Stepping through a green-lit desert,
A flowery meadow, that stretches beyond
My sight. I can no longer view the oasis
Behind me, which harbored clear water
And treats for life. The gleaming sunshine
Of this endless day is only lost by the green stalks
And vines that carry on, that fall slowly into the night
Beyond which there is something I know not of.

This meadow holds crimson rosebushes with prickly thorns
Whose roots creep along the soil like nascent trees
In bloom. The washed peonies sway like figures
Entranced by the sweet harmonies of distant sirens.
These songs lie beyond the horizon,  
Over the moon and stars where this meadow
Curls into darkness.

I’ve spent years wandering this moving wasteland,
Using the sparse rains as drink and plants as food.
I sometimes sat to smell the scent of the flowers
And grass, but the meadow’s call always beckoned me forth,
And I always had to listen, for I have known of little else
Than to walk.

I have sometimes cried, wondering why the meadow
Is so cruel, asking why it hasn’t revealed to me
Why I must traverse its soil to a dusk so far ahead.
I have often shouted, screamed when it remained silent
As I begged for an answer or sign which I hoped
Lay in the way the sun rose into the air
And cast its red glow upon the world, or in the way
The stars came out and twirled when the days burned
Out like matches. But the meadow has always
Been this way.

I’ve stepped through my thoughts for longer than memory
Can reel, before the meadow taught me how to crawl.
But sometimes the meadow has let me live in picturesque moments,
In ephemeral timeslots that can only be seen in dreams;
The sun and moon and stars fly high at once and shine
With an iridescent glow that draws out music from
The swaying roses. It’s in these moments that the journey
Has been lost to evanescence and has become married to hope,
To a love of visceral offerings that the meadow has afforded me.

The meadow has showed me in dreams where this journey ends,
Where the flowers and soil fall off and leave behind
Only their transient scents and silky touches, where everything
Becomes impossible to see. The meadow
Has not yet told me what lies beyond that point,
But it has promised me that nobody can know,
Because the dusk, the quiet that lies in front of it
Cannot be heard, and never will.

I’m somewhere stuck in a memory not yet made,
Tumbling along in old age. My skin has started to sag,
My hair has taken on a platinum hue, And my back
Hunches over in an arc, curved and bent like a flimsy twig.
The meadow has tried to comfort me by sprouting
Thicker grasses upon which I can close my eyes
And drift away, but sleep has become only a short respite
From a long life of trudging toward this promised finish.
I know not how many more steps I will take before
I arrive, but in the meantime, the flowers
Will keep me company while the march toward
The night that lies ahead continues on.

Large, billowing willow trees surround a small meadow, leaving no way to get out. Their branches hang to the ground, the wind whipping them lazily. The green sprouts and leaves on the tips of the branches drag on the ground softly. The trees are so packed together that no sight can be seen through the trees, no escape at all. No one can enter, and no one can leave. The bark is brown, deep crevices made in its skin. The limbs skim over the ground, swaying ever so slightly. On the limbs hang nearly invisible webs spun by clever weaving spiders. The bright green grass wraps around the bark, swaying in the lazy meadow. In the middle of the meadow floats a high overhanging cliff, no part of it truly connected to the ground. Vines cover a structure, obstructing what the structure truly is. Bright pink and blue flowers decorate the vines, adding a serene feeling to the floating island and a floating smell of nectar is carried by the wind. A waterfall flows through the middle of the gates, the cool pure water falling into the pond directly below the waterfall. The pond is covered with ripples, although nothing seems to be obstructing the surface of the pond for the moment. Below the surface flows gentle weaves of seaweed, rainbow colored fish swimming between the strands. They would jump up, spreading small rainbows on dew drops into the sweet tasting air. The cloudless sky seems to sparkle in the setting sunlight, spreading pink and red strips across the sky. No birds fly in the small expanse of visible sky, yet a small nameless tune is heard, the wind carrying it all around the trees. The tune is light, and filled with what can only be known as joy.

