For the past couple of months, I’ve had a serious case of writer’s block when it came to writing any kind of fiction. That finally broke tonight, and I’ll be getting back into a writing mode very soon. In honor of that, I wanted to share one of my favorite pieces of writing. I wrote this story as part of a descriptive writing assignment in freshman English in college. Enjoy this one from the archives, and hopefully I’ll have something new to share with you soon.
The scene was perfect for love. Under the dark night sky, the field had an almost serene sense to it. Lit solely by the distant, glowing stars, it had turned from a gridiron of war to a patch of meadow in a distant land. The only reminders of football were the faded yard lines, memories of goals long since passed and barriers long since broken. The echo of each cold, metallic step as we walked down the field had more of a warm sound now, a soft instrument playing its song of peace just for me. As we carefully stepped down onto the playing field, making sure not to disturb even the smallest detail, I reached down to feel the grass.
Covered in thin, late-night dew, the large patch of grass seemed not like a football field at all, but a garden. A garden bigger than any you’d ever seen, one where any minute beautiful, colorful flowers would spring up from the loving soil, only enhancing the serenity of the scene. The trees and bushes that surround the far side of the field acted as a fence of sorts. They were tall, leafy guards making sure that no one would disturb this last fortress of solitude, this final bastion of peace on an ever-increasingly-stressful campus. As I sat down at the 35-yard line, I had memories not of the warriors who’d battled for ultimate supremacy just hours ago, but of poets long since past, wordsmiths who could take an harmonious scene just like this, and using just two tools would build the greatest invention mankind has ever seen.
I quietly glanced at my female companion and realized just how lucky I was. The girl was the picture of pure beauty; she had a caring and sweet soul, and combined it with a physical figure so perfect that it would make Aphrodite jealous. Her face was like a soft peach just after a cool, summer morn, soft to the touch, and as pure as an uninterrupted field after a winter’s snowfall. Her hair, red as the fires of Hades, contrasted to perfection with her heavenly body, shaped by the hands of the Lord himself. Her dress that night was so beautiful it had to have been sewn by the greatest seamstresses of Europe; a purple silk that lay on her body as to enhance, but not flaunt, every flawless contour of her figure. She let her hair free from the binding it had been held in, and slowly shook it around, as if she were a supermodel walking down a Parisian runway. As she lay back on the soft grass, she slipped off her shoes, allowing her toes, with their perfectly colored nails, to run through the wet grass like thoroughbreds running through an endless field of blossoms.
I prepared to speak my first words of the evening when she turned to me and put her outstretched index finger over my mouth to prevent me from ruining the tranquility of the situation. Slowly she leaned over and kissed me softly on my cheek; a kiss filled not with passion but of pure love from the heart, a love so rarely seen in our society, which focuses now not on true love, but on physical attraction. As she removed her soft, supple lips from my cheek, she moved them towards my ear. Still not allowing me to speak, she broke the silence with a soft whisper, a sound so quiet that it couldn’t have been heard anywhere but in the pure calmness of the cinematic meadow we’d created for ourselves.
The scene was perfect, so much so that it seemed more fiction than reality, and was made even more perfect by her words. They rolled off her lips like a sonnet written for a prince, and like Cinderella did with her glass slipper, my companion’s words stole my heart in an instant. They were not the “I love you” I’d expect, or even a simple “this is perfect” to describe the scene. Instead she turned back to Hollywood and in a soft seductive tone, tears of joy forming in her deep blue eyes, she whispered, “You complete me.” The single line from a classic film so close to my heart was completely unexpected; yet at the same time it was exactly what I wanted to hear from her. I was so touched, touched in the heart in a way I’d never felt before, that I was moved to tears.
As we both had quiet rivers flowing down our cheeks we realized that we were meant to be together; together not just at this moment, or even for a short time into the future, but forever, lovers so destined for each other than not even the crossed stars of Romeo and Juliet could keep us apart. I moved closer to her and moved my hand slowly up her back like an artisan taking painstaking care in his craft. As my fingers caressed her neck we connected and shared the most passionate kiss any two humans had ever shared since Adam and Eve were first placed together by the Heavens. The kiss defined passion, not just for its length or physicality, but for the fondness exchanged in that period of time.
The tenderness of her sweet lips was matched only by the devotion that the kiss created. For that short moment, lasting no longer than a single solitary minute, it seemed as if we were the only two people in the world, a world which at that twinkling in time was free of war, famine, and destruction. If that split second could have been bottled and given to all the people in the world, human kind would finally achieve the nirvana promised by all the ideals of Eden; a perfection so sweet that it can only be captured by two young lovers caught up in a romance for all times.
I knew at that moment that there was no situation under which we should be kept apart; it would be like separating rhyme and rhythm from poetry. Maybe it was impetuous, maybe it was immaturity prevailing over sensibility in a moment of uncontrollable emotion, or maybe it was pure fate, but the next words out of my mouth would change our lives forever. Slowly, unsure of myself like a young student in the final round of a spelling bee, I asked her the question every girl hopes to hear from their lover at some point in the long and winding road of a relationship: “Will you marry me?”
Upon hearing the words come out of my mouth, I expected her initial reaction to be one of shock, or at least mild surprise, but it was nothing of the sort. Instead the river of tears halted, then flowed as if someone had just broken open the valves on the Hoover Dam. She came close to losing her composure, but was able to bring herself together for one final word, the last word either of us would say that night. In a voice that spoke so quietly, she said the single word that echoed louder than and celebration ever had in the setting of the football stadium. She said yes.