'Ollo' & a Story

Ollo!
I'm Sarah, I'm fourteen, home schooled, and I love fantasy. I want to be a filmmaker when I grow up. I love writing. Chocolate is good. Jesus is king.
 
My blog, A free mind, is where I...well, write (...yeah, very profound.). Its called 'A free mind' because that's what I want to have; I want to remember to think for myself instead of just going with the flow, to think looking at a situation from a vantage point. I hope that makes sense. :) 

Sos, here's a story I wrote a couple days ago, I hope you like it.



The Closed Door
by Sarah, May 7, 2013



He had dared stand against her. The hate in her heart was dense, and she ached for revenge.

Evil and beautiful, the enchantress Miral stood by the tall window watching the white winter day gather to its end. Her most willing man-servant stood a few feet from her, waiting.

‘Does he have a place to go to when he is weary...a home?’

The man-slave looked up,

‘Yes.’
She turned from the window and smiled.
‘Close the door. Lock it...forever.’
The slave saw the face of his queen, and smiled in return.
‘Yes, my lady.’
...

It was night when he reached his cave in mountains, dark, and the sky heavy with water. Stone was blue-grey and cold on the mountain; the trees grey-green and black, naught but shadows of time gone by. Up here there was no time. Not time you could measure. That place on the mountain circled by trees was measured by actions, memories. When the birds came back, when the flowers bloomed, when the ice broke from the stream and the water ran. When a life passed, and when a life began. When a heart broke, and when a heart lived. That was the time of this place. This place so high.

Scattered around the cave’s entrance were broken stones, he hadn’t been home for a long time. Not since the snow had melted, and here the snow had come again. So quickly. Perhaps it had been too long. But he was back now. He placed his hand on the cold stone, smiled, and spoke a word of command. The wind stirred the tree’s shadows. A moment passed. And the stone was unmoved. The smile was gone, where none could have told. Somewhere very far.

Two hands this time on the blue-grey stone, a word of command, and the moment was repeated; over, and over, and over, and over again. And the smile would not come back. The door would not open. His door, his home. He could not go in. He was shut out. And he could not bare that, not again. He needed this place, this lonely, beautiful, perfect, place. The only place where he could think, rest. He was tired. So very tired.

A word once more - more powerful than the sun on the flowers - and he was on his knees, his head in his hands. No tears came. It wasn’t like that. He was tired and aching and he shook.

The rain had left the clouds now and it fell gently down. So gently. Mocking.

And the snow shone white against grey-blue stone, and the trees waved, and the moon looked down at a boy with a broken heart, kneeling before a closed door; and shone a white light.

...

Yes. There was more. Beyond the stone, blue-grey and old, beyond the trees, and the clouds, and ach, and the pain; there was more than all of that. There was a light; it burned, just a little, but enough. A light strong enough to burn in the night, brave enough to live in the winter, in the cold. Just a candle, one small flame.

In the wild, hysteric, dance of words that kept a door shut, there was a slow rhythm of music. The magic of music and power of word together seething in stone. An old magic. Used now by an evil one.

To the boy the dance went unseen, the music unheard. But there was more. A little flame in his heart. A flame trying with all its little strength to burn through a wall of stone, to make it a door once more. The flame, little and blue, shone on stone and bounced off dance. It went back, that little flame, back where it had come, to a broken heart.

A dance needed only the music put wrong to break.

...

The moon shone down and watched a boy, to whom it gave shadow, stand, and put out his hands, and touch the mountain.

There came then, through the stillness of time gone by, an echo of words. Words of power, strong in hope and full of love. Words to break a dance.

...

Far away a smile left the face of an evil one and flew across the dark forest and white snow to a boy standing by his home.
And with a last word of command the dance broke and shattered, and a door opened outward towards a boy standing on scattered stones. And the boy took his hand from the blue-grey stone and smiled. He went into the mountain. And the door closed.

The end.

If you read all that, bless you. I hope you liked it.
xox
Sarah
P.S. Storyteller, thank you for letting me guest post on your lovely blog. :)
P.P.S. All images via Pinterest.

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