It snowed that morning, laying a thick heavy blanket on the still-colorful leaves before the sun roused from its slumber. Across the street in Vicar's field, yellowed grasses and wild grains peeked their heads from the layers of flakes to glance at the whitened world around them. The streets were devoid of blemishes, marked only by their outline of sturdy mailboxes and the shiny red flags.

The brush dipped deep in white and smeared across the autumn day, erasing the trees, the leaves, the houses, the fields, and the round face of a little boy pressed against the wide front window. Once again, the canvas was blank. The artist dipped his brush in green.

He is the master of the world confined to the fifteen square foot blank space before him, but even he cannot deny that Spring is coming.

The opening chapter of a novel I'm writing. I felt it fit the prompt; I've spent a lot of time here in the last few weeks!

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The smell of leather wafted around the dim room as Lucchieus pushed open the heavy door. The watery light of the autumn morning filtered in the doorway, illuminating the speckles of dust that danced around the air. Long strips of leather hung from the walls and sat in stacks on the benches lining the room. Different-sized lasts were thrown in haphazard piles and shoved under the tabletops. The only mildly organized items were the tools on the table nearest the door in the long stone room. Though the sun had not fully risen, Master Guire was hunched over a workbench, muttering something under his breath.

Lucchieus stood in the doorway, watching the master at work. His weathered hands gripped the last with dexterity as he stretched the soft brown leather over the top. He fitted his mouth in a line, focused on the task at hand. He reached over the rough table that had given Lucchieus many a splinter and grabbed a hammer. It was a new one that Lucchieus had fetched from the blacksmith earlier this month.

He’d begged his father to let him become a blacksmith. The blacksmiths worked by the roaring fire of the forge and hammered out swords and shields. Lucchieus could see himself, muscles bulging beneath the heavy apron, his arms bringing the large hammer down again and again against the piece of metal with a resounding clang. The sparks would fly around him, but his hands would be calloused and immune to the heat.

Instead, he watched Master Guire scratch his chin through his scraggly white beard and sigh heavily. He set the shoe down, now secured over the last. “Lucchieus! There you are my boy.” He smiled, half of his teeth missing.

“Good morning, Master,” Lucchieus answered, shutting the door behind him and plunging the room back into its dim state. The sun would illuminate the room soon, but until then, he resigned himself to working in the dullness. He’d made the mistake of asking master Guire to light a lamp one morning, but the master said it was a waste of precious resources. He made Lucchieus clean the workroom and the storefront that day instead of making shoes.

“Finish cutting the leather you started yesterday.” Master Guire said. He handed him a curved knife. “This needs to be sharpened before you do.”

Lucchieus took the knife from his master and walked down the length of the room to the whetting stone, his footsteps echoing around the stone room. It was not a shabby place to work; there were worse places where his father could have apprenticed him. His cousin was an apprentice at a butcher shop. Lucchieus wasn’t sure he had the stomach for that sort of thing. Besides, his father and older brother had a worse line of work.

Lucchieus remembered the day they received the order from the king. They’d been drafted to fight in The Great Nimiriam Wars. His brother, Rema, had been only fifteen. He’d be nineteen now if he were still alive. There had been no word since they’d left.

The Nimiriam were a constant threat in Lucchieus’ kingdom. They’d been part of daily conversations since he was a boy. Those that survived the first war would speak of them in hushed whispers as if they were afraid to summon them.

They were a race of warriors whose height reached seven or eight feet. One of the greatest war heroes in their town told Lucchieus that they looked like giant humans made of rocks. They had grayish skin with armor like that of an alligator. Their little black piggish eyes were full of hatred, peering over the giant tusks protruding from their mouths. Their huge hands ended in stubby black nails.

“They speak a language of cruelty and feast on the fear of the enemy.” He said to Lucchieus. “Monsters. All of them.”

The day the white horses that belonged to the king’s messengers had come stampeding down the road was the first time the war seemed real to Lucchieus. The shoed hooves clanged against the cobblestone, sounding like thunder. The herald shouted over the din, his face red with effort. The King ordered all men above the age of fourteen to report to the town square.

