The waiting room is the Live Oak lodge’s porch. I wait, slouched on a wooden chair, feet up on the railing, gaze North East and skyward. To my left, UMa is dipping big time; straight ahead, the Cassiopeia is rising, Perseus follows her. The Saturn has gone direct today, or so the shaman said.
A meteor shoots just over the horizon. Soon there will be more of them. Sunny walks out of the lodge. “You are up,” she says. Into the lodge, and up the stairs, to the loft, I go. Continue reading “Healing”
It’s a beautiful sunny day in May. I am seven and a half years old. My first year of school is almost over. We had the finals last week, and now it’s just day trips, games outside, and going over the summer homework. I am the best at reading in my class, because I can read 120 words a minute, measured by a little cute sand clock. Continue reading “So Many Colors and So Much Beauty”
HC SVNT DRACONES
This is Part 3 about haunting stories. Links to the beginning: Part 1, Part 2.
Part 3. The family story
On a Sunday morning, I call Mom on Skype. She is babysitting nephew. Several days prior, I called for Mom’s birthday, from work, Skype on my cell; the connection was bad, and then it broke and I went back to work.
Continue reading “Stories are Monsters. Part 3 (of 3).”
This is Part 1 of a series about the stories we tell ourselves. Except, the phrase “we tell ourselves” understates their monstrosity. As if we can just choose to tell them. As if we can choose to not tell them, just like that. As if we can always see them for what they are – or ever. Continue reading “Stories are Monsters. Part 1 (of 3)”
1. Tanya’s pencils
May 1994. Paris. I am at a little shop, say, on Rue Mouffetard, with Marina, Shura, Seryozhka, Tanya. I am 16, awkward and self-conscious. Tanya is 12. Tanya accidentally drops a box of little pencils Continue reading “Regrets”