The Demon Tumbler ~ Michael Hutter
And somewhere between her self and her senses, her body was lost; stripped away of all flesh, the pain and the biologic adherence to survival.
Iskandor: her very name became a collection of ciphers, a bracket of sounds from which all meaning had been bled; all cultural reference distilled to a molecular level.
The Source sang within those bones, vibrating Brownian motion that fluttered in her mind now no more that a peripheral to the great force that knew all things from the planet’s core to the black dust that passed for sight in the Oracle’s empty eye sockets. What strange visions had those decayed eyes beheld in antiquity; what lost hopes and withered dreams?
Iskandor felt her own eyes lifted, now opened winder than the arcs of her lids in wonder.
Would these decaying orbits yet come to see that which the parallax view lays bare; the depth of vision that clarifies which maternal graces have served to provide and which to detract from the business of societal engagement, a sense of belonging - a process of elimination where reality is revealed through pain and separation – separation of flesh from bone; separation of mind from its comfortable misconceptions.
Through the myriad fingers of the forest canopy the universe spun on its axis, whispering words with syllables measured not in the click of a tongue but in the rising and collapsing of stellar empires; the voice of dust and the language of rock and fire.
Incandescent faces of those she had known appeared before her to remind her of who she was and who she had been; she felt herself returned to herself in a rush of beautiful familiarity as if returning to a warm bed after being called by the bodies need; returning to the serenity of existence that exists between sleep and waking.
Recent lines reaching escape velocity from "Decaying Orbits"
Iskandor: her very name became a collection of ciphers, a bracket of sounds from which all meaning had been bled; all cultural reference distilled to a molecular level.
The Source sang within those bones, vibrating Brownian motion that fluttered in her mind now no more that a peripheral to the great force that knew all things from the planet’s core to the black dust that passed for sight in the Oracle’s empty eye sockets. What strange visions had those decayed eyes beheld in antiquity; what lost hopes and withered dreams?
Iskandor felt her own eyes lifted, now opened winder than the arcs of her lids in wonder.
Would these decaying orbits yet come to see that which the parallax view lays bare; the depth of vision that clarifies which maternal graces have served to provide and which to detract from the business of societal engagement, a sense of belonging - a process of elimination where reality is revealed through pain and separation – separation of flesh from bone; separation of mind from its comfortable misconceptions.
Through the myriad fingers of the forest canopy the universe spun on its axis, whispering words with syllables measured not in the click of a tongue but in the rising and collapsing of stellar empires; the voice of dust and the language of rock and fire.
Incandescent faces of those she had known appeared before her to remind her of who she was and who she had been; she felt herself returned to herself in a rush of beautiful familiarity as if returning to a warm bed after being called by the bodies need; returning to the serenity of existence that exists between sleep and waking.
Recent lines reaching escape velocity from "Decaying Orbits"
6 comments:
Keep spinning those yarns Pisces. How long before the new book's orbit decays enough to descend into this earthly plain? Or am I jinxing you by even asking?
A new book? I would be very interested in reading that.
Justin: I started this about two years ago; got stuck for about a year and have only recently got back in the saddle.
Jimmy: still got some way to go before it becomes :)
". . . whispering words with syllables measured not in the click of a tongue but in the rising and collapsing of stellar empires; the voice of dust and the language of rock and fire."
Marry me.
Spit: We hardly know one another :) a little wooing please.
I feel like I have met this gal before. Her name is familiar, and when I read this I was glad to be reacquainting my self. I like how you describe the nether spaces, how easily I am drawn into this landscape.
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