Lucchieus tried to go with his father, but his mother wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’m already losing two men; I won’t lose you too.” She whispered, her arms shaking. Lucchieus stopped struggling against her.

Rema, ashen faced, looked toward their father. His brown hair, the same color as Lucchieus’, fell over his forehead. Were it not for the height difference, they could have been mistaken as twins. “Is this the last time we’ll be home?”

Their father looked out the window as if seeing far past the ensuing chaos outside. The rising sun cast a glow on his father’s face, making him look years younger. He’d fought in the first war. Was he afraid to go back? “We’ll get our orders and likely march this evening. We’ll have time to say goodbye, don’t worry, my boy.”

The two pulled on their coats. Lucchieus’ mother crossed the room in two strides. “Don’t stray one step from your father.” She whispered to Rema, her face buried in his locks of hair. “Stay together and come home to me together.”

She squeezed Rema tightly, bowing her head over her son’s.

“We’ll be back to say goodbye, Lenore.” Their father said, gently removing his wife’s arms from around their son. “It’s time for us to go now, though.”

A spark from the knife hit Lucchieus in the arm. The greenish blade shimmered as sunlight streamed through the window. He liked this knife. It was an heirloom of Master Guire’s family. If he was to be believed, it was an elven blade. But the elves were rarely seen. And they rarely spoke to humans, even when they were seen.

The handle was wrapped tightly with leather that still looked new. The silver knob at the top was polished so that Lucchieus could see his reflection. The first time the master let him use the knife was about a year ago.

“I planned to give this to my son one day,” Master Guire had said, letting the blade rest easily in his hand. “Now, I will not get the chance.”

He let Lucchieus use it after that whenever he was cutting leather.

A flash of light

Slashes the night

sky. I wonder

to be under

the high heavens.

My dreams are close,

Part of me knows.

The vastness is

soaring within,

and silent out.

The flying star

screams from afar.

Distance swallows

Vict'ry follows

her silent songs.

Interstellar

golden traveler,

Why cut life short

to sail dawn's court?

Spent life at once.

She sails the heights.

Seconds in sight.

Disappearing,

smiling, sharing

her life and joy.

Do I live long

or sing the song

of the bright stars

whose short life mars

monotony?

Lucy's medicine cabinet was stocked almost completely with herbal remedies and handmade soaps from her mother's farm. My bottle of Ibuprofen on the shelf beside a tin of homemade dandelion lip balm looked out of place. I took it out.

With the small bottle of pills in hand I decided to try the kitchen. But, of course, among her jars of granola, dried fruits, and unlabeled containers of various aromatic, varicolored powders, it stuck out even more. I don't think she'd care where I left it so long as it wasn't sitting out on her countertops, but I just couldn't sit it down next to her matcha powder in its pretty Mason jar with a pink cloth between the ring and the lid.

She cleared out a drawer in one of her nightstands, a small wicker basket in its tropical-feeling bedroom. Well, she almost cleared it all out. There were a few rings left in the bottom: gold bands, one with an opal in the center. Probably some that she made. I would often catch her at her little refurbished coffee table sitting cross legged on the hand-tied rug with a pair of needle nose pliers winding wire into an earring.

I dropped the Ibuprofen in the container along with the socks and toothbrush from the plastic Walmart bag in my left hand. I set the rings on her dresser.

Between the gaps in the wicker, I could see the glaringly white bottle of Ibuprofen and the neon green of my toothbrush. I balled up the plastic bag and shoved it in my pocket.

Lucy didn't like plastic. She was too afraid of the turtles dying or something. She didn't eat meat because, she'd say, if she wouldn't eat my pet cat, who was hissing from his carrier in the kitchen, she's not going to eat a cow. She exercises and does yoga every day, but she won't get a gym membership because their carbon footprints are too big and the guys at the front desk only have plastic cards to give out.

