Once upon a time I was a creative writer.

No, not creative IN my writing, but writing creative fiction. Not just writing about relationships and dating or whatever random stuff pops into my mind.

And last summer when Susan put out a short story writing challenge, I rose to the task and threw out a little ditty about life, choices, hiking and wind.  And I posted it to a website that no one ever read (except for Susan and Grace cause it had a Lijit search!)

So for your Friday reading pleasure  (and to push myself forcefully out of my comfortable little bloggy box) here it is.

Bring The Wind

Logan stared out over the meadow as she put the car in park. In the early spring the flowers were barely green nubs, which gave a sense of promise for a beautiful future bloom. She was used to that, the exact moment when things gave the appearance of a promise. For most, the hint of green after a winter of grey was a welcome release. For Logan, it was just another change to pass through without incident.

She glanced at the box sitting in her front seat, mocking her with its velvety richness. Like the barely green nubs it also promised something wonderful to come. She couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t think of the answer it was begging or the face of the person who gave it to her. For now she needed to plod through the verdant meadow and climb into the clouds to clear her mind.

As a final thought she grabbed the box to toss it into the glove compartment. The texture of the exterior tickled at her fingertips and she paused before hiding it in the darkness. It wouldn’t be anything new for her, hiding the promise in the darkness. Knowing in some far recess of her mind that it was there, but waiting until another time to face it. A small part tugged at her, urging her to put the box back on the seat, put the car in drive and rush back to the apartment. It was only a small part, though. Not nearly enough to make her do it.

Shoving the box a little too forcefully into the glove compartment she stepped out of the car and slammed the door. The shake startled her; she had once smashed the window of her driver’s side door slamming it into the frame of the body. That would be just her luck, to try to escape some of the confusion, adversity and complications that currently plagued her only to be hit with a $250 glass repair bill.

The climb up the mountain was easy; she could have done it blindfolded for all the times she had made it before. With all the thoughts racing through her mind she might as well have been, she didn’t really see any of the scenery. She crested the top of the tree line into the rocky clearing and the cold April air slapped her across face. “Great,” she muttered. “Bring the wind.” It would have been foolish to think that she could peacefully sit at the top, to face anything without resistance.

She sat down on a small cluster of flat rocks that looked out over the lake. The center was so still, like a looking glass you could jump through. The east end where the river connected was bubbling as the winter thaw rushed in. Early spring was Logan’s favorite time to come hiking to this spot and run away from everything else. It was still and safe, away from the rushing of life upon her.

She knew the answer to the box in her glove compartment; she had from the moment it was posed. Ethan was the clichéd best thing that had ever happened to her, like a field of wildflowers. Some days the flora was vibrant and lush, others it was cold and hidden under feet of snow. Logan had hiked the mountain for years, she had watched the meadow change like clockwork every twelve months. There were no guarantees that flowers would come, yet somehow nature always followed through. She knew that she should take the box and everything it promised, because the guarantee it held was unfounded but true.

As she stood up to trek down the mountain towards the rest of her life, the wind came off the lake and knocked her onto the rocks. And she knew. She would return to their apartment, greet him at the door and try not to cry too much as she gave him back the box. She had never had a guarantee, never had anything that came naturally. Hers was not a life of wildflowers in a field, hers was a life of thorny bushes that eventually would bear gorgeous blossoms. Only after the hardened shells could shed.

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