WriteInvite.co.uk - Short Story Competitions

Under The Sycamores

by Joanna Campbell

The 13th Feb 2010 WriteOnSite Winning Entry

I'll see you under the sycamore trees in the blackest hour, in the suffocating copse where we lower our heads, where the stars are blocked out by the darkest leaves, on this night without a moon.

I will never notice the cobwebs fingering my face as I reach out to stroke your hair. I will never hear the flickering bats as they rustle above. I will kick off my shoes and plant my feet into the wet moss while my mouth finds your lips in the darkness. And all I will hear is that throb in my head, like a beloved bass line, my pulsating heart reminding me that we are alone at last. Drumming in my brain, my stomach, my soul.

I want you to press me against the gnarled bark of those knowing trees which harbour our secret and for my back to be scraped raw by that rough wood.

Tonight at the darkest time we''ll meet. But only if we can escape. Eyes are watching, closing in, you told me. Like the little red almond eyes of wolves in the woods, waiting for us as we wait for each other. Waiting for us to give ourselves away.

We have woven a tangled web, you told me last time. We may not crawl out of it next time. What did you mean? I crave the edge of danger on which we balance, teetering, looking into an abyss of fear. Are you backing away? Our web is like delicate lace, but strong with love. No, you said, it is trapping us. It is vile, its evil glue holds us fast to sin.

This evening I gave you our sign at the table. Our sign that means nothing to the others. Just a flutter of my hand above the pepper pot, across the table, sweeping a few stray grains off the cloth. But you did not return the sign. Your fingers were flaccid, still.

Tonight I will run through the forest, haunted by my own steps rustling in the grass, pausing to listen in case the echo of my tread is the sound of yours. And I know I will come to the sycamores and crouch beneath their enticing evil branches, beneath to our damp cavern to find no trace of you, my dearest brother. And, mocking my heart, I shall still feel the lingering hand of the dew-flecked cobwebs.