I like Lucy. I might grow to love her, but sometimes I wonder if it would be worth the work. She says she doesn't mind if I order a steak, but I can't do it around her. I hide my plastic packaging and pretend I don't need Ibuprofen and Tums to stave off my headaches and indigestion, using her herbal remedies daily and acting like they've cured me. She's too sweet to say no to and too gentle to hurt her feelings. Honesty is hardest with the people who are kindest.

I take my Ibuprofen out of the wicker basket.

Slice against the grain when you have this cut of meat. You have to select the correct knife, and you have to sharpen it, too. You know it is more dangerous to use a dull knife than a sharp one. Hold the steel steady and run the knife's edge at a twenty-degree angle over the surface. We used to have a whetstone, and it sharpened blades like a dream. But we lost it when we moved into this God-forsaken apartment. But I shouldn't say things like that. The apartment is nice. I wish the landlord would let us paint the walls any other color than mustard yellow, but it is what it is. The curtains brighten the room, and so do the plants my sister bought us.

You were too young to remember the house we had in West Virginia. The weather there is nice. Nicer than here. The snow hasn't let up for days. I hate the snow. Especially in the cities. It gets trampled down and turns the color of ash. It hides the pitfalls in the sidewalks and soaks through your shoes. Snow in Colorado is like a blanket of crystals. In New York, it turns into balls of cigarette butts and garbage in the gutters and on the sidewalks.

You know better than to smoke, don't you? That's what killed your grandmother. She smoked cigarettes. I broke the habit mostly. I only need one when your dad comes home. Kicking that habit may be the death of you if you ever start. Habits are hard to break. Your uncle died trying to get off the alcohol, but you knew that. But he was a Catholic. I hope he was good enough besides the alcohol to make it into heaven. You've always been a good girl; better than the rest of us. You go to school in the mornings, and you take care of your mama at night. I wish you didn't have to.

Someday soon you'll be on your own. Maybe then you will do better than we have. You won't smoke like grandma and your mama, you won't drink like Uncle Buck and your daddy, you won't be on the streets like Ben. You'll be a good girl with a good job, and you'll find a good guy.

Cut against the grain.

One summer, the kind where the air is so hot and sticky, you lay on the tile floor just to get some relief, we piled into the van, all five of us. I was stuck in the back as the only kid without a carseat, so sweaty I was slipping against the fake leather seats. The air conditioner worked, but it only cooled the front half of the van. They couldn't turn it up too high or my sister would whine about the cold. We were going to Nana's.

I loved Nana's apartment. She had all the junk food that mom would never buy like Oreo cookies, Smartfood popcorn, and rotisserie chicken. It made Nana happy that we liked those snacks, so she'd always buy extra, even when dad told her not to. He used to slip twenty- or fifty-dollar bills under a magnet on her fridge. I didn't know until I was older that she could barely afford electricity, let alone gobs of junk food and the hundreds of DVDs and CDs stacked along the walls or in boxes.

She had the ugliest golden rug on her floor, but I liked the shag fabric, at least in her apartment. It was so small that one window unit left it cold as an icebox. I loved to lay on the carpet while we watched Hell Boy or Star Trek: Generations. Mostly movies that we couldn't watch at home. But Nana was hard of hearing, and she lived alone so my parents let her do whatever she wanted.

I was seven, though I could’ve been eight, when her TV set broke. Dad drove to Best Buy to get her another one. She's the kind of person who needs the TV on at all times, even though she can't hear a word anyone says. She made dad scale up the captions so big that they took up the bottom third of the screen, but she refuses to get glasses.

While dad was at Best Buy, my mom took Nana and all of us kids grocery shopping. That was when there were only three of us. We meandered through the store, whining about how cold the refrigerator aisle was, and complaining about the heat as we entered the bottle return to collect nickels for cans.

Nana insisted we stop at Savers. Some big consignment chain that I've only ever seen in Rhode Island. My mom's the frugal type and shopping with Nana stressed her out a lot. Nana didn't understand unit pricing or buying off-brand. At Savers Nana bought mugs she wasn't able to fit into the cupboard when we got back and a pair of fuzzy clogs that had the old Tweety Bird on them.

