139. Yellow

I’m not sure how long I sat on the balcony overlooking the cove and watched Papa, brush in hand, paint one broad stroke after another across his rough-hewn canvas. The azure blues of the ocean reflected in his grayish eyes as a slight glint from the morning sun highlighted his silver brow. No matter how warm the rising sun, I don’t recall ever having seen Papa sweat.

If he made a mistake, he would take a long slow deep breath and squint his eyes as if he was about to say something very profound and then, in all seriousness, would declare, “If I don’t mind, it don’t matter.” With my eyes wide in wonder, he would break the tension with a smile that rolled down from his grey eyes, over his ruddy cheeks, into his trademark contagious white grin.

He stood upright; posture dignified yet absence pretension, as the manner of his bearing gave forth a certain unexplainable charisma. He wore his customary white tunic, always immaculate and tailored to fit without effort. I marveled at how his smile matched the tunic, both of which he wore with a natural elegant ease. I never asked grand, but he must have had a whole closet full of them since they always looked spotless. No doubt, Papa looked better in causal dress than most Hynerians in full formal wear.

Papa stretched his own canvas, said it was the only way to become one with the work and he only ever worked with primary colors and a bit of white. I asked him why not black too, and he said there would be no darkness in his paintings. And then he laughed and said nothing is truly black and he would not use it as a crutch. I never knew whether he was serious in that remark or not.

We had just finished breakfast and I could hear grand in the kitchen, plates and glasses clinking as her delicate hands washed them one at a time. I had started inside to help her, but Papa insisted I stay. Said he had something he wanted to show me. I think he saw me roll my eyes as he rolled his in return. “Talk is cheap. Show first. Tell later. You know the routine,” he said, tapping the end of his brush on the table in mock anger like a school teacher. I still smile thinking at how adept he handled a nine-year-old girl. Papa’s lessons never felt like lessons at all.

“Come here Kyra. Take my brush. Pick up some yellow and put it on the canvas. Now pick up some red.” The polished wooden brush had a peculiar balanced heft in my nine-year-old hands and I had the overwhelming desire to whirl it in the air and let the paint go where it may, but of course thought the better of it. There was the white tunic to be mindful of. The brandonian oils Papa used looked thick, felt heavy on the brush and had the most wonderful sweet smell as they intermingled with the warm ocean breeze coming off the cove. “Now slowly run your brush between the two colors and tell me what you see?” he said in a low whisper as if we were about to share some ancient secret he didn’t want grand to overhear.

I looked in wonder as my yellows and reds became orange wherever the two met. “How does that happen Papa?”

“It’s the universal law,” he said. “Nothing stays the same and everything influences everything else. Be like yellow and you brighten everything you touch. Be like red and you darken everything you touch. There is no way around this fundamental principle.”

“But Papa, wouldn’t blue have been a better choice than red for this lesson? I asked with a smile as only a precocious young girl can do.

Papa cocked his head and with a wink said, “I think I hear your grand calling for some help.”

“Kyra, its Yul. We’ve got a problem.”

So much for daydreams I thought. “What’s the problem?”

“Mairi’s missing?” said Yul.

“Get Rog and Von over here right away.” I sensed a slight pause. “Yul, did you copy that?”

“No can do. Rog has gone missing too,” she responded, a slight nervousness in her voice.

Be like yellow I muttered to myself forgetting the responder was still on. “Be like what?” asked Yul.

“Just talking to myself, sorry. Grab Von and get over here as soon as you can.”

Categories: Story, Kyra, Papa, Yul, Paintings

138. Seven

Seven crew members, each living in their own universe; each viewing the world as if they stood dead center and all else revolved around them. It was enough to make Kyra ill, not in judgment but in reflection. She knew what she saw. She knew it was true. You see the world not as it is, Papa repeated often, but as you are.





