Springs Symphony
By Sappho
Gently, every so gently, the brush caressed the canvas, leaving a trail of heart aching blue in its wake. The story wound its way through the smiling green, and the dainty purple, adding to the prose with its angst and innocent beauty.
The story wasn't yet told, the tale not yet complete, as Michiru's hand guided the soundless words into the image that would be. She herself didn't know the outcome of the fair lady that sat on the rock, her gaze captivated by the awesome power of Neptune's wrath, the god of the Seas. Waves crashed against gray rocks, the silent roar of the storm pounding in form as wind against her hair and dress, the clouds ominous mountains patrolling the sky.
Each added stroke was a word completing the sentence. The yellow, dreams of hope. The green showed the innocence of love. The blues, passion of the uncontrollable yearning; and purple, the commanding color that declared no less that was befit of the power it portrayed.
A gentle swirl in the clouds created laughter, the white speckled waves demanded respect. And the fair girl.
Michiru paused, staring at her turned face, her pale skin glowing with the calmness of peach and the nudity of tan. The angry red of her dress sent across what? Hate? Jealousy? Perhaps a vengeful feast of denial of loss; her true love captured by the male god? But her golden hair that was frozen in place by Michiru's imagination was too bright, too soft to be of a maiden grasped in the throws of grief.
Maybe, she pondered. Maybe the woman was admiring the power. She could have wandered down from her village, from the warmth of her stone cottage to view up front the storm that progressed on her shores.
No, she thought, shaking her head. She was looking for something or someone. Not a child, as she was too young and too headstrong for a man to want to quell her.
She was looking for someone, but she didn't know whom. Storms always left little gifts on the sand; branches twisted from refined growth, pebbles as smooth as the witch's cheek, sometimes the bodies that had been deserted by their souls the remnants of the fishing ships that had been too careless to heed the warning on a gust of wind.
Michiru knew that she was looking for the lover that would one day come to her whether it be by wave or wind or boat, she would sit on that stone, staring out to the edge of the world, where she was certain the water cascaded off into oblivion. Maybe her heart would find her one day, whilst she sat there, staring, gazing, hoping and counting away the heart beats that called out to him like the light of the house on the rocks. Guiding him to her bosom like a mother to her child.
Something made Michiru look up, and she smiled as she watched Hotaru wrestle with Haruka, both laughing with glee at being able to forget their roles in this world; if only for a moment. The two had been almost inseparable since they returned from overseas.
Hotaru's head disappeared behind Haruka, and a squeal of laughter gave way as Haruka's hands found the spot that contrived such pitiful pleas for mercy.
A luncheon that had been Setsuna's idea had been spread out on a blanket beneath an oak tree in the park, the bright glitter of the pond over yonder making a perfect scene of spring bliss. The green haired woman looked up from her novel in false disdain; the corners of her lips giving away the mirth that dared to erupt. They had all needed a break back to the norm that they tried so hard to keep safe.
Laughing, Michiru put the paintbrush down, and went to rescue her adopted daughter from the hands of her wicked lover. After a long chase, and gallant rescue by Michiru, they all sat down wearily, grateful for the lemon-aid that Setsuna had prepared that morning.
Glancing back at the canvas she sighed, noting as an artist always does that a picture is never finished, the story never ending and always changing. But for now, it was complete, and gazing at the grinning face of Haruka, she knew that she had waited long enough and that her heart's calling had been heard.
By Sappho
Gently, every so gently, the brush caressed the canvas, leaving a trail of heart aching blue in its wake. The story wound its way through the smiling green, and the dainty purple, adding to the prose with its angst and innocent beauty.
The story wasn't yet told, the tale not yet complete, as Michiru's hand guided the soundless words into the image that would be. She herself didn't know the outcome of the fair lady that sat on the rock, her gaze captivated by the awesome power of Neptune's wrath, the god of the Seas. Waves crashed against gray rocks, the silent roar of the storm pounding in form as wind against her hair and dress, the clouds ominous mountains patrolling the sky.
Each added stroke was a word completing the sentence. The yellow, dreams of hope. The green showed the innocence of love. The blues, passion of the uncontrollable yearning; and purple, the commanding color that declared no less that was befit of the power it portrayed.
A gentle swirl in the clouds created laughter, the white speckled waves demanded respect. And the fair girl.
Michiru paused, staring at her turned face, her pale skin glowing with the calmness of peach and the nudity of tan. The angry red of her dress sent across what? Hate? Jealousy? Perhaps a vengeful feast of denial of loss; her true love captured by the male god? But her golden hair that was frozen in place by Michiru's imagination was too bright, too soft to be of a maiden grasped in the throws of grief.
Maybe, she pondered. Maybe the woman was admiring the power. She could have wandered down from her village, from the warmth of her stone cottage to view up front the storm that progressed on her shores.
No, she thought, shaking her head. She was looking for something or someone. Not a child, as she was too young and too headstrong for a man to want to quell her.
She was looking for someone, but she didn't know whom. Storms always left little gifts on the sand; branches twisted from refined growth, pebbles as smooth as the witch's cheek, sometimes the bodies that had been deserted by their souls the remnants of the fishing ships that had been too careless to heed the warning on a gust of wind.
Michiru knew that she was looking for the lover that would one day come to her whether it be by wave or wind or boat, she would sit on that stone, staring out to the edge of the world, where she was certain the water cascaded off into oblivion. Maybe her heart would find her one day, whilst she sat there, staring, gazing, hoping and counting away the heart beats that called out to him like the light of the house on the rocks. Guiding him to her bosom like a mother to her child.
Something made Michiru look up, and she smiled as she watched Hotaru wrestle with Haruka, both laughing with glee at being able to forget their roles in this world; if only for a moment. The two had been almost inseparable since they returned from overseas.
Hotaru's head disappeared behind Haruka, and a squeal of laughter gave way as Haruka's hands found the spot that contrived such pitiful pleas for mercy.
A luncheon that had been Setsuna's idea had been spread out on a blanket beneath an oak tree in the park, the bright glitter of the pond over yonder making a perfect scene of spring bliss. The green haired woman looked up from her novel in false disdain; the corners of her lips giving away the mirth that dared to erupt. They had all needed a break back to the norm that they tried so hard to keep safe.
Laughing, Michiru put the paintbrush down, and went to rescue her adopted daughter from the hands of her wicked lover. After a long chase, and gallant rescue by Michiru, they all sat down wearily, grateful for the lemon-aid that Setsuna had prepared that morning.
Glancing back at the canvas she sighed, noting as an artist always does that a picture is never finished, the story never ending and always changing. But for now, it was complete, and gazing at the grinning face of Haruka, she knew that she had waited long enough and that her heart's calling had been heard.