The tune begins to change, losing the quality of light and joy and changing into a tune of sereneness and calm. The wind carries it through the meadow, pushing it against the dark trees. The leaves begin to fall, staining the ground at their feet different shades of red, gold and orange. The lost foliage does nothing to deter the packed trees from blocking any view outside of the circular meadow, leaving it in seclusion. The grass is turning into bright gold strands, folding unto itself as it sways in the gentle wind. The wind tastes like apples, although there is no fruit on the trees. The wind continues to flow, picking up the leaves and scattering them away from the base of the trees. The pond is covered with a few stray leaves, the ripples from said leaves turning and spinning as if they were dihedrals spun by small children. A harvest moon sends out a bright light, casting a rainbow onto the waterfall. The forever flowing waterfall continues to cascade down from the floating island as the rainbow continues to color the water. The rainbow fish’s scales have turned deep colors of red and gold, and they continue to break the surface of the pond, jumping to and fro. The vines still cover the cold, metal gate, blood red flowers covering the island in stunning beauty. The meadow seems to secrete a pleasant smell, sending waves of comfort and  tranquility to every blade of grass and falling leaf.

The grass disappears from view as the ground is covered in white, cold powder. The branches on the trees dip from the weight of snow and ice, their limbs brushing the ground in small sweeps. The crisp, biting wind does nothing to help the swaying, and instead blows across the ground, sending small flurries of the snow upwards bound. It circles around the frozen waterfall, every drop of purified water hanging in place, frozen in time. The island itself is covered in snow and white flowers, their color unadulterated. The vines seem to be dead, no longer living as they were before. The secret of the gates seem to be revealed, although barely. The gate remains locked, but the vines are cleared enough that the fenced in area can be seen. The area in the middle of the island is glowing, brightly colored with the beginning of the waterfall, the rainbow fish swimming in the small pool of water. The trees that are in the fenced in area are bright with life and colors, shining as if they were in the midst of spring and not winter. Petals from the flowers that decorate the vines and trees gently fall, landing on the icy surface of the pond. Silence invades the wintry meadow, crushing upon the meadow with great strength as the wind howls silently. The sky is pure black, the only light seen is the glistening stars, all shining as brightly as the northern star. Bright strips of rainbow appear in the sky, the aurora waving like the waves of the ocean themselves. Softly, stealthily a small tune is heard to only those truly lost in the meadow’s power. The tune is filled with what words can only describe as confusion as joy and peace meld with depression and war, hatred and love weaving in and out of the tune like a needle and thread. The tune is suddenly broken, and the meadow disappears, leaving nothing behind but darkness and emptiness until the cycle repeats another day.

This meadow once a graceful place
Pathways to untold peace
Narrow corridors into the heartland of tranquility
Weaving in, out, around trees
Like perfectly formed webs
That glisten with morning dew
Even as the sun sets through the branches
Cascading this meadow with darkness
New Moon blanketing the meadow
With the hope of new light
The voices begin to play
Lullaby whispers dancing on leaves
Shaking tree limbs to the eerie silence
The nonexistent breeze
Carrying the meadow into ballrooms of vampiric flames
Thirsty for the life each tree branch holds
Silent meadow voices
Truly are silent
When meadows burn to the sound
Of crackling horror-stricken leaves
Curling under the immense heat
Fossilized in ashes
Making this once tranquil meadow
An ashen wasteland for silent meadow voices
Refusing to even open their tongues
To welcome the morning sun
Bringing new light
To the horror of silent meadow voices...silenced

Are you coming to the Meadow
Where the grass is green?
Are you coming to the Meadow
To remember me?

Are you coming to the Meadow
Where they set me free?
Are you coming to the Meadow
Where they buried me deep?

Are you coming to the Meadow?
Will we meet again?
Are you coming to the Meadow?
I’ll be happy then.

Are you coming to the Meadow
To finally join us?
Are you coming to the Meadow
Where life is joyous?

There's a meadow past the village
On a hill...where magic swarms
You can see it on a summer night
When the clouds predict the storms
Life from time eternal
Starts appearing in the field
Gnomes and bluebell fairies
and the magic that they yield

You can see them from the village
Dancing in the moonlights glow
You can see the lightning jumping
You can see the ebb and flow
The pixies and the fairies
Folk who are part of their own world
Light up the distant meadow
As the magic is unfurled

Daisies and soft bluebells
fill the meadow in the sun
there is clover and some dragonflies
And young children having fun
The magic folk are hiding
Lights are hid, and tucked away
Until the humans in their world
Pack to end the day