We passed by a huge shelf of books, and she said that she wanted to pick one book for each of her grandchildren. Nat was still a baby, so she got a board book about colors. My brother was handed an abridged version of James Fenimore Cooper's "The Last of the Mohicans." He never read it. Nana perused the shelves a few more minutes. I could hear mom sighing impatiently behind her as she calculated how much all of Nana's trinkets would cost from the pink candlesticks to the fake-smelling incense sticks. Nana picked up and old faded book, then a second one. Two 99 cent books with cracked covers, loosely attached binding, and yellowed pages. Frances Hodgson Burnett's books "A Secret Garden" and "A Little Princess."

We checked out and Nana didn’t see mom put the incense behind a bag of popcorn before we reached the cashier. Mom’s mouth was set into a firm line as she pulled out her wallet to pay.

Dad still hadn't come back with Nana's TV set, and we'd already had lunch. So, without the TV to entertain, and not wanting to learn how to crochet, I laid on the rug and opened "A Little Princess," careful not to rip the fragile pages from the spine. My elbows dug into the gold carpet and my feet swung loosely through the air. I was transported to a wintry London. I felt like I was breathing in the yellow fog.

I hardly noticed when Dad came back in with the TV and mom allowed Nana to put on Shrek. I was entranced by Miss Minchin's schoolroom and Sara Crewe's perfect French. I wanted to learn French and wear pretty frocks. I even grew to like Ermengarde and Lottie.

I didn't mind when I was squished in the back of the car for an hour-long ride in the hot backseat. I had Sara for company. When I got home, mom wanted us all to rotate in the showers before dinner.

"What happened to your arms?" She asked me, pointedly grabbing my forearm so that she could see my elbow. Rug burn from Nana's apartment. I hadn't even noticed.

Mom chided me for trying to read while she put antibiotics on the burns. I couldn't put the book down. I read the book until I was taping the pages together and gluing the cover back on before Dad bought me another copy.

I never got rid of the copy with the fragile binding and the faded pink cover. It still sits on my shelf. A reminder of the afternoon of yellowing pages, rug burns, and a selfless little heroine.

When the darkening sky arches over the infinite fields sloping down to embrace the face of the globe in a golden, rain-drenched blanket the world quiets, just a little, to savor the symphony of drums. The pattering, and the roar, each movement in the sonata ebbing and flowing. It builds. Your hands clasp mine, drenched in the warm summer rain. The stalks and flowers sway in time. The clash of thunder like nature's strongest cymbals initiates the dance. We twirl like the grass in the tremendous winds. The water drips down your face, tracing your cheekbones. The music begins its descent into the outro. A misty spray descends and the sky peels back its layers of heavy gray to reveal hues of pink and orange. The dying sun casts one final glance at the sky, refracting through the billions of droplets suspended in the heavens. A bright line of colors streaks through the skies, and I catch your bronzed eyes staring into mine. The concert is over, but the dancing has only begun.

That song came on. That stupid song. The wind whipped through the cab of the car with enough force that it all but drowned out the lyrics. It ripped my hair free from my bun and stung my eyes. The singer's voice drifted into my ears.

Chocolate hearts from CVS When I'd declared that song our song, he loved it. He bought me chocolate hearts in the arms of a cheap fuzzy teddy bear that was slowly losing its fur from a Walgreens down the road from my apartment.

Kiss you too hard He did it to make me laugh, and it worked.

And follow you west I moved thirteen hours north the summer after my junior year in college and finished my degree online. He came, too. Whenever our song came on, he's sing louder over the song and replace west with north.

Sing you sad songs on a Sunday afternoon Sundays were my long days at work, a ten-hour shift that usually lasted eleven hours. I'd go to his apartment and flop on the couch. He'd pull out his guitar covered in fading stickers. He made enough to buy a better guitar, but he never did. I could have listened to him all day. Sometimes he'd sing me right to sleep.

Tie you in ways that you can't undo I could feel his breath against my neck and in my ear. His hands would run up and down my arm in a gesture too intent to be casual. His eyes were so blue, his lips set into a perfect grin.

