Man is an animal suspended in webs of significance that he himself has spun...

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Walking in the Light

This morning I am turning the blog over to the younger Frenchling.  She started writing short stories a few years ago and has just finished writing her first fantasy novel.  At this time she is writing in English which certainly warms my heart but I presume she could do as well in French (or perhaps better since French is her first language).  This is something she wrote a few days ago and I liked it so much I asked for her permission to publish it. 

Walking in the Light

In a bright, endlessly clear world, a small child wearing a white dress and her black hair in pigtails looked up at the blue sky. Stretching to the horizon, it seemed distant, yet close enough to touch, if only one would dare reach up and sink their hand into the blank blue canvas and grasp the wonders beyond. Boundless, endless, a time without end.

The child walked, her small feet making ripples on the clear ground. On the other side of it, she could see the Earth, very far away, the ground, the trees, the cities, the fields, the limitless seas. Separated by an invisible barrier on which she walked, the impact of her steps making infinitely small waves, as if she was stepping on a very thin layer of pure water. Looking alternatively at the endless sky above and the active world below, part of both and part of neither, she walked.

The landscape underneath changed, little by little, becoming obscured by clouds every once in a while. This made her slightly sad. She liked looking at the world. She didn’t know if there were people in it, since she was too far away to see, but she liked it nonetheless. It was infinite, like the sky, but in a different way. It always changed, never repeated itself, capturing her attention, while the sky was always the same. Always different, always the same. Consistency. Just not the same kind.

She walked on.

There was no wind; no breath of air stirred the world. Empty, silent, peaceful, lonely, small feet making ripples in thin air, pigtails swaying to the rhythm of an endless walk, the sky gradually growing darker as time turned, undaunted by the timelessness of the empty world. Time has no regard for those who choose to ignore it. She did so. To her, there was only the walk and the endless change of the captivating world below her feet.

She walked on.

The world below gradually lighted up with a million tiny lights, like beacons for a lost soul roaming the heavens. Come here, they seemed to say, here, we are here. Home, perhaps? Not quite.

She stopped walking, the last ripples spreading out and fading into infinity transfixed by the mysterious lights as her world was plunged in darkness, the sky turning an inky color, like soft velvet spread above her, stretching to the limitless horizon. The lights shone warmly, invitingly, beaconing to her. But she couldn’t respond, couldn’t reach them. She walked on rippling, unbreakable air.

She glanced up. The stars shone coldly like a million diamonds swimming in a sea of darkness, like a twisted mirror reflecting the opposite of the world below. Could she reach it? If she stretched out her hand, would she be able to reach the stars? By looking down to an unattainable, forever transient world, what could she attain, I wonder? Reaching down was impossible. Should she reach up, give up the warm lights in favor of the cold stars?

Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hand. As if walking on an invisible staircase, she walked up, hand outstretched, feet making ripples, higher and higher, up and up, for a very long time, till she was so close it seemed as if she would be swallowed by the stars.

Just one more step.

She took it. In a burst of light and not a sound everything turned white and disappeared into nothingness.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I like it: A good start. Henry James uses this style and I would recommend reading something just to get a feel for the style; it is Martin Luther King Jr.'s "Letter from a Birmingham Jail (1963). Please keep writing (if you like sentences), you have talent. Dax (40).