Moon Struck and Star Crossed

beginning of a story

by Cyrus Glance on Tuesday, May 10, 2011 at 5:38pm

I do not have a title yet, but I do have a dedication to Amanda, cause she is having to suffer through hearing it evolve, thank you for the light that lit the lines that line these pages with words.

 

Some stories start with once upon a time, some start at the middle and expand backwards and expound forward. This story starts in a bottle, I am sure many will marvel at the way a story can be found in a bottle just as a ship. It is even better with all the illusions to messages in a bottle; I can hear Sting now, "Sending out an SOS."

Bottles float and sometimes the contents of them make the mind and body feel buoyant. This buoyancy can also be found by the mind and body in other ways.

This is where I take a drink of the dram that will drain my mind of all the inhibitions that are held back by the censuring dam. All of the debris that floats on top dives forth with the surge of the water.

 

There was a small house living on a busy street in a quiet way. The house has lived here for many years filling books full of thoughts that piled up on the floors, table tops, and shelves.

While the house lived quietly music filled its rooms; Blues, Pop, Classical, Opera, all the sounds of life’s many experiences that touch our souls with their colors. The house had lived with light before. The light of bulbs with filaments filled with electricity, artificial light; lights that turn off and on with the flip of a switch.

The lights slowly went out, flickered and died. The drapes covered the windows; dust covered the floors, table tops, shelves and books as their pages yellowed with time.

One day as the house was looking at its rooms it noticed a golden spot on one of the dark dusty drapes. "Hmmmm, what could this be?" the house said to itself as it cautiously examined the drape and began to pull it back from the window.

 

This is where I interrupt the narrative to ask a few questions about the chances the house is about to take. After living quietly for so long why would the house want to risk what it has just to find out what the gold is? Why being self contained would the house even want to search out a bright spot and not just continue living filled with music and musings?

 

With the drape pulled back a burst of yellow light leapt into the room. The house at first blinded and startled did not know how to react. The house was not sure that it was even itself anymore.

The sunbeam began running through the house, flooding each room with its capricious light causing the shadows to run beneath tables and into corners in fright. The sunbeam laughed in delight at its new found power.

The sunbeam had run away from home looking for adventure. It had over the past few years begun to doubt the heat of the sun from which it had come and the suns desire for it or need. So here the sunbeam had come after searching woods, fields, gardens and other houses. The lifting of the drape was like an open invitation to come in.

The house overwhelmed with the intoxication of warmth and light forgot all that it had ever known and wanted to tell everything it had stored away in the books that covered the floors, tables and shelves, it wanted to open all of the drapes and all the doors. The house began to feel, it was young, it was ageless, it was full of joy that outweighed all of the disappointments and disasters.

 The sunbeam put a finger to its mouth, the mouth that would breath warmth and life into the house, indicating that the house should be quiet, the house should not talk, the house should remain dark except when the sunbeam would come to light and warm it.

The house agreed to the conditions of the sunbeam thinking, "this is but nothing to my years of solitude, my letting nothing in and nothing out," an easy yoke to the heavy coat that winter had pierced with its icicle fingers, freezing the lungs so that breath burned, the heart so that all blood was blue with the Blues, shutting eyes with icey tears.

Another intrusion to the narrative is begged for here. What a hard thing to hold in darkness is a secret of happiness. Questions arise that I cannot answer, “is it better to remain dark than to let in light, is it better to live in a half life than to just exist?"

A secret kept in word is an easy thing. The house ran itself through its few rooms dancing and singing. The thought of the sunbeam would have been enough, would have been more than a dream, and would have lit the lilt of the voice of the gas logs on a frozen night. Here the house would have ended the story at least twice, here both would have ended the charade of a heart dancing with a heart, but alas the heart is not an entity of itself, it is a part of the whole that wants to be whole by joining the heart of another, feeling the flame of the pulse of one joined with another enflamed.........(more to follow).