Categories: Story, Kyra, Papa

137. Evv-err

Journal Entry: 07:283:005 M24 (continued)

I returned from Mairi’s quarters. My black leather vest and leggings, which were normally formfitting, felt tight. Tight is not the right word. They felt constricting, almost as if the very conversation, or their knowledge of my thoughts on the very conversation, caused them to shrink, led them to question their very owner. With no voice to express displeasure, they contracted. And in their contraction, they squeaked as only tight leather forced into motion squeaks. So I listened to their displeasure with each step from Mairi’s quarters back to mine.

She had put the question before me as if moving a chess piece. The words came forth, so it seemed, in slow motion, carefully chosen and perfectly articulated. She didn’t miss a syllable. Almost before she started I knew where she was going, but like a nightmare, I was unable to stop her. So I sat. And I listened. Felt like hours. Five words. Do you, ever feel guilty?

She paused after you, but she didn’t need to. She had my attention, or so I thought. Do you, pause. Her eyes narrowed with the pause. Couldn’t have been more than two or three seconds to say Do you, but I swear I saw her eyes narrow, her blue irises contract like a laser dialing in concentrated focus.

And I knew. I knew where she was going and I was helpless to stop her. The third word sounded like two words. Word three, the hump word in a five word sentence. Her pronunciation betrayed her upper class upbringing. The articulation was very subtle, seductively subtle, sneaky subtle, but there to hang in the air, a clue to say, this is me and it is all I’ve got left. Can you hear what I am saying she seemed to communicate with her widening eyes. We must have been on the third second and the third word, but her eyes widened with the utterance of Ever. Do you evv-err she said. Evv-err. Who says evv-err I thought.

Feel. Word four. Never did much like that word. Even less since the events of the virus. Feelings, why do we care. They don’t stay. They often lie. They have their own agenda. Yet, we seem to lift them up high on the mighty alter of truth. If I feel it, it must be right. How can a feeling be wrong? So we elevate our feelings to god-like status. But there is was, front and center, word four—feel. Do you evv-err feel.

By Janus woman, I thought, just spit it out. I was amazed at how many thoughts I could have between her words. I thought about my thoughts. I filled the gap, not with listening, but with more words. What would Papa say; Listen with your eyes. See with your ears. But I did neither. I filled the gap with me. She talked and I dialogued with me. Papa didn’t teach me to insult others this way.

Then word five. Guilty. I can’t say I ever, or is that evv-err, heard Papa use the word guilt. I knew the Hynerian for twenty some odd years and I really don’t believe he evv-err, now she has me doing it, used that word. I had to think twice as to meaning. I wanted to hold the word in my hands and look at it as I would an unknown object. Do you ever feel guilty? That is what she asked me.

So, I fell out of character for the second time that morning. I lied to Von and now I was playing for time. I pretended I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I knew. I knew before she ever asked. So I played for time. I put up a façade. I pretended to be something I wasn’t. What was wrong with me? Correction. What is wrong with me? Is it stress? Do I just not see it? Have I not recovered from the coma? Did Kieran do something to my mind? Well, I could dance all I wanted, but the question was on the table and Mairi was not breaking eye contact.

Yes. I do. I do feel guilt. That’s what I told her. I’m alive and most everyone I know is not. So I told her of my conversation with Von, and I relived for the second time that fateful last day, my final goodbye from Papa. And I told her what he told me: Put away your fears and worries and regrets. They will do you no good in the place you are heading and if they return, remember this. To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift that so many others will never receive. Fine words, but I was less than honest with Mairi when I told her that story. I didn’t make it up, I just wasn’t living it.

Commentary Part 1

Commentary Part 2

Commentary Part 3

Categories: Story, Kyra, Mairi, Papa

Pamarita Weekend

A toast to all my wonderful friends. Have a safe and joyful weekend. And Terry, try not to be part of the food chain. :-)

Sweetest Sunshine, you and your dad remain in my thoughts and prayers. May you find some level of peace this weekend and don't forget your promise. Poppet is watching.