It's then, from down the village
That the meadow lights begin
Where the magic lights the sky up
In the early gloaming din
If a human breaks the borders
Coming out and much too near
The lights go dark...and silent
For the magic world has ears

There are sentries in the meadow
All unseen to you
That alert the makers of the lights
When the humans are in view
there is magic in the meadow
magic lanterns are set free
where the world becomes a canvas
Of dancing lights for all to see

When I was younger I walked in the Meadow, a beautiful place that was actually called Sunken Meadow, located along Route 25A and Sunken Meadow State Parkway.  I entered through a break in the fence and took long walks.  I saw a Unicorn there.  I spied it from a distance as it grazed peacefully on some grass.  I just kept walking.  I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as I walked.  It was a quiet, secluded area of Meadow but full of life, and rarely would I see another person walking.

I don't know why, maybe for the simple reason that I was not enthralled by the Unicorn or perhaps it was because I really was something of a ****** at the time (now that I think of it, I believe there is a tale of a Unicorn that can only be caught by a ******, because it comes and lies in her lap or something like that), but anyway, I certainly was not enthralled by the Unicorn, and for whatever reason it fancied me and came and walked beside me.  I lit another cigarette and rolled my eyes.  Unicorns are for girls whose fathers buy them brand new shiny sports cars, Unicorns are for girls that giggle a lot and although they look good, they don't have brains and so have to have Unicorns.

As I walked, the Unicorn walked beside me.  So I started noticing that it had an elegant beauty, its white body full and alive.  It had very pretty blue eyes that reflected unlimited possibilities.  Its horn seemed to attract butterflies, as I noticed there were quite a few, more than usual butterflies fluttering about.  In essence, I did notice that the creature was quite extraordinary, but I assure you I still was not enthralled, and it had absolutely nothing to do with me.

I continued to take my walks, always bringing a pack of cigarettes, and smoked as I walked.  There would be the Unicorn walking beside me.  I guess I just sorta, kinda got used to it walking beside me.  Still, for God's sake, it didn't mean anything.

One day the white horse quickened its pace to a steady trot gaining ground in front of me.  It kept turning its head back to look at me as if it wanted me to run with it.  I figured it just wanted to see if I could catch up with it and keep up with it, and so I began to run.  I had always been a fast runner and took first place in the 500 yard dash, always completing the marathon races as well.  I ran beside it for awhile, not taxing myself in the least and when it slowed back down to a walking pace, I too slowed my pace and continued to walk.  I laughed in the sunshine that day and said to the horse outloud, "Oh, I know how to run!"

This went on for some time.  I took my walks regularly and always out of nowhere came the white horse strolling beside me.  One day, the Unicorn stopped and stood still right in the middle of the grassy path and lowering its front legs to the ground, it bowed its head and seemed to be offering me a ride upon its back.  A kind of confusion welled up inside of me as I at first considered it might be fun to ride upon the white horse, but then secondly I considered that I had no affinity or interest in such a creature and surely there must be some mistake.  A great distrust and anger came over me.  "You stupid, stupid thing," I exclaimed.  "Get away from me," I yelled in a loud and angry voice.

And so the Unicorn gracefully rose to its feet and took several calm steps away before rearing itself up on its hind legs, neighing loudly as it ****** its head up towards the heavens.  I could see that in that moment its horn emanated a bright white light.  It all happened so fast.  When it came down, back to the ground, it turned and began to gallop and then bolted like lightening deep into the Meadow's woods.

Heck, I was glad it left and relieved.  I never wanted that thing around me in the first place.  Anyway, I was just a girl, and I drove a beat up 1969 Chevy with rust spots that I purchased myself.  I was a bit shaken up by the whole thing, so I lit another cigarette to calm my nerves, and after that I went home.  I never went back to the Meadow after that day.

In the years that  followed, sometimes I would see a figurine of a Unicorn somewhere or I would be at a friend's house and they would have a picture or a painting of a Unicorn.  I would get a funny feeling for a moment, but then would think to myself, "What is the big deal?"  I saw a Unicorn once. So what?

That was years and years ago.  It's even been years since I even acknowledged a painting or likeness of the white horse with the silly horn sticking out of its head.  I mean, what exactly is a Unicorn, anyway?

