orange in october: october

Chapter 10 in my book: "An owl on the moon..."

     Life lets go in rhythm, as dying butterflies of golden and scarlet hues float from the sky, layering the earth in a lifeless robe of restless

 

ruby,

topaz,

auburn.

 

     Gray fragmented smoke and the scent of smoldering leaves strides through the twilight sky. I feel sighs of release as the earthen cloak is set aside.  Beneath the veil lies a solitary stone staircase resting in a meadow.  A cement path ends at the first step and leads anywhere.

     For a brief moment two young brothers appear immobile on this rubble.  Their faces are serene and still.  It is my blood.  My brother untouched and unchanged, alive now in some distant place, full of hope and grace.

 

All sweet with no bitter;

all bright and no pale.

The rough is made smooth;

the dark clouds, a dream.

 

     Orange globes of laughter now line the streets, and the night begins to move in circling streams.  Charcoal smoke now fills the cavity of air, all at once musty, then clear.  Hush winds brush the limbs and cool the leaves, as soft air breathes cinnamon and spice.

     All along the crystal cove the woven masks pace and pause from doorstep to doorstep.  Shadows dance on the crest of the moon, as clouds, like dark bats, shift through the skies.

 

The children in garments of glib disarray;

the parents wear masks that won’t fade away.

Olive and amber, sea and sky;

salt and sand go winding by.

One can sense the cries of hovering birds,

the laughter of children,

and frost-bitten air.

 

     Here on the walkway lie distant dreams of orange in October, with its outer mystery and inner disfigurement.  A shrill cry from a little one pierces the blackness, as the moon is shrouded in a solemn veil.

     “In our bags place a treat.  In our hearts some bittersweet.”

     And I, “Take what you will of these melting dreams; sweet but for a moment.”

     As the little soldiers walk away, I turn and go to my inner room.  Locking the door, I close my eyes...

 

     Ebony limbs reach and cry.  The woods are laced with an autumn mist hovering and singing over the earth.  I follow a cascade of deep black ferns into a clearing brook.  My reflection is a hated horror as I glimpse hollow eyes in an emaciated skull.  My dream, a wisp of smoke; my life, a dream.

     The brook is ice and still, appearing to cascade into a pool of crystal jade.  In  the midst of life, I lay lifeless.

 

This unholy masquerade

when reality does fade,

the imprint of the God

on our mortal-stained facade.

Saints and spirits strip the earth

of the straining hope of birth.

“Kill the hope with grasping grave,”

cries the earthly mortal slave.

 

     Above this crystal pool are rows of lighted candles, flames flickering in the wind. Carved orange lanterns line the crags.

              

O, ignisfatuus,

foolish fire.

O, the lantern

in the mire.

Spirits quaking

with the light,

demon darkness,

far too bright.

Orange whispers,

yellow cries;

ever-haunting,

numb good-byes.

Good-bye, O childhood;

Farewell, my nickel joys.

                       

     I open my eyes...

     Upon entering Lady Embers’ room, a musty hush hangs over the air as her body lies on the edge of eternity.  Her skin is cold.  The day of saints awaits her gathering as the sky weeps blue tears.  The devouring worm will now be her lasting companion.

 

Brighter hues of gold and scarlet,

In the vibrant days of dawn.

Deeper shades of blue and olive,

When her days are gone.

She is no more.

She is no more.

 

     Daniel appears on the shore.  I run down the stairs to meet him, and he waves as I near. He speaks with a hush.

     “Children wear masks but one night.  What of us?” he says.  “Terror is the unsettled commonplace, and one day we will face the deep darkness of death alone no matter how many stand with us.  The dying merely foreshadow our own mortality.”

     “Daniel,” I speak through weariness, “God has given me little hope and less strength.  I hear only a voice saying ‘no’ from the wings of this circling stage.”

     “Ah, because we worship the gods of the arts in our wavering world; the mock souls and masked faces with painted-on peace. What do you expect of a forgery?”  He pauses as he turns toward me.  “Reality is no longer relevant.”

     Darkness chokes the moon as we rest on stirring sand.  I speak.

     “Will I forever be a trampling stone?  Is there yet no hope?”  Daniel casts a single stone into the sea that is swallowed by the waves.

     “Hold back your many words like a dam, and listen to the Voice.”  The wind and waves seem still, if only for a moment.  Daniel speaks.

     “Some rocks are useless fragments, yet some can be molded into magnificence.  But the stone cannot dictate its use.

 

A Master will mold the living stone,

the work of art, its glory shone.

And luminous life will gleam,

when you become more than you seem. ”

 

     My heart pounds with the rhythm of the sea as they come to carry Lady Ember away in a cream-colored casket.

    “How pale the coffined corpse. A carved stone will mark her lifeless fame.  Will that etching, not even of her own hand, be all that is eternal?”  My lips speak this cautiously, as they crack in the cold night air.

     Daniel seems to rise above the moon with a brilliance in his eyes.  He steps toward the sea and screams, more in defiance than rage. 

