid of any persecution from all’s single enemy-the awaiting season. The frost couldn’t reach these companions, not yet. The wisps of adoration sprinkled upon the ground could be sure of that. They would hold it off as long as they could so that the children of the trees could live without worry, for a little bit longer, at least. Carefree as the sky, as the fluffs of clouds and the grayness of the atmosphere, this was how they wanted the leaves to feel. They possessed it enough to know when to pass it on. They did. They passed it on as best they knew how.

The girl was similar to this dazzling time of promise. Her life seemed to reflect its own, as she caught autumn in her hands and brought them to her face. Hearing all these sounds and so much more, of fall. A hand would touch her side, and sometimes, she’d mistake herself to be, in fact, a leaf as it would collide to the ground, but, as she caught the grasp of human fingers, she realized that the boy did, in fact, compare to that beauteous possession of the earth. It was trivial, yes, but more honest than anything the girl with the fiery-red hair would ever figure.

If, in retrospection, this scene had been a painting, it would have portrayed a boy with skin as similar to that sheen of the billows in the heavens. His hair, why, it would not have blended with anything supernatural in that picture. Just ash, I suppose if there had been any sort of coals lying around, it would’ve fit. But there was not. May haps, his eyes, would’ve been that of the original color of those little wonders the trees bore. Yes.

The boy’s arms would’ve seemed to wrap around something invisible. Non-existent, at most. The girl’s skin would melt and meld into the scene. Her eyes the same gold as the surrounding area, as well as the streaked tint of delicate figments of her hair.

Camouflage.

And this day, this moment of desire and passion and admirations as strong as that of beautiful cycles of the year, should not have ended. Coming in patterns, cycles; flying, whipping, falling…

The girl struggled to remember memories like these, ones where her days had been complete, a whole. Now all she felt was a hole in her soul. No more fall, no more autumn, no more days in the park; walking through the leaves.

Not with that boy.

He had been the steady-ground that had always caught her, but you cannot fall through the ground if you are the ground.

Flying, whipping, falling…

Landing.