So they say whoever controls the past controls the future, and I do believe there is a song that says the future is all the past or maybe the song says the future is all but past.  But I have never been so very good with the working out of Chinese puzzles.  As the years progressed, I matured.  Instead of drinking alcohol in over-abundance every chance I got, I drank bourbon on occassion and in moderation.  Instead of smoking cigarettes in excess, I smoked one or two cigarettes in the evening before retiring to sleep.  I no longer wore blue jeans but cotton slacks, which I ironed before putting on.  I mellowed, and the mellowing was a wonderful thing.  I became busy in my work and did well.  I was somewhat introverted because of the nature of my work, and I spent long hours indoors not getting a whole lot of excercise.

One day I decided I would start taking some walks for excercise and good health.  It had been years since I had even been in a Meadow, but I managed to find a pretty Meadow much like the one in my younger days.  I had to drive all the way across town to get there, but it was worth it.  I began to take walks there and delight in the surroundings.  I started feeling somewhat hearty though I had picked up the terrible habit of smoking regularly again.

One sunny afternoon as I was walking along at a steady and even pace, I thought I saw part of a white horse through some of the bushes.  My heart started to beat rapidly, and for one moment I had the feeling of understanding something that I had never understood, but the feeling was fleeting, and it escaped me.  And there it was.  Was it the same Unicorn?  No, it was not the same Unicorn, and it was a different Meadow, but it was a Unicorn, and it was walking beside me.

I just kept walking, pretending that nothing had changed, but my heart was beating strongly in my chest and I was elated that the white horse was beside me.  I wanted to look at it, but I could not.  Instead, I spied casual glimpses of it as we walked, turning my head just slightly as if I were only turning to view a bush or tree that was coincidentally in its direction but certainly having nothing to do with the blue-eyed creature itself.

We walked for some time as I secretly enjoyed my company more than I can ever say.  Then the White Horse went into a steady trot, turning its head back to look at me as it slowly gained ground ahead of me on the path.  As the distance between us widened, I started to run to catch up with it, but I couldn't run very well because it had been 15 years since I ran and I had been smoking too heavily and lost my breath easily.  I mean, I tried to run, but my body just couldn't do it.

I started to laugh.  "I am old," I exclaimed out loud, and tears just started running down my face as my laugh backfired somehow in my emotions, and I started to cry.  I fought the cry off as best as I could, but a great knot was forming in the center of my throat choking me and I was losing the fight and that is when I started crying and hollering at the Unicorn to slow down but I knew it wouldn't slow down, I knew it was just going to keep gaining ground in front of me until it was so far ahead of me and then gone.  I was a pathetic blubbering mess of tears and snot running out of my nose as it went further and further away and then disappeared.

For one moment there, I had had this vision of running beside it again, even grabbing hold of its mane and jumping on its back.  How ridiculous of me, I thought.  I couldn't even run.  And with that, I fell to my knees and released my great loss in a surrendering cry, a loss that I did not even understand in the first place.  An all-encompassing defeat and loneliness came over me like a black cloud and a deep well of emptiness filled my being.

Its mouth slobbered all over my elbow, and it nudged me gently with its nose on the back of my shoulder as it stood once again beside me.  "Quit slobbering all over me for God's sake," I said to it, as a kind of half laugh half cry sound came out of my mouth.

The Unicorn lowered its front legs to the ground, its head bowing slightly as its horn emitted a luminous, white light.  I got up off of my knees and went beside it, pausing for a moment as I looked into its blue eyes.  I swung my leg over its firm body straddling it as it gracefully got to its feet.  It stood for a moment as if to say, "Behold the woman on the Unicorn."  I stroked its neck with my hand and arm and petted its mane as we began to move along at a steady pace down the grassy path of the Meadow.

