the murder of autumn

She can smell the soul of the trees burning alive today. Their secrets are smoldering and a longing oozes through the cracks of their bark. She knew that trees can bleed but she never realized the color would be the same as loneliness. She translates the rumbling of the words that surge across their roots as it travels up into the core of her feet. They are angry, they say, about something taken from them. She furrows her brow, feeling pensive, and begins to move quietly through the woodland.

But it follows.

There is a restlessness brewing in her forest. The last piece of a dandelion, a miniature spiderweb of cosmos, floats by and urges her to follow suit. “Don’t you hear it?” he says, “just go”. She feels anxious and curious, all is wrong in the air and she can see toxins leeching onto every particle they touch. She inhales deeply and holds.

The water is chanting.

It taunts with a beat she has never experienced, forming in the base of her feet and pulsating into her lungs. This throbbing in her veins causes her to exhale just as she gathers the courage to look into the river.

There they are, an army.

Only now does she understand the quake trembling through the forest. The leaves have forsaken their protection from the boughs of the keepers of their timberland home. In a monumental uprising, they simply unfurled themselves to a new destiny. Soft and shimmering, the silken secret keeper of the woods receives them greedily.

They couldn’t deny the change in the air.

For too long in their season of green it gurgled at them, flirting. But they held fast, feeling nourished and appreciated from their hanging homes, as the breeze of hope tickled their toes and the sun of heated dreams kept them warm. But the stars became fainter and it began to grow cold. The breeze became a bully, always knocking them to and fro from their daily slumber. Weren’t they loved anymore?

Then magic became them.

They began to turn into the color of fire and gemstones. They became the most glorious parts of the forest, and all the earth danced and sang to their majestic adornment. But it was the water spirit that had the most beautiful voice of all, and it called to them day and night, never ceasing. They admired its fervent endeavors to worship their radiance. “Let go,” it would sing to them, “fly to me and I will give you all my secrets.” And when their sacred father ceased paying attention, they simply let go.

But they were misled.

They were too vain to realize the translucent ghost had set a trap. Rather than receiving knowledge of all the secrets of the forest, they were haunted by the whispers of death, images of faded dreams, and remnants of dying wishes of those passed on. They understood far too late that they had been taken to travel on the road that receives the dead from winter to push it out of the woodland. They still didn’t realize they, too, were now a part of this death.

Lost souls dancing for redemption.

But it is too late. As the forest fairy stares into the glistening tormentor’s path, she can see the noble protectors of earth, rooted and stationary, bending and twisting to reach their lost children. In a moment of panic, the leaves claw at the reflection of the trees as if they could reattach themselves to life.

They beg for help.

Still reaching, they implore the rocks and the shore to give them their sacred place back in the high places of the woodland. There is no response to their petition. And so they begin to cry and their life force sinks into the deep parts of the secret keeper, whose real name is ‘collector of despair’, until they became too depleted to remember their once-destiny. They are carried away listlessly, their voices become silent, and in their final act, they become the color of trickery.

They float towards death.

As the water churns and pushes them out and away, their lifeless bodies seem to dance on the shadows of the trees. Memories of what was, memories trying to hold on too long.

She spreads her wings.

This is the story of the forest that is never told. These are the colors of all the sadness of the wind, carried from cloud to cloud and dropped back to earth in liquid forms of regret. This is how it always has been and always will be.

The murder of autumn.

Yet with each death there is life. And as this fairy princess spreads her scarlet wings and flies through the still of winter, she can hear the trees whispering to each other of their plan. They will start again. They always do. And perhaps, just perhaps, this year will be the year that they win the war.

A rebirth.

the murder of autumn


Kansas City, United States

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Artist's Description

a myth was brewing in my bones today.

please listen to this music while reading.. it helped urge the story from my veins.

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