The World Builders Writing Club is a diverse group of aspiring authors who meet once a month and showcase some of their work on the Free Library blog.
Please enjoy this first look at a new work-in-progress by one of our writers and share your thoughts in the comments.
I Fall For You Even Every Time
by Adetokunbo Oluwafemi Ige
I saw it falling, I saw the drop that it was. Crystalline in color, yet in sparkling spectrum among millions, to me. I saw it pulsate, shakably, between its gravity and the winds. I saw it morph shape, flatten with descent coinishly, then near paper thin. Before it sprouted eight crystal arms. (I saw the arms crystallize before my eyes.) Just then it suddenly puffed up with ease, now fluffy and like a shot angel's feather. Not a single other one would fall to touch the ground in liquid state. Splash, to claim even that miniscule form of animosity. This is a particular day. But I noticed this one, never letting my own eyes away from it. Never taking my calculations away from it.
As it fell.
It floated in sway. Side to side, cradled by the gentle winds that softly blew. Sometimes in loops, like pantomime dancing children. Other times like star-wishes, malpredictably ever in motion, as wild dandelion plume. Boy it was a fate-filled sight!
I stood underneath her window as she expected me to be. I wasn't late, I was on time and growing chilly in my sports jacket (some expensive name brand), because the underneath sleeves to my white shirt were already rolled up to the elbow. In some kind of pre-anxiety for love (embarrassing). My wristwatch merely slightly revealed. Hands in my trouser pockets. Keys tickling my fingers, at the ready.
And here, my mind is following a single fate-driven falling tear, splashed by frost into a teeny ice crystal of exquisite and acquired art. As it was just beginning to snow out for the others, raindrops but in no way as pure as this very one. I recall the whole sensory scene as it took shape, through my mind. There she was, two stories above me in her window where the bedroom lies, stunningly dressed and ready for our date. The single tear shone like a diamond on her cheek before it leapt and left. The mere confrontation with such a reality made the pulse race in my neck. I waited with tongue in mouth—open. Seemingly forever for that salty, now-snowflake to fall. She saw this, fled the window down her stairs in a passion I had never seen before. (Does she even beat the flake?) She was in anguish at my loneliness, so she ran down the stairs to modestly try. Afterward we kissed passionately, the salty taste still swimming through our mouths, I had caught the flake. We were aroused just in time for completion. Just in time to cast meaning.
After that I leaned casually on my car, between hers and mine. Her car was a subtle, soft form of white, like what I love about her; mine was core black, like what we love about each other, as friends. It was St. Valentines's Day, February fourteenth twenty-fifteen, and nothing on earth could stop us now! We sped away leisurely, eyes to the sky.
First published in the literary journal The Writers' Stew, based in Brookville Pennsylvania and published in conjunction with the writers' group at the Rebecca M. Arthurs Memorial Library.