Trace, congrats on the new job. I'm sure you'll be a magnificent Ms Tubey.

Leigh, get some miles in for me this weekend. I think of you on every hill I climb. I don't have the stuff for Sangrias so Pamaritas it is.

Oliviah, come watch Venus with me. We can smile and laugh together. Whenever I see her sing I think of your fabulous smile you shared with us a few weeks ago. I see so much joy in that smile.

Jenni and DJB, keep rawking on those Apo pieces. You have both surpassed my abilities ten fold. I'm enjoying the show.

Chicky, I think I'm ready for the beach and a little somthin somthin warm and enticing. Age only matters to those who believe that it does. Of course, after a few Pama's, it won't matter at all. :-)

Aggie, I've missed you posting more than you know this week. Hope and trust all is well. Thanks so much for introducing me to Venus Hum. I've got a special Pamarita mix prepared just for 10pm. See you there.

Keshi, my dear southern angel, drinks on the bridge tonight. Glad you called the hunt off. I didn't like feeling guilty. :-D

Sweetk, a toast to all things new and a toast to keeping our eyes looking forward. I miss you bbb. :-)

OB, your post on clutter hit close to home. Could be why its a time for a toast or two.

Deb, Pamaritas are great for a dry heat. And after a few, storms don't much matter anymore. :-)

Y, did you notice Pama is red? You bring the black. We won't need much more.

Helen, peace to you my friend. Join me in a toast to those who have touched our lives in ways we can never repay.

Alex, welcome back to blogland. That alone calls for a toast.

Linny, I've got beer too if you prefer a brew. Or we can just hit the Blue Bell. :-D

Liz, my dear friend, a toast to sons and a toast to friendship. I think of you often and wish I had more time for tea and cookies.

Kel, my dear philosophical babe with a heart of pure gold, join me on the deck for a toast as we watch the birds come in for evening.

Christa, a toast to bug spray. Haven't seen you since your bug report. Hope to see you around again soon and that all is well.

Jack, a toast to aliens and to Italians or was that redundant? Just kidding. All the best with your studies.

Melly, a toast to all those in harm's way. Your posting from the war has touched me in ways I don't know how to put into words. My heart is with you and Kate. I think of you both everyday and pray for peace.

Saffy, a toast to blog links. You know I was your first. :-)

Karen, Jack and I would like to invite you for a special, hands on toast, to all things wise and wonderful.

Meg, any woman who takes no shiott in the pastry shop is worth a toast or two to me. Thanks for all your wonderfully kind words.

Lisa, a toast to long comments. I do miss having you around.

David, a toast to introspection, to music, to gardens and to love. I'm still working on how to articulate the sound of silence. :-)

Jar, a toast to old friends. I can't listen to Sarah without thinking of you my friend.

Sherri, put on that cottontail and bring your toothbrush. Backstage pass awaits and plenty of carrots. Or at least one. Do you really need more? :-)

Super J, a toast to margarita machines! What would a Pamarita be without one. Stay safe, my friend, as the Hurricane season approaches.

Olaf, hell of a pic you put up today. That alone deserves a toast. An another for the lass.

And a toast to all those who lurk here. Comments are always welcomed but I say, to each their own. I'm just flattered that you guys stop by on a regular basis.

And last but not least, a toast to the poor souls that should be on my list that I've left off. No harm intended. Promise. Mean it. :-)

136. Embrace the Light

Kyra, open your eyes. Let the light in so that it might bathe your soul in the joy of truth.

Papa always was a bit dramatic with his wordplay reminisced Kyra, as the memories of those last days came flooding back. She wondered what he would say now.
_______

Journal Entry: 07:283:005 M24

I made my normal rounds, snizzle in hand. Goldie came with me with her customary tray of small blue onyx cups, made by Papa of course. Each one filled three quarters full with brew and mixed to individual taste. Von liked his black as did Rog. Yul and Emy both preferred a dollop of Kawai butter, which gave snizzle a smooth and slightly sweet flavor. Trev abstained from snizzle altogether. Just another reason to be suspicious of him (ed note: Kyra’s sense of humor).

