Sunday, July 13, 2014

Unwritten stories.


It was early. That kind of early they sing songs about.

She didn't really feel like making her eyes stay open for the rest of the day, but the dog was waiting impatiently.

Olya browsed through the stack of clothes she did not mind beeing seen in at sunrise... let the sweater slide past her dreaming head... and made each of her legs go through the holes of a pair of old shorts she and her mom once sewed out of her dad's favorite college jeans.

The dog was watching each of her moves with some sleepy curiosity. He was still sitting by Olya's warm bed, yawning constantly, with a high-pitched noice coming out of his mouth right before it gets shut.

Minutes later, the two were out in the dawn, dishevelled, one with a pair of trainers on, the other - on a loosely-held leash. They walked sluggishly into the park. The sun had already started to cut in through the leaves, drawing yellow spots on the green grass.

There was nobody else in the park. And the nature had already told Olya about that.

When passing between the two chestnut trees at the entrance, she felt a thin thread of spider silk touch her face. Then it broke. The two disconnected pieces of silk started to descend slowly, sketching inexistant creatures, when met by a sunbeam.

Olya knew. She was the first one to walk into the calm world of morning bird songs. She was the winner. She had broken the finish line tape. And now the night was finally over. Conquered by Olya. On behalf of the new day.