Local writer Christopher Lee shares another of his original creations –
The Man Who Stood Still As A Statue by Christopher Lee –
The man stood beneath the branches of the black oak tree, as still as a statue. Black jeans clad his legs, while a plain white tee shirt hung about his shoulders. The frigid wind of late autumn blew, and bit at the exposed skin of his arms, causing gooseflesh to rise there. In the depth of his hazel eyes was a reflection of the world around—dark and mysterious—and yet, this man continued to stand tall and proud, showing no fear in the face of whatever imminent danger could arise from the dust of the fields.
The man leaned against the trunk of the black oak tree, still motionless even in relaxation. On the Western horizon, the sun was flaunting the last of its precious luminance to a world that would soon be eclipsed in a restless country dark; including the fearless man beneath the tree. Reaching slowly into his right jean pocket, the brave one plucked from it a single hand- rolled cigarette. Taking a match from the opposite side, methodically he struck the match on the side of his black leather boots; a flame flickering to life and transferring its power to the cylindrical smoke as the man in black took a deep, full breath. Amidst the exhale, the smoke came out in purposeful circles that seemed to float through the center of the ring before.
The man sat, resting his back against the black oak tree, moving now but a little. He made no fire pit, lit no lamps. He merely crossed one leg over the other and lit another tobacco stick. The fields that loomed ominously all around grew close to pitch black, as the mist of the night made its way toward the confident man. Somewhere beyond vision, a coyote howled, followed by several more of his kind. Yet, it seemed that this wandering man with a soul of steel took no notice at all. The sounds may as well have been a passing couple, talking amongst themselves. The creatures and their fear tactics were not any more his business than that. With mind adrift, the fellow grew weary- eyed, succumbing eventually to the inevitable sweet bliss that is sleep.
Suddenly, in the late hours of the night, the stoic man stirred violently, sitting up quick. His breathing was slightly shallow and on his skin hung perspiration like ornamental drops of water. After a moment of somber stillness, the daring man reached once more into his pockets—pulling out a stick and a match. After lighting his coffin nail, he held the wooden beacon of sulfuric light toward a small round object he held in hand.
Dawn was soon at hand.
What did he have to fear then, or even before?
As the sun crept up behind him, lighting the plains, he stood.
And once more, the man stood beneath the branches of the black oak tree, as still as a statue.
Christopher Lee was born and raised in Orlando, Florida and from a young age, always had a penchant for writing. During his high school years, Christopher worked closely with a lot of other writers in groups and continues to work alongside his friends and colleagues still. Although he often dabbles in various hobbies such as playing music, this man’s heart will always belong to his writing. Even though he is new to publishing his work, there is no doubt that Christopher Lee is a name to be remembered and a force to be reckoned with.