Everyone elected to stay in their own quarters even though it seemed kind of silly to be in a room in a ship that was in a ship. We thanked Taren for his hospitality. The rooms he offered us were much nicer than our own, but Bravo-Four-Zero was home and with all the uncertainty, our blanket of the known. He nodded his understanding after profusely apologizing for the detail storming Mairi’s quarters only to find her half-naked and alone. I smiled and accepted his apology. I knew they would find nothing.

We saw Rog and Yul and then Emy before Trev. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits although a bit anxious as to where we were being taken. Then we made our way to Von’s quarters.

“Morning Von. Snizzle, black, for a few minutes of your time?” I asked. Von looked like he had been up for a while, his reading glasses half way down his long regal nose offsetting his immaculately groomed salt and pepper mustache and beard. Von was Zing Tao to the bone and time had not soften the edges of the discipline honed from many years in service. I tried not to stare at the scar on his right cheek, a wound, Rog told me, he suffered at the hands of the Javalinas.

“You must be a mind reader. Please come in Kyra," he responded, taking his cup from Goldie's tray as if there was nothing more important in the world. I watched as Von unconsciously scratched his head and wondered if the neural trace, or the vestiges of it, still tortured him or whether he scratched his head out of habit. Or maybe he just had an itch. I suppose a few less assumptions would serve me well.

“How did you sleep last night?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if it was the tone in his voice or the look in his eye that made the question more than a simple pleasantry. Fact of the matter, I didn’t sleep at all, which made me wonder if I looked that bad. Was I assuming again, reading into a look something that wasn’t there? Was he just commenting out of concern because I looked exhausted?

“Just fine.” I lied. And he knew it and he knew that I knew that he knew. How can a look and a smile say so much. Sometimes I felt Von could carry on a whole conversation without ever saying a word. And why did I lie to him. What façade was I trying to protect? What vanity?

“I’m sorry Von. I didn’t sleep at all. Either that, or I haven’t woke yet. Is this a dream? Are you really there?”

Von laughed. “If this is a dream then that damn neural trace has followed me. Goldie, may I have another please. Start from the beginning Kyra. Tell me what you saw,” said Von, sounding more like Papa than I cared to admit.

I’m not sure how long we talked. Words flowed on the back of so much pent up emotion. Von just sat and listened, listened with his eyes in a way that communicated pure attention. I told him everything. I asked him everything but he refused to engage me until I had no more words, until the retelling had wrung every last bit of emotion from me. I sat across from him, utterly exhausted, drained, yet relieved as only deep listening can do. “Please Von. Say something.”

He looked like he was carefully choosing his words. “You make too many assumptions. Clouds the mind and confuses the heart,” he said.

“Give me an example?” I asked.

“Papa.”

“What?”

“You asked why if someone were to return from beyond to visit you that it would be Kieran and not Papa.”

“And your point?”

“You assume.”

“Assume what Von?”

“You assume that your Papa is no more of this world.”

“But—“

“Stop for a minute Kyra. Do you know for a fact that he died on Hyneria?”

“I saw him wave goodbye from the dock as our ship pulled away. He told me his duty was to stay, to help maintain order in the chaos since not everyone would have the opportunity to escape. He would have followed his duty, gone down with the planet,” I responded, somewhat defensive of letting the emotions he was stirring come back to life. It was too late. Images of the last day, images I had locked away, came back with force, like a slap from a cold boney hand.

“We each have our own destiny,” he said, as if words could provide comfort. Words were just words and he must have known from the cold distant look in my eyes that I needed something more. I fought hard to keep the tears from flowing. They came anyway.

