Isla left. It was simple. The water lapping in the river had told her to go - the house halting her quietly.
It was time. Isla was pulled against her will in both directions. A boat tossing, perilous, listing.
The city was sullen, saluting with empty streets, flashing yellow stoplights. There was no excitement, like she remembered, in the traffic, a flow of agitated shoppers. Restaurants chilled, theatres mute.
It was time. Isla waited for music, motion - to carry her.
The seasons were obstinately off. It had been summer in November, now May, a bleak winter - Closing the door, months of preparation, plotting.
It was time. Isla was flustered and wary.
The air was taciturn, reticent. Isla waited - wishing. A prism of thoughts pulsed near the surface.
It had smelled like jasmine in June. Wisteria, amethyst above doorways, lined the road that, curving around the villas, unravelled out of sight. She peered to see - unfurling distance.
It was time. Flux and ebb of infinity - shuffling, silent.
She excused herself for her confusion. Isla wanted to go back to the river to calm her thoughts. She had planned but never expected for time to come at her with both fists raised.
It was time, but she wanted to put time back in its bottle, throw it out to sea. The waves would suck it away or push it back to shore, bobbing in white crescents. She could decide later if ever it came back to her.
The sky was silver-grey then bright and benign. It was like Isla to feel she had to go two places at once -stay and leave - run and hide.
Time receded. Isla stood still - listening. Then, shifting her feet, a geological era unfolded unceremoniously.
For this exercise, I built on a previous story and the characters Jack, Layla, Lillian and Ashe. They are four siblings and have been caught up in a war conflict and have accidentally gone through a time portal.
Layla understood that she did not have to run as they had in the forest to escape the soldiers with bayonets or the fire. She carried Ashe and Lillian walked behind them in her usual hush. Layla kept a close eye on Jack and watched as the book led them to the river. She thought it would be best to follow the direction in which the river flowed. The wine-red binding of the book stood out on the grass. She thought about how it would be easy to spot if it got too far away. Jack was limping, but Layla did not give him a chance to complain. The book stayed within his reach that was her concern now.
“It's leading us to the river.”
“Well then, he did understand after all,” thought Layla.
“Can’t you pick it up?”
“I’m hungry,” he complained.
“Jack –“
Layla was cut short by a man who appeared from a thicket of trees. He was small, almost a boy, but had the face of man. His hands were dirty, and his clothes were old. He was carrying a sack.
The wiry little man motioned to Jack and held out the large brown sack. The sack hung limply in his hand and did not appear to offer the bounty Jack craved.
Jack left the book near the bank of the river and walked toward the man.
It was not so much the dirty hands and shoddy way the man was dressed that bothered Layla. He had an unsettled way of moving, tipping his head slightly to one side as he gestured to Jack. His small black eyes peered unblinkingly; he did not utter a word.
“Jack, don’t,” Layla called out. Jack stopped. It was the first and only time he had ever listened to her.
The wine-coloured book stopped sliding on the long grass, obediently resting at Jack’s feet. Jack slowly stooped to retrieve it, keeping his eyes on the undersized intruder. He stuffed the book under his belt, pulling his jacket over both. Layla gave a sigh and pulled Ashe close to with one arm.
Jack was hungry. Layla knew food had priority when Jack was tired or frustrated. He would tear into a piece of bread like a wild animal or finish his dinner in four bites if he were angry. She watched the man beckoning to her brother. Jack’s tousled, black head bent toward the ground, as though he were thinking. The air was still, the tree leaves were silent. Layla wanted to say something but held back. Jack’s hands were by his side when he raised his head at the sound of rustling. The man evaporated in a wavering grey haze of swirling air. In his place black crow flapped its wings angrily at them, cawed and dove at Jack’s head. Jack ducked out of the way and took Lillian, who had stopped a few steps behind him, under his arm. He wrapped her head in both arms and tucked his head down over her small frame. The screech dissolved with the menacing black bird behind them before they could turn to see where it had gone.