Em felt what could not be heard, Kyra coming down the hall. With a tap of cane, Pinky buzzed into the corridor surprising Kyra with a metallic sense of urgency, bouncing up and down as if out of breath, a smile eliciting thought. Pointing her stubby metal articulated arm toward her master’s open door, she seemed without words as one in the presence of greatness loses the connection between thought and tongue.Em sat still in white. Kyra approached in silence like the night. One stood. One sat. One saw. One felt.
+Bare your soul and allow the heavy cloth of poccoon guilt to fall before the play of eternal and everlasting truth and love. The divine light awaits.+
Kyra placed her hand on Em’s forehead. Warmness radiated from skin to mind to heart and spine. Eyes blind fluttered with images of a world beyond this world, of mother smiling and father proud and as a feather sways in air to ground, her head gave way to gravity, the appearance of the divine overloading her mortal constitution, as pillow soft cushioned the fall.
Kyra looked at Pinky as if to assure, before bending over and kissing the peaceful expanse of Em’s quiet forehead. In the blink and click of Pinky’s mechanical eye, Kyra vanished; and, in the air, a breath of clean fresh sea air remained.
13 comments:
Somewhere in all of us, we want to be shown 'magic', shown that there is indeed so much more than we know of, than is dreamt of. And yet we still dream as best we can that some of those things may show themselves without mystery one fine day. There's that same kind of awe over this that one feels when hearing about events not witnessed but that we still not just want to but do often believe, at least as we hear them before we begin to analyse the hows. Kyra is and always has been the magic, in a word, within this story.
Em feeling Kyra, where she could not know it any other way, coming down the corridor initiates that sense of the transcendental that reigns throughout this chapter, what is so nice about this moment within, these two moments I should say, is that they occur while the rest of the crew members are in a state of emergency.
There is such a wonderful sentence that begins with 'Em sat still in white', beautifully lyrical in style, but also the imagery of Em, still, white, Kyra silent like the night, dressed in black as she would be, yet bringing those things into the room with her, vision, light, clarity, knowledge, truth. And it just could not have been any other way than that she would leave an aroma behind as she left, inexplicable but it just needs to be there. Her surroundings changed by her presence as she is changed, and now she approaches the bridge.
Not just the one wonderful sentence though, beautifully written as always from start to finish.
My Dear Sweetest One, you never cease to amaze me with your wonderfully insightful and kind comments. The story would not be the same without you. :-)
I agree with the idea of magic. No matter our age, we want to believe, to believe that there is something more. When my father died and I saw him in his casket, I felt that belief come under assault. I looked upon his closed eyes and wrinkled face, a face that looked smaller in death than in life, and I wondered I suppose what many wonder--is this it.
I do not know if there is magic. I do know I want to believe that there is. And, as long as I can imagine, there will be. :-)
Love to you.
Poppet
Magic exists. Believe it. And you're doing a beautiful job of fashioning your own magic out of ideas and words.:)
SJ, your words warm my heart, and, I believe, there is magic in that gift. Are you wearing a purple pointed hat with silver stars and moons by any chance? :-)
I look hideous in purple. I love the idea of silver moons and stars, though.:)
Oh, I could see you in silver stars and moons. Failing that, I'll take just the moon. From there, I think I can make the stars. :-D
The moon makes an excellent starting point for reaching for the stars.:)
Tree,
The interaction between Em and Kyra was so vivid... That's what I've felt when a few rare utterly gifted/precious times in my life it felt like I was really feeling God...
Sounds like you know it too, that warmth, that purity, that enveloping and cleansing and peace...
Happy Monday to you, sweetie ! am sending you an e-mail...
Loving Annie
Annie, there have been a few moments of pure peace. Those moments, however fleeting, change you forever and remain as vivid in the mind as if they happened yesterday. Your kind and thoughtful words on the story are deeply appreciated. Thank you Annie. All the best on Tuesday night. :-)
Your prose is becoming more harmonious and rhythmic. There is obviously more enrichment here!
Mona, as strange as this is going to sound, when I write a chapter like this, I don't write it as much as feel it, feel the flow, the texture, see the mood, the light, smell the air, the perfume, soak in the eyes and feel the shoulders. I embrace the chapter. And, when in the flow, I feel as if the prose, when read aloud, is a sensual, sexual event. The rhythm is as two in union. Not all chapters are like that, but a chapter like this one is. In other words, even in a non-sexual chapter like this one, although one might argue that point, there is a sexual energy behind it, a need to touch and be touched, to caress the words as one would caress cheek or hair, to see the characters with eyes half closed and lips half parted. I want a chapter like this to explode with depth and feeling and emotion and ambiance on the reader. I want to the reader to feel the unresistable urge to read the chapter aloud, to undress, partially while reading, to hold paper in one hand and breast in the other as the words are read over and over again.
Then again, maybe all this is just my overactive imagination. ;-)
I can understand what you are trying to put forward.Although, for me, such an intense feeling can emerge only with verse, compact and nuclear...having the potent force of chain reaction, explosion and dispersal, in the forms of half formed verses, lines, sentences, phrases and words...
So the shorter they are, the more powerful they become in content and form and structure.
Mona, I think you demonstrated this very technique with your superb 55s. I try to remind myself, often, and usually unsuccessfully, that less is more. I think I will mature into less is more but I think I have to do more first and then let the weight of more crush me back into less. :-D
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