Bare feet bent the stalks of long grass. Rabbits scampered into the earth, as the tiny child massaged the roots of broken plants with her toes. For all she knew, she was alone, a child born of the field.
As she moved forward the blades sprung back to life, swaying in the breeze. Nodding flowers greeted her with sweet smells and playful colors. Beyond the safety of the field, with it's kisses of lilac, strong grasses, and gentle winds, lay something sinister.
She wove her fingers into a chain fence, making imprints on her hands. Gripping the wires, she looked at an abandoned house..
Detaching herself from the fence, she turned back to the clearing, dusting the flecks of rust off her hands. Having been spoiled with the view of the house, the blossoms no longer enchanted her. She wished for walls to keep out the wind.
The flowers bowed to her, unaware that their princess was resigning. She went to the oak tree in the center of the field. She sobbed, praying for windows and walls. The birds echoed the small girl's lament. The wind howled with her as she begged to live in the house.
After hours of crying, the girl curled up at the base of the tree. The moss near the tree grew in soft green patches. One tuff was her pillow and the falling leaves were her blanket. As she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of the house.
Come the morning, purple stained fingertips plucked blackberries along the edge of the field. As she awoke she saw the fruit locked away by the barrier. Every morning she remembered had been started by a breakfast of berries. The clearing had always provided everything she needed.
For the first time this abandoned child felt a wanting. A wanting for the other berries. A wanting for companionship. Most of all, a wanting for the house that sat beyond the fence.
"Come, come, come." A sing-song voice traveled on the wind. She understood but didn't know who had taught her this word. With little hesitation she followed the wind to her boundaries.
"Come. Come. Come." The voice persisted. The girl, no older than ten kneeled at the fence. Looking up, the mess of wires was too high to climb.
She looked back at the great tree, remembering chasing families of squirrels through the canopy. She had steady hands and strong legs, built through her races with the rabbits.
After much deliberation, she latched onto the fence. He hands could close completely around the metal. It took time for her to get a foot hold. Her feet were accustomed to the soft grass, cool dirt, and kind bark of the tree, not the man-made steel that bit into her skin. Her nimble hands rescued her when her feet lost their place. When she could peer over the tips of the wires she leaped into the abandoned yard.
The ground was a hard, dark brown with tiny spiderweb cracks reaching to the wilting grass. She crept to the porch trying her best to avoid the thickets of thorns.
With a newly ripped hem in her dress, she took her first sep onto the porch. First the wood squeaked, then it let out a deep painful moan. Tip-toeing over bugs, she turned the dull bronze doorknob.
The hing creaked as she nudged the door open. Dust flew from the floor boards as the door hit the wall. She made her way through the clouds of dirt as the floor cried from the unexpected guest.
Everything was dark.
She had forgotten convinces like chairs. She ran her hand across the edge of the tab;e, picking up the soft grime that had rested there.
In a corner as an antique grandfather clock. On that side of the room there was a sound like a baby's heartbeat. A near silent tick-tock as she investigated the old victorian chair.
She crawled into the chair, putting her filthy feer into the padded seat. Turning to face the clock, she gripped the back of the chair. Swaying with the pendulum, she danced o the steady beat of the clock.
She wanted a closeness with the clock. Closeness was not something that existed in the field. Everything was together and joined, but she did not know how to relate to the clock.
Footprints were left in the dirt as the floorboards let out their protests. The small girl smudged her finger prints on the glass that protected the golden soul of the clock. She ran her fingers back and forth, chasing the circle, watching it slice the air.
The grandfather clock reached the ceiling. It was the only truly clean thing in the house. The wood looked polished, the glass shined, save for where her fingers touched, and there was not a speck of dust to be found.
She watched for hours. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. She pressed into the glass and it swung open.
For a few seconds she felt fear. Fear the clock was broken. Fear the ticking would stop. Fear of a general stillness.
Curiosity outweighed fear, as it normally does, and she opened the glass fully. She was relieved to see the gears in the clock still running. The gentle swaying and the soft noise was still there. The clock was safe.
More safe than the soft moss by the wise tree, the chirping birds, and the blooming flowers.
The clock was inviting her in. She was hypnotized by the clock and when the chimes struck five, she crawled in. She shut the glass behind her, sitting with her back against the wall. She became in tune with the clock's rhythm. She lost herself.
There were no more flowers to pick. She became a part of the clock, a machine, no longer a little girl. In time even here foot prints were covered by dust.
