Happy belated b-day, RL!!
Tara set her heavy school bag onto the floor beside the footboard of her bed and tossed. The text books bounced on the mattress when they landed on the comforter. Pre-Cal slipped off English IV and fell to the carpet when the girl collapsed onto the bed.
She glanced at where the novel of numbers and formulas and torture had just been, wondering if she should retrieve it, or if maybe she just left it on the floor it would disappear on its own. Maybe under the dresser to collect dust along its spin, mold in its rough, headache-inducing pages.
As she pulled herself into a sitting position and reached across the comforter to grab the forsaken text, Tara spotted the bag. The fact that it was a soft paper-bag brown had left it nearly unnoticeable among the scattered papers, loose pens, and stacked books on the desk.
Tara retrieved the little brown bag and took a seat in the swivel-desk-chair. She could now see the white tissue paper crumpled up in the inside like a pile of disgruntled snowflakes hiding the treasures that could only be revealed by Spring herself.
However, Tara was in no way prepared to wait that long to uncover the contents of this mystery bag. She reached inside and carefully pulled out a single object.
The crescent-shape just fit in her hand and hardly weighed much at all. The wax moon-crescent had three layers of color: black, a lavender purple, and pale white. around the wick at the top were small silver trinkets. One was a tiny bird, its wings spread wide as if it were soaring across the light moon surface. Another was a half open oyster, the pearl a sparkling clear gem. It sat beside the twisted cone shape of a conch shell. Across from them was the biggest of the four. Sitting just beside the wick, a heart. A light layer of glitter covered the surface like a shimmering blanket.
Tara examined the candle for a long moment, running her eyes over the miniature objects and the beauty of their simplicity. She reached into the bag again and found the note. It was on a half-folded note card. The handwriting was neat and easily recognizable.
Dear Tara,
Will you ever grow tired of my cliché gifts? This will not likely be the last one you ever find stuffed in an unimpressive paper bag. The presentation was less than subtle, I admit, but please, allow me to explain the gift.
It is in fact of my own creation. It occurred to me that you hadn’t anything from me, nothing material, at least. So when the opportunity arose, I seized it as any peasant would to impress his beloved princess.
The shape itself, as you may of guessed, represents your half of my heart- the moon that governs the tides and whose soft glow tames the bright rays of its flamboyant counterpart. The layers of color are just as logical in explanation- the dark and light of you spirit, and everything in between- all that makes up the you that I love.
If you think I am being cheesy, it only gets worse.
Tara found it difficult to keep from giggling at this.
I shall first explain the clam. It is not a symbol of my undying love for shellfish. On the outside, there is a sort of beauty that entices one, but does not necessarily offer an open invitation. If, however, one musters the confidence to approach this mystery, one may be able to eventually find that, beneath the tough shell is a beauty worth all the effort that courage took.
Because you are my wings that shall guide me to my destiny, for one cannot exist without the other, there is a sparrow caught mid-flight. The conch reminded me of you, as it appears silent at first glance. But if you were to listen closely enough, the very secrets of the ocean could be whispered in your ear.
Last but not least, is the heart placed so that it can be warmed by the flame.
I hope this treasure of my affection brings you pleasure. Hopefully enough so that you are inclined to meet me for dinner at the Gotham Pier at 8 tonight. I hope to see you then.
Love, yours,
Aleksander
Before she got ready for the evening a few hours later, Tara lit the wick. She paused at the closet, her fingers reaching for a powder-blue dress. A light, lingering scent of an ocean breeze had filled the room. Its source was the candle on her dresser.
Tara set her heavy school bag onto the floor beside the footboard of her bed and tossed. The text books bounced on the mattress when they landed on the comforter. Pre-Cal slipped off English IV and fell to the carpet when the girl collapsed onto the bed.
She glanced at where the novel of numbers and formulas and torture had just been, wondering if she should retrieve it, or if maybe she just left it on the floor it would disappear on its own. Maybe under the dresser to collect dust along its spin, mold in its rough, headache-inducing pages.
As she pulled herself into a sitting position and reached across the comforter to grab the forsaken text, Tara spotted the bag. The fact that it was a soft paper-bag brown had left it nearly unnoticeable among the scattered papers, loose pens, and stacked books on the desk.
Tara retrieved the little brown bag and took a seat in the swivel-desk-chair. She could now see the white tissue paper crumpled up in the inside like a pile of disgruntled snowflakes hiding the treasures that could only be revealed by Spring herself.
However, Tara was in no way prepared to wait that long to uncover the contents of this mystery bag. She reached inside and carefully pulled out a single object.
The crescent-shape just fit in her hand and hardly weighed much at all. The wax moon-crescent had three layers of color: black, a lavender purple, and pale white. around the wick at the top were small silver trinkets. One was a tiny bird, its wings spread wide as if it were soaring across the light moon surface. Another was a half open oyster, the pearl a sparkling clear gem. It sat beside the twisted cone shape of a conch shell. Across from them was the biggest of the four. Sitting just beside the wick, a heart. A light layer of glitter covered the surface like a shimmering blanket.
Tara examined the candle for a long moment, running her eyes over the miniature objects and the beauty of their simplicity. She reached into the bag again and found the note. It was on a half-folded note card. The handwriting was neat and easily recognizable.
Dear Tara,
Will you ever grow tired of my cliché gifts? This will not likely be the last one you ever find stuffed in an unimpressive paper bag. The presentation was less than subtle, I admit, but please, allow me to explain the gift.
It is in fact of my own creation. It occurred to me that you hadn’t anything from me, nothing material, at least. So when the opportunity arose, I seized it as any peasant would to impress his beloved princess.
The shape itself, as you may of guessed, represents your half of my heart- the moon that governs the tides and whose soft glow tames the bright rays of its flamboyant counterpart. The layers of color are just as logical in explanation- the dark and light of you spirit, and everything in between- all that makes up the you that I love.
If you think I am being cheesy, it only gets worse.
Tara found it difficult to keep from giggling at this.
I shall first explain the clam. It is not a symbol of my undying love for shellfish. On the outside, there is a sort of beauty that entices one, but does not necessarily offer an open invitation. If, however, one musters the confidence to approach this mystery, one may be able to eventually find that, beneath the tough shell is a beauty worth all the effort that courage took.
Because you are my wings that shall guide me to my destiny, for one cannot exist without the other, there is a sparrow caught mid-flight. The conch reminded me of you, as it appears silent at first glance. But if you were to listen closely enough, the very secrets of the ocean could be whispered in your ear.
Last but not least, is the heart placed so that it can be warmed by the flame.
I hope this treasure of my affection brings you pleasure. Hopefully enough so that you are inclined to meet me for dinner at the Gotham Pier at 8 tonight. I hope to see you then.
Love, yours,
Aleksander
Before she got ready for the evening a few hours later, Tara lit the wick. She paused at the closet, her fingers reaching for a powder-blue dress. A light, lingering scent of an ocean breeze had filled the room. Its source was the candle on her dresser.
