The Bellwood Forest
Woo first post! This is a piece of writing I did not too long ago, based on a mental image/daydream I've had for quite some time but didn't get around to putting on paper (ink? screen? whatever) for whatever reason. Actual text under the cut; next post might be a full reading, we'll see.
A gentle wind blows, rustling the leaves of the trees. The sun sits low in the sky, setting the forest ablaze in golden light, the foliage no longer green on this mid-autumn evening. The path, barely present from disuse but still visible in the dying sun's light, sees no use save for the occasional scuttling leaf fallen from its home branch but still very much alive in the soft breeze's caress. The branches overhead do not weave into a thick canopy, but each tree keeps largely to itself, its limbs and its leaves shaping into what one might call a bell—a forest of bells. As the sun sets lower, following its trajectory further into the oblivion that calls itself night, the trees stand silent but almost impatient, the now-red hues of the day's closing casting the forest into a brilliant bronze. The grove stands dazzlingly bright, seeming almost to glow as though the trunks themselves were casting light unto and through the dense leaves, shimmering now as the wind whips into a brief gust, brief but insistent.
As the sun finally sets, dusk gives in to night, and the golden sky gives way to reds and purples before surrendering to black, the trees are kissed instead by the moon's gentle rays. The resplendent bells of the forest, no longer blazing gold, shine with silvery light as the earth beneath them stays dark. A moment of nighttime stillness passes after a final gust, and the bells sit motionless only briefly before they bloom. The blooming happens almost instantly, almost as though it is how the trees want to be seen, no longer only shaped like bells but now almost singing. Glowing, silver-white streaked fruits are born from gold, bell-shaped flowers, hollow and not quite spherical. Each fruit has only this one night to perform, for its song to be heard, for the sound of its seeds to echo through the valley. The lake at the center of the forest glows gray in the light and sits beneath the largest of the bells, no longer blossoming but standing as a silent sentinel over its many offspring.
The night wears on, gusts of wind shaking the silver-white fruits on the branches and knocking a few to the forest's carpet of long, soft grass glowing white in the moonlight and the treelight. One fruit rolls downhill, bouncing through the thick grass with gentle thumps before landing with a gentle splash into the lake, its glow disappearing beneath the dark water now alive with ripples and lending no hint to its depth. Another gust of wind blows through the trees, setting every branch swaying and every fruit singing, calling out to anything that would listen. The forest, once a symphony of color, is now a true serenade, each sound only adding to the din but all in perfect harmony, not one sound out of place from the rest.
Night fades as the moon falls low in the sky, the stars above slowly winking out of view as the sky itself lightens, first from black to gray. Slowly, imperceptibly, the fruits first stop singing, then glowing, and eventually drop from the branches to which they held so tightly through the night as they shrivel and wither. The gray sky fades to a deep purple, and another strong wind blows through the forest and the fruits, now withering on the branches, fall limp from their limbs into the soft grass with a single thump. The trees, with no more silver moonlight to reflect, sit cold like tin, glistening with morning dew but without living color. The deep purple sky gives way to a pale yellow, painting the trees flat and dead. The last of the singing has long since ceased, but the fruits still lay dying on their branches, rotting as the sun rises, outlines of the seeds visible through the wrinkled flesh of the once-pearlescent fruits. The bottom of the sun finally reaches over the horizon, hoisting itself into its celestial place. The trees, vibrant and alive only the day before in the light of the sun, are now drooping, leaves less brilliant, branches less firm. In time, the light of day would reveal only gray, cold leaves, sparsely scattered on drooping branches, the largest standing tall over all of them, still the cold sentinel over its children; but for now, although the sun no longer dances through the leaves and the trees no longer sing with its light, there is still light, there is still warmth, and the fruits now decomposing within the forest's carpet will continue to expand the forest ever-outward, and the bellwood trees will stand silent for another year.
© Joshua Graham, 2018