An insecure heart drove the man outdoors in mid-winter. He went alone through the woods to the great field, where the pale grass spread far on every side towards the hills. The overcast sky promised no sun to warm him. A serious type of place, he decided. He bowed his head and plodded through the grass. He passed streams, somber gray and frozen, then trees, limbless and dead. His steps went through the few patches of old snow, and their cold seeped into his boots. In mid-field, he stopped. He raised his head and looked over the grass tops as an uneasy tremor moved him.
“So?” the man quietly asked the scene. He believed the place would understand his question and speak; the sober quality of the field made him trust it could. If anything or anyone could give an answer, this place must, he told himself. And he thought the question too deep and often put to be misread. He became still and listened now to the great silence that reigned over the dead trees, the grass, the hills, and the sky.
A hollow opened inside him as the words the field might have spoken did not come. Silence, he realized. Thought ceased, and the man found himself standing alone in the cold. This stark consciousness made an end of his day’s search, but he sensed it was enough. The silence showed every sign it would hold. It might last more than anything else, he thought, surveying the pale grass. The idea gave him a peculiar sense of assurance, his first that day.
lives and writes in Hartford, Connecticut. He has published stories in Abstract, S/WORD, Corvus Review, and The Write Launch.
Author’s website: http://www.norbertkovacs.net