today I saw a veteran
tell a sharp-looking man
"mister"
"hey mister"
"you're sharp"
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
A beach with cold grainy sand and a variety of small smooth stones are mixed with broken shells. There are soggy black twigs and heaps of salt-encrusted seaweed. Upon this beach a cold wave breaks. Its foamy lip speeds up the smooth sandy incline and over the bare feet of a young woman, her long hair tangling in the wind. With cool blue eyes she looks out over the icy waves to the where the sapphire blue expanse is seamed with a stone colored sky. A cool wind blows, salty and mild, and it tousles her hair. A sheer slip clings to her well-formed hips and flaps behind her in the wind. As the cold water recedes to the sea it takes with it the wet sand beneath her feet, sucking her heels down. Clasped in her clammy palm is the pommel of a greatly worked sword, with blood draining in streams down to pool around the submerged point of the blade and then off into a watery trickle that snakes among the pebbles to follow the waves into the sea.
Although the blowing wind, cool, prickling her face with misty salt water as the waves endlessly soak and suck the sand. Nature roars in her ears and yet she can, over the cacophony, hear the mechanical heartbeat of the distant airship. Her eyes close, and she pricks her ears to the sound until all is silent in her mind but that ship sound rhythmically pulsing with the heavy beating of her own heart. Her eyes open, and the roar of life returns. The smell of smoke taints the air, and an awareness of a catastrophe weighs upon her and the serene moment is gone.
“It is time, my lady. You cannot fight any longer, the fight is over.”
Her pale lips part slightly, dry, they stick together a bit.
Her father, lost or dead.
The stone castle that she calls home, carved hundreds of years ago out of the rocky cliff is forfeit.
All from a squabble she knows is long in the making but the politics of which she but cannot understand. She is not privy to it. There was betrayal and clandestine tactics.
Her mother died years ago. Her brother has either died during the overtaking of the castle or has fled. Coward.
And where is Victor? Why can she feel the presence of Eurydice when it has been missing for two years.
Has it been captured by the enemy and turned against its own? Surely they would have slain her father and Victor when it was taken. So, why does she still believe at least one of them is still alive.
She brings a hand up to her chest, and grazes the skin over her heart with cold fingertips. Her skin anticipates the touch and electrifies, hair raises on end.
Slowly and with the most grace her tired body could afford her, she turns and meets the eyes of the captain that stands atop a grassy dune, posturing. His uniform is rumpled, and his boots are crusted with dried mud. She makes her way to him, unashamed of her state of undress, pale skin and cheeks flush from the friction of the wind. Her limbs are lithe and she soon overtakes the distance and is with him.
“The sword, my lady.”
She gazes downward, turns it slightly. Its mirrored blade reflects a stormy sky. Victor’s sword. If she wanted to, she could slay this captain groin to neck, but she did not have the will to kill. She handed the sword over to her captor, and he promptly snatched it from her. The sword has lived its purpose elsewhere.
Friday, June 20, 2008
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