Dinner in bed and Korean food I didn't like Korean food. I didn't know until he bought a few takeout containers. He was always a fan of trying new and authentic foods. Only occasionally would we stop at a good old American diner. We only got Korean food once.

Say I love you just a little bit too soon I did. It was too soon.

I yanked the aux plug from my phone and rolled the windows up. The burning in my eyes didn't go away. Neither did the thumping of my heart or the aching deep inside. If I had never told you I loved you, would you have stayed? If I had only waited, would we be living happily in that apartment in Madrid you always dreamed of? Couldn't you give me a chance to slow down? I would have waited forever for you.

In the soft glow

Of the streetlight

Through the window,

It’s midnight.

Fingers fist the sheets

Legs twine together.

Two heartbeats

A storm to weather.

Between the shades

Of ecstasy

As it fades:

A destiny.

A spark of light

A little life.

Future bright

A will to live.

Her mother knew

Of her new one

Who strained and grew

To meet the sun.

In blood and pain,

She never came

She worked in vain

And isn’t the same.

Only once I held you,

Body small, skin blue.

Your eyes never open,

Your words never spoken.

How come I still miss you?

She’d been perfect. I loved the southern accent and the mismatched socks that she never seemed to be aware of. She was like a breath of fresh air in the Electric City long since dying, maybe even dead already, after coal became nearly obsolete. I tried to tell her often that I appreciated her, that she was pretty, and that she was talented. They weren't lies. I never lied to her.

She didn't lie to me. Usually. I let it slide when she did. She’d say she couldn't go out, but I'd see her with her friends. I only confronted her once. She was so determined not to talk, so damn stubborn, that I asked her if she even wanted to date me. If she had ever trusted me. It made her cry. Her dad didn’t want her to see me, she relented. She usually blamed her father, a big, stoic guy with years of military service and an obsessive Christian faith. He never liked me. But she didn’t talk much even when we did see each other.

When she asked me to read a short story of hers, I jumped at the opportunity. I must have read the piece thirteen times. I could see her personality flowing into the words. Every word I read, I learned more about who she was. From her poetry to full novels, the picture of her became clearer and clearer. I tolerated the lies, because she spoke plainly on the page. Our own system of communication.

Nobody really saw it coming when she ended up in the hospital after tossing half a bottle of acetaminophen down her throat. I was terrified. All I got was a 2-sentence text from her mom the morning after.

She came back to school a week and a half later. I was one of few people who knew why. She lied to everyone else. She returned more closed off. There were no more stories and fewer dates. I was so scared she'd do it again, that I pushed her often to tell me what was going on in her head. Why had she done it? Was it so bad to be alive? Sometimes, she would tell me she was fine. Sometimes she wouldn't respond at all.

I saw her writing diligently in a notebook a month after her hospitalization. I felt a wave of relief, like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders, seeing her pencil drift back and forth across the page. Maybe she was ready to talk again.

As soon as I asked, she snapped the book shut. I could have sworn guilt washed over her face. She refused to let me read it. Something deep in me guttered. She was always lying, always secretive, and always blaming it on her damned father. I realized I couldn't do it. "Are you hiding something from me?" I couldn't stop the words. If she wasn't going to trust me, I had to break up with her. It was driving me insane. I told her so.

She slowly handed me the journal. I read it in one night. It must have been 80 pages of her. Of her fears and desires. Of her secret thoughts and fragile hopes. Her words coiled around my heart. She was okay.

I was relieved. I returned her journal and asked if we could talk. She came over that afternoon. I did most of the talking. I tried to kiss her, but she wouldn't kiss me back. I just wanted her to feel something. I pulled her close and slid my hands under her T-shirt. She cried. And I guess that was the end.

After weeks of nothingness from her, I told her I was breaking up with her. She said, okay. She wouldn't even let me drive her home. She walked down my driveway and around the corner. She barely acknowledged me again after that. She looked like a shell. I heard she attempted again after high school. A part of me hates her for being so depressed. The other part hates myself for not being able to help.

Other perspective: https://www.theprose.com/post/813274/why-i-write