Before the fire, before the end, I had walked through my days pretending to be proud. Pretending to be studious. Pretending to be. But since the hills melted and the waves crashed in, I have only tried to exist. Hearing those sounds has awakened me, though not in the gentle way of fairy tales. No, the music of prayer has shaken me and forced me to finally assess my circumstance.
I see her in the distance, clamouring to stay upon a raft in the murky waters left to us. I try to call out but my voice has been used up. Terror has taken it completely. Now that I have a gentle use for my words, they cannot be uttered.
I call with my eyes – is such a thing possible? She seems overwhelmed yet somehow strong. Determined. I focus my attention completely on her, forcing her to feel my energy. I plead with her in silence. Look at me! You are not alone! I am here!
I can tell she is frightened by the dark sea and the miasma that floats around her; but she moves, her eyes searching for the source of empowerment lifting both her body and spirit.
I realize that I am hoping. Surely this must be a sign that I am alive. I have hope.
I don't usually put add explanations of my writing posts but perhaps this piece warrants one. I have been thinking about genres of fiction, mostly prompted by the insightful writer, David Antrobus. I felt it might be time to try out a different "voice" in my fiction, to ensure I have options available as I decide what stories I want to tell, and how I want to tell them.
This piece was a challenge because the cadence is completely different than my usual. The thread that ties this story to my others is the theme and the challenges of the protagonist. No matter what era or sentence structure I employ, I hope the themes are personal and universal.