Silver Pen: An Infinite Quiet by Sheeda Jamsheed

 

The birch trunk directly before me is alight with the rays of the late afternoon sun. I drag my touch across the bark. Smooth and rough. Cool and warm. I close my eyes at the sensation, wanting to melt into the tree. To become a silent guard of the forest, without tradition and politics to suffocate me from within. It’s intensely quiet now. The silence presses against my ears as if I’m underwater.

Something stirs within the thick brush before me. I snap my head up, searching for the source of the rustling.

Two dark brown eyes watch me.

Steady in their observance, they are framed by seaweed green leaves filling the grove of pomegranate trees. Staring right back into the depths of the mysterious gaze, I reach for the leather belt at my hip. My fingers wrap tightly around the hilt of my dagger, silver handle scraping against my palm.

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