The End.
Copy Right Lynn Guevrekian
Short Story Fiction
Creative Writing

Here the waves rise high and fall on the icy
seas and white caps chew the driftwood logs of
hemlock and toss them wildly upon sandy beaches.
The steep mountains rise straight from the sea
floor as the December sun shines through the dark
clouds that hang heavy with snow near the top peaks.
Blue icebergs drift slowly down the narrow channel.
This volcanic island is one of many that are scattered
along the coast of Southeastern Alaska.
On the South end of the island is another
tiny island and on it stands an old lighthouse,
a shambles. It has a curving staircase and an
old broken lamp that used to beckon to ships at
sea. Wild grasses and goosetongue cover the ground
and close by Sitka blacktail feed and gray gulls
circle. There is a mountain stream nearby and
in the fall the salmon spawn at its mouth. The
black bear and grizzly scoop them up with great
sweeps of their paws, their sharp claws gaffing
the silver bodies.
Walking North along the deer trail from the
South end of the island are remnants of the Treadwell
Mine. It was the largest gold mine in the world.
In the early 1900's the tunnel they were digging
underneath Gastineau Channel caved in and the sea
claimed her gold. The foundry still stands a rusty
red.
The dining halls are vacant, broken white
dishes are strewn inside. The tennis court that
was built for the employees is overgrown with hops
that have climbed over the high fence and grown
up between cracks in the cement floor. The flume
still carries water rushing in it half-hidden in
the rain-forest which is slowly reclaiming the
land. The beach here by the ocean is fine white
sand, full of mica, gold and pieces of white dishes.
Potsherds for future archeologists, washed clean,
smooth and round by the circular waves of this
deep, dark green water.
Down past the old gold mine is Cahill's house,
yellow and once magnificent. They managed the mine. The long staircase is boarded up and so
are the large windows. The gardens are wild, irises
bud in the spring at the end of the lawn, and in
the summer a huge rose path, full of dark crimson
blooms frames the edge of the sea; strawberries
grow nearby dark pink and succulent. Red raspberries
grow further down the path in a tangle of profusion;
close by is a pale pink rose path, full of those
small wild roses that smell fragrant. An iron-
barred swing stands tall on the edge of the beach.
I swing there and at high tide I can jump in the
ocean from high up in the air. There is an old
tetter-totter too. And, it is like finding the
emperor's palace abandoned.
There is a knoll behind the old house called
Grassy Hill. It is covered with a blanket of hard
crisp snow. In the spring it is covered with sweet
white clover and soft grasses. It is easy to find
four leaf clovers there, walking below the hill
toward the beach is a dell. It is a small clearing
in between the raspberry patch and tall cottonwood
trees. It is a good place for a picnic. It is
a short walk again to the beach and off to the
right is a small pond, Grassy Pond. It is frozen
solid and I skate on it. In the summer I swim
here because it is warmer than the ocean. In the
spring I wade out, stand very still and catch baby
flounders and bullheads with my hands; I am fast
and quick and have good eyes. Flounders are bottom
fish that look like sand.
Walking North again over a rise I come to
a field filled with snow; in the spring it is a
blaze of magenta fireweed. Often I will sit in
it surrounded by bright petals and sketch the mountains
beyond. Nearby are salmonberry bushes which have
cerise blossoms in early spring; by the end of
summer, golden-orange berries hang on their green
branches. The bears love to eat them and so do
I. But the wild strawberries are my first love,
then the tangy raspberries. I don't like the high-
bush cranberries, huckleberries, currants or the
sour gooseberries that grow in my mother's garden
and the blueberries are only good for pies, jams
and jellies. I like the little ligonberries that
grow close to the earth in the meadow, but they
are hard to find.
Looking across this island I see Mt. Jumbo,
the mountain that towers above the thick Tongass forest of pine, hemlock and spruce. It was a volcano
and is rugged and snow-covered. I hike up the
trail leading to the base of the mountain. The
trail starts out behind a patch of blueberry bushes
and winds lazily upwards crossing a stream where
I can stop and fish for trout and eat lunch; on
top is a meadow. Spring is my favorite season
here. The yellow water lilies bud on top of large
muskeg holes. The dark pink blueberry bushes form
a ring around the meadow with their delicate pink
blossoms. The purple and yellow violets are in
bloom and bright yellow skunk cabbage abounds, the
devil's club are turning green again and fields
of beige Alaskan cotton fan the air, slender stalks
that grow in the wet marshy places. Here and there
a wild columbine blooms. It is here in these meadows
that I find the lime-green bull pine, whose limbs
grow up instead of down. Walking along the trail
beside the meadow I soon come to an old wooden
cabin. It is owned by the mine and consists of
two rooms, a medium-sized kitchen with an eating
area and wood table and a large bedroom with four
World War II army cots and a cream colored dresser.
Nobody lives here anymore, but hikers, deer hunters,
and an occasional bear use the place. Next door
to the cabin is the well house which feeds the
flume. The flume flows from here down the mountain
side to the old mine and power plant. An old man
still takes care of the power plant. He lives
in a big dark green house with his family and the
power plant is all blue-gray metal. I can stand
outside and listen to the whirl of the generators.
I like to walk in the forest on top of the old
flume and listen to the sound of the water rushing
past under my bare feet.
In the winter the meadow is different: all
silent, still and snow-covered. The trees are
heavy with weighty branches and icicles dangle
off their limbs, long, elegant, shining. All the
birds are gone but the little brown snowbirds and
the white ptarmigan. The meadow is a field of
white and I can ski softly down towards the sea.
The trout stream is frozen and the waterfall quiet,
an ice palace behind crystal caves. The hard smooth-
ness of the ice feels good to my touch, this frozen
water, this winter.
Down below at the edge of the sea is yet another
type of ice. Salt water is treacherous; it doesn'tfreeze solid, it is unreliable and will break under
my weight. Here are the beached icebergs that
the high tide has left. Blue white treasures,
gigantic crystals tossed adrift by glaciers. Glisten-
ing, wet, gleaming in the winter sun, some still
half-buried in the sea, drifting slowly out again.
And it is noisy here, the gray gulls call to each
other, circling overhead. The ravens and crows
are walking, squawking along the beach. The Taku
wind is blowing down the channel, swirling, chill,
singing in my ear. Far out across the channel
humpback whales slap their tails against the water.
On the beach kelp whips are caught in wet clumps
of seaweed as the winter tide rises higher and
higher. The smell of salty spray permeates everything
and the dark clouds roll in from behind the steep
mountains.
Suddenly it snows. Soft, furry, thick flakes,
in front of me, behind, to the sides, holding me
in a blizzard of whiteness, light: snow.