 

“Mortality; O wretched death and mortality!

Decay is a demon dream, schemed in symmetry.

O, that death crucified might halt its talons,

for all will ascend from the grave!

Remember the fallen, the slain; their dust is our foundation. 

Consider their suffering and pain; for there lies a new creation.”

 

     Now he whispers.  “You who guard this inn at Aesacus, know that even mortality is mortal to the One who pursued death to the very gates of Hades.  All Hallows Eve is not mere recollection, but a participatory banquet of heaven.  Light the flames that devour deepest darkness and boast of faith that seizes the dawn.”  At these words, Daniel falls to his knees and sobs. 

     “Daniel? Daniel...of what use are the bones of saints? Of what great interest to me are their dusted stories of day?” I stand at a dreadful distance.

     He speaks,

 

“Silent stones of granite hue;

enveloped now in sacred dew.

Speak somber words of restless hope...

of resurrection.”

 

     I hear the hushings of the wind in a rhythmic silence, and turn to see a friar’s lantern on a distant ridge.

     “Daniel, death is a brutal mercy. And at my eulogy I will likely be more fragrant in death than in life.”

     In the sea I hear the passing paces of time as the waves rest their cheeks on the shore.

     “My friend,” he says. “Know this, you can demand respect, but you cannot demand admiration. In your words I sense the threaded strands of subtle inconsistency. Let life flood this cavity of your soul.”

     I gaze to see the partial moon swifting through the skies, and feel the rip and break of the sea. Now the sacred ebony drape is hung across its lily face.

 

 

Reviews

[Pax]

This chapter is quite elusive to me, just me though… Daniel is sobbing, maybe it’s for Sarah demise or other else or I just didn’t see the connection between him and the lady. I see the ending coming soon to this book, maybe I excited I’m getting near the ending. The imagery is still as stunning as ever. Oh, I will just quote my favorite lines:

“Terror is the unsettled commonplace, and one day we will face the deep darkness of death alone no matter how many stand with us. The dying merely foreshadow our own mortality.” ~ wow, beautifully conveyed, speechless!

“Know this, you can demand respect, but you cannot demand admiration. In your words I sense the threaded strands of subtle inconsistency. Let life flood this cavity of your soul.” ~ Yes, we can never demand and mutual respect is highly recommendable. ~ Be your own inspiration that will inspire many ~.

Another inspiring look into life my friend. The shining wisdom you put into this book is simply glimmering. I am enjoying this. Cheers for another brilliant chapter!

[An owl on the moon]

My friend, how you always see things so clearly, and confess my thoughts with an uplifting wonder, even in my darkness. Thank you so much! Yes, just two months more and the end will come. :)

[Pax]

:) ~ every darkness there will always light, a single glimmer of flame is enough to start a bonfire :) ~ you'll see me soon on the next chapters :)

[emmajoy]

' “Some rocks are useless fragments, yet some can be molded into magnificence. But the stone cannot dictate its use.. .. A Master will mold the living stone, the work of art, its glory shone. And luminous life will gleam, when you become more than you seem. ”

The language in this is.. magically spell-binding. There are certain areas i had to read over and over again. As per above.. powerful.. alluring in a strange way.

You have a way of making sadness, broken dreams and the like appear fatal, less unfamiliar.

The following is.. stunning, ' I gaze to see the partial moon swifting through the skies, and feel the rip and break of the sea. Now the sacred ebony drape is hung across its lily face.'

[An owl on the moon]

Dear Emma, thank you so much for your words here, your insights, your lifting spirit always. This chapter of my book flowed through the agony of my history, and I am grateful it could somehow touch your heart from that broken place. Blessings to you now, and your precious ones. Harvest, such a time for joy.

[Time's The Bond]

Ohhh spooky....this, in my opinion is a SYFI

Love it

[Sunflower/Sara Kendrick]

Interesting work..I especially like the part "This unholy masquerade"...I am glad that I chose this one to read this eve of the ones that I had time to read..I have posted another one that you might reconize a couple of lines and if you want I will use quotations and give you credit....Sunflower

[Jenny Nelson]

Perfect color and month, or rather the words fit perfectly with the holiday celebrated at the end of the month... All Hallow's Eve. Timing... really adds to the power of the words.

[Tracie Skarbo]

"Some rocks are useless fragments, yet some can be molded into magnificence. But the stone cannot dictate its use.---again your wisdom shines through the well placed words to shine with radiance.

Silent stones of granite hue
enveloped now in sacred dew.
Speak somber words of restless hope...
of resurrection."

I love this. It is a question of faith isn't it? Anyone who wears the shroud of blood and flesh never really knows if there is brilliance after our moments cease, or if only silence that greets us. It is a deep seeded fear with most of us, reguardless of the fear it is something we share, this death of ours. And as I get older and watch for hidden kingdoms in nature, I realize that it is also something to be celibrated.

[Kizitaly]

you are scary good.