Pile #1

I. THE CALL

She threw herself into the orange den, and although the glow wasn’t warm, it was home. This was pile one - the first free of this fall, and so she wanted to hold it. The crunchy impasto, of leaves the shades of sunshine crayons, of ruddy clays, and other primal memories. It could be her one and only chance, so naturally, she took it. In her arms and with her teeth, like a mother bear. She let herself go into the ground. The earthiness that had always been there, was thankfully still there! A big, round, all over body sigh, magically sweet as ever, the kind with muddy boots in the air and skirts with no remorse. She was the fun and flirty wind. She was delicious. She was…not alone.

How she knew she didn’t know because she wasn’t the type to just dip her toes into water, and yet, in that strike of autumn wonder…Time must have stood still, just enough for trees to pass on a secret message amongst their closest neighbors - perhaps even to the wilting grey blobs sobbing gently just above…it was a stretch. Whatever the case, in that singular moment of both haze and clarity, mid-fall, her gaze to the skies, caught the eyes of someone she knew - had known? Definitely knew.

The luxuriating was over in an instant. It was cold again, and stiff again, and getting dark. She looked around, checking here and there for those eyes, with more intrigue than attachment. Her scarlet braid had loosened into angry snakes with all the fun in the leaves - no matter, she had a coat, and nobody was out here these days. The walk home wouldn’t take too long, and the weather would be the same as always, and - she stopped.

The pause was unusual, but felt welcoming. The air was charged with the snapping twigs that lead her to the edge of a meekly choppy river. With the flowing waters as a mirror, she took the time to brush out her unruly reddish waves. Staring back at her, was this a twin, a ghostly impostor?… Something about her eyes, the eyes looking back at her from the water, was unsual. Familiar? Yes. But somehow off. Perhaps in her mind, those eyes she’d caught for a split second staring back at her from within the trees…Pitch black, wide, beady eyes of knowing. A deep darkness for reflection with aplomb. Two midnight paperweights. Two large obsidian buttons. She couldn’t tell if they were full or empty… The rustling leaves shook the stillness of the scene away, and she was home before she knew it. Everything was the same.

II. STIRRING WINDS

Nine times clockwise, nine times counterclockwise, no sugar, no cream, that was the tried and true recipe. The cup was overwhelmingly steamy for her reading glasses, otherwise, she could have used it as a scrying mirror. But she’d had enough of staring eyes anyway. Yet, she couldn’t shake the ridiculous sense that she wasn’t alone, that her eyes shared a soul with a spirit she’d always known!

Nothing was the same.

She looked outside her window. If only it would snow! But she was still in the middle of fall. She could see someone working in the fields, and three of her neighbor’s dogs, alternating between playing and settling on random patches of grass together - as if to pose for a family photo. They, too, had beady black eyes, but she couldn’t find herself in them. It had been a while since something had made her feel that lonely, even though she had lived alone in that farmy cottage for almost ten years.

It was and wasn’t sunny outside. It didn’t matter much though. She would finish her apple this afternoon, like any other, go out on her front porch, and read book in the peace of pre-evening, seasoned with smoky wood, sprinkled with little lights. They were all the rage now, little lights. And it made sense to her, they were mystical, beautiful, tiny portals in the wake of night. She expected nothing less magical for tonight. She loved it here. Then and still. Toying around with one of the two brass pentacles dangling off her peachy ears, one then the other, she felt the wind begin to stir and wondered if she would have to stop her reading early in order to save her freshly laundered white cotton sheets from an impromptu, messy rain. She had to.

Over her slodgy boots, and the dancing chimes hanging around on her porch, a high-pitched screech threw off her ease and sent her back through the cottage into her yard, waving her hands, annoyed and almost flappping away. The peace had been disturbed, the bedsheets might be sopping wet now, maybe muddy, and that’s if they had stayed put on the clotheslines - disaster! Juggling disasters was not unusual for her, and in the 20 seconds it took to get back there she’d already seen everything painted streaks of red in her mind - from out of nowhere!

There was indeed, no red back there, just glowing white. But annoyed that she had been distressed over nothing, she gave a good kick to the nearest thing - !! - an old metal bucket went flying with her rage and finished the job she feared the rain would be to blame for - SPLASH! Her brilliantly white bedsheet, now flecked muddy-pail-water-brown. It was subtle, but it was not an art style, and definitely not a look she could be satisfied with.

First one wooden pin, then the other. She was getting ready to take down the sheet to wash it all over, and pulling it over her head, she met those eyes, once again, perched upon a tree. Engrossed in a silent screech, time froze. It was probably silent - she didn’t know truly. But those eyes, were loud and clear. Her arms, dropped to her sides from the shock and the dirt-speckled sheet, fell right on top of her head, like a tender veil would. They stared at each other, in awe and certainty, the barn owl and the woman, both soft and in white. It was almost painful, yet she could not stop. Those eyes were, mirrors of her own soul, the deepest corners, the darkest shadows, cut clean, brought forth proud. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she thought she heard the barn owl say to her, but there were no words that night.

III. THE THRONE

Some neighbors say they saw her that night fighting invisible things in the moonlight with a towel on her head. Others say she, in fact, was never in the backyard at all, but that it did rain that night, so she probably stayed up late reading, like usual, about ancient aliens or feather divination or something. Some swear the loud screech was just a tornado siren, either way, the local pastor remembers the dogs acting more wild than normal. But mostly everyone agreed, that night was fresh and gnawing at the same time.

That night, she threw herself into an orange den, the woman with the owl eyes, and although the glow wasn’t warm, it was home.

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