Soft sweet meadow
radiating its breath of life;
sounding its serenity
in echoes of the mind's eye

Living in this flat land
lay plush
in wild, multicolored-flowery-pockets in greenery
blankets "Sweet Meadow"  with fresh quickened
fragrance

And by our bedroom window
with a summer night's soft evening breeze
mellow cheeeping can be heard from way way down below
seemingly luring us to...

.. "OPEN WIDER THE WINDOW...
              ...AND LISTEN!!
Chant dear chorus
as violinist in "Cricket Suits"
join this cantor
that swings with rhythm
with wheezing sounding bugs, AH HUMMING!!
and an intermission of
Cha  Cheep,  Cha  Cheep
that breaks the nocturnal entomological singing
with ephemeral intermissions

Be bewitched by brillance as
tunes fly and z i n g
their little
whistle
songs so sweet a talent
unseen
little bugs sweetly sing
their little
tale of talent
in "Soft Sweet Meadow"

Comforted by vibrating frequencies
the air is electrical clasping
our good-inner child
as this meadow
unfolds its truth
being beneficial
to us all

We journey not too far
for this field draws us
to its delightful *****
We irresistibly suckle on its daytime scenic eye-filling foliage
later eliciting dreams made of peaceful slumber

Cha Cheep,  Cha Cheep and good night...

Come with me to the meadow,
I’ll weave flowers in your hair.
Life is not so important,
To miss what we find there.

Come with me to the meadow,
Your fingertips I’ll kiss.
With sighs let deep within us.
We’ll find Elysian bliss.

Come with me to the meadow,
Soft touch upon your skin.
Belies the heat of passion.
Held longingly within.

Come with me to the meadow,
I’ll hold you ‘til setting sun.
Beneath the cloak of darkness,
Two become as one.

Come with me to the meadow,
Cast fears all to the wind.
My love to you eternal,
and WE shall never end.

She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.

Softly she tread, floating above the clover
Seas.  Suddenly lost, bold honey bees forgot
The scent of flowers blooming.  Iridescent wings,
Humming birds, monarchs, dragons, flying in
Procession and the mushrooming dew now rising
Began to swell, raining upwards into the mystic
Blue heavens and the trees beyond that clearing
Stood longingly amazed, so green their spying
Gaze, when all the myriad flowers loosely fell
And all the gathering of colours faintly dimmed.

She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.