We filmed what was supposed to be the second half of the short film we started last week.
Weeeeelllllll, we still have another day to film. But that’s because we’re doing it all right. Taking the time to make it look pretty and all.
Okay, I’ll stop posting pictures from movies I love. But just so you know, these are good movies not just for the story, actors and dialog, but for the cinematography, lighting, sound design and patience in production.
I decided to write something this week. Something short.
I looked on Pinterest for a quote, I literally searched for “season quotes,” and found one I thought might make a story.
I aimed for 500 words, but I went over that a little bit. If this were school I would revise back to 500. But this is life and this is my story and my website, so…yeah.
Here’s the story, with the quote I chose as the title:
The Quietest People Have the Loudest Minds by Jessie Chipchase Ehl
Shh. Maybe if I’m really quiet…Or very still…
The wind picked up. The trees danced and bent, fingers scrapping at the fragments of leftover fall grass. One leaf caught high in the branches, stabbed through the heart. The grey sky behind it laughed, the kind of cold laugh you’d expect from a domineering relative who offers jeers and judgment instead of advice or help.
Never trust a grey sky.
I strode up the bumpy hill, my black tennies slipping on the wet stalks of green, wet from frost that morning. My fuzzy jacket clung tighter to me at a new gust of chilled wind. You could drink that wind with dinner and it would be better than the wine.
My bare hands stuffed into my pockets. I shivered, but my feet climbed, climbed, climbed. Finally the summit greeted me. I stopped beneath the biggest tree, its lowest branches too thick to bend even at these gusts.
I looked up, up, up. My eyes strained to take it all in, this tree I knew so well. Every season it changed, and every storm it weathered I marveled at the hidden strength. This was a sapling once, wasn’t it? Tiny, pathetic and awkward, reaching for the stars at night and the sun in the day, giggling at the buzzing of flies and the tickle of ant feet.
Here, at the summit of this hill it stood in complete defiance of the snow and ice that tore and froze it. In the spring it waved triumphantly through the thunder, lightning and rain. July beat down on it with unrelenting heat, but still it spread its twigs to the light. Now October swirled, and the tree had seen 30 years of Octobers, 30 years of dropping leaves and living naked through the harsh, uncaring winter.
I glanced quickly beside it. There. A thicker trunk, even thicker and stronger than this one, stood close, maybe too close. The ground around it still struggled to grow grass—this tree was new, transplanted, maybe within 2 or 3 years of winters.
But half-way what would have been the height of the trunk…nothing. A slash and rough surface and…empty air. No branches.
I couldn’t…I looked back at the big tree, the one that stood strong. I reached out a trembling hand. My fingers brushed the bark. I pressed harder. My palm spread out on the trunk.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I…I’m really sorry.”
Tiny tendrils of black spread out from the tips of my fingers, winding over the bark like cracks in glass. I looked away as they crept farther and farther upward. My face hurt from the wind, like nature, on top of everything else, decided to burn me and move on with life, callous to my pain.
“They told me that it’ll get easier,” I said. I fixated on a pile of dirt at the base of the roots. That was some normal looking dirt. “I…know…”
I looked up at the sky and swore. The words tumbled over and over and over, like logs caught in a sweeping river and over a waterfall. When I ran out of words, because words are just a glimpse of it, my knees buckled and I dropped down beside the tree.
“You’ll see him again,” a voice said.
And I opened my eyes. The tree, the hill, the grey sky and storm, all gone. This was reality again, that place where other people get to live. I looked at the speaker, my sister, and my eyes couldn’t seem to focus.
She didn’t wait for me to reply—I rarely spoke. Instead she stepped close and her arms wrapped around me. I laid my head on her shoulder.
I felt the tree inside my mind shudder. The cracks had grown. Black scars like dripping tar. The crazed, cold, frantic wind picked up, slashing the hill like a barbarian army on a rampage.
“You’ll make it through,” my sister whispered.
But she couldn’t see the tree.
As always, feel free to comment with suggestions, feedback or projects of your own!