“This is not right Papa. You cannot save the planet. A Hynerian such as yourself will be needed to lead these vessels to our new home,” I pleaded, the words branded into my memory. Not just words but the cold wind and steely smell and cacophony of the dock. I couldn’t separate the day and the words. To think them was to feel them, to see them, to hear them, to taste the salty tears flowing down my cheeks.

Papa’s cloak fluttered and flapped in the strong winds issuing forth whip like sounds as if to express its own dismay. My ship, Bravo-Four-Zero, creaked and groaned against its mooring, the anti-grav modules unable to maintain equilibrium in the storm. Wolf-like hurricanes were devouring the planet. The ferocity of the winds whipped us as we stood on the dock, prolonging the inevitable. I was leaving. He was not.

“You look magnificent with your clear crystal blue eyes,” he said as I noticed for the first time his own eyes began to water. “You have the eyes of a leader,” his thumb rubbing the tears from my cheeks as his eyes darted from left to right and back again across the expanse of my brow. “And you are needed for the next generation. This one, here, is mine. You do your duty Kyra. And I’ll do mine.”

How does one respond to that? I just cried some more because I knew he had made up his mind and I knew it was the right thing for him to do. Yet, still, in a small part of my heart, I couldn’t help but wonder why he had to choose between his duty to Hyneria and me. I couldn’t help but wonder why not me.

I thanked Von for his time and excused myself to go check on Mairi. Could I really be such a selfish beotch? I had a ticket out of hell and most did not and all I could think about was having a little bit more, having my Papa come with me. Where did having just a little bit more end? And why was Von playing games with my mind by suggesting Papa might be alive? Assumptions. Why do I make so many. Maybe Von knows something I don't. He is right. I don't know with absolute certainty.

Categories: Story, Kyra, Papa, Von, Goldie, Hyneria, Paintings

135. The Return

Mairi felt it. So did Kyra.
















Categories: Story, Mairi, Kieran, Kyra, Paintings

134. Meditation

Mairi overheard Taren on the bridge. "I wouldn't want to be her," he said. Wasn't the first time she had heard that. Really didn't bother her anymore, at least that's what she kept telling herself. Still, what choice did she have. Who else could she be? Where could she go to escape herself? She knew the answer. She knew the answer because she had asked herself the question a thousand times and the answer was always the same.

"Shen, you look troubled. Do you sense the Vollmonds? Have they picked up our trail?" asked Taren.

"No, something else. Something much closer to home. I can't put my mind on it, but all is not as it should be," replied Shen.

"Danger?"

"Not sure. But something is moving. Could be the female. I sense activity near her quarters, but the energy signature does not match," said Shen.

Mairi turned toward her holographic wall. "Springtime, mid-morning please," said Mairi. As the colors of the wall came to life, Mairi stepped out of her normal bodysuit. Reaching beside her bed she picked up her prized Jasperian cloak. The garment's lush softness against her smooth bare skin eased the stresses of the body, which in turn calmed her mind.

"What do you mean the energy signature does not match?" asked Taren.

"I mean, the energy pattern does not match any of the Hynerians," responded Shen, half paying attention to his young pupil and half floating on the aura of this unknown visitor.

"Kulmyk?"

"No. That is clear."

Mairi reached out with her hands as they appeared to melt into the holograph. The warm light, morning springtime sun, made her a bit sleepy but perfect for sliding into a deeper meditation. She closed her eyes and allowed the sound of the breeze to lift her mind on its gentle currents. She could feel her heartrate start to slow. So too the flood of thoughts begin to abate or so it seemed.

"If its not Kulmyk and not the Hynerians--"

"Taren, I've never felt a force like this before. Focus. Do you feel it?" said Shen, trying hard to conceal the excitement in his voice. Mairi was the find, but this, whatever this was, was an order higher. Intoxicating in the possibilities.

"Too far away for my abilities," said Taren.

"One thing concerns me," said Shen, ignoring Taren's disappointment. "Whatever it is, its moving toward Mairi. Get a detail to her quarters now!"


Categories: Story, Mairi, Taren, Shen, Paintings