Blinding light flashes against her review mirror as the setting sun behind her gets to just the exact level to assault her eyes. Sighing, she reaches up to flip the angle and she notices the age of her hands. What it had been like to be young, the arrogance of youth; she never noticed her hands at twenty but at fifty eight she sees them all the time. Exhausted she places her hand back on the wheel and watches the road, slowing down as she hits the edges of the derelict town.

Forty one years ago she had left this place. Forty one years ago she had piled into her clunker of her car, the one only she could get running, with one bag and stone cold fear only outweighed by her need to flee. It had been a broken town then. Every ten years or so people would move in and try to revive it but nothing ever thrived. Factories shut down, earth couldn’t grow crops, businesses went unnoticed and families left the way they came.

Her car was no longer a clunker, but a reliable Volvo; she had a kind husband, one daughter was a veterinarian, her other two children were in college, life had been beautiful. Why had she chosen now to come back here? She had to clean up. Slowing down she pulls to the side of the road parking under power lines that no longer buzzed with electricity.

Flashes, not light this time, in her head of that summer. It was hot, oppressively so and the judge’s son was the only beautiful thing in that forsaken place. She loved him, loved him with the intensity only a seventeen year old girl could have.

She shakes her head and steps from her car the door shutting behind her with an echo. It was time to find it, to lay it all to rest. Mandy’s house still stood on the corner, though that seemed to be all it still did. She moves across the road and steps around the rusted fence. Inside the paint was in strips at best, the olive green barely showing. Her boots crunched against the torn and rotting floor. Someone had dragged a mattress into the back of this house and she ignores the implications.

Flashes, not clouds over sun but that summer again. Mandy calling her name through the house, begging her to come back, not to be stupid. The heat of her anger boiled into something alive within her body; something so fierce it rivaled the sticky season. She had left that night.

She takes a slow breath and steps free of her childhood friend’s home and it was only a rock’s throw to the judge’s old house right across from the silo now covered in graffiti. From here she could see the old school, its broken windows, the haunted remains.

Flashes, not strobe lights but the memories flooding. She had gone blind with rage and she knew the judge and his wife were gone for the weekend. That was the problem in the first place, that and Nina Mae with her blond curls and open legs.

Stumbling over the broken step she makes it onto the sagging porch and presses her hand to the door. Groaning loud enough to make her wince the door gives way and allows her to enter the house. It smelled musty, old, no one had lived anywhere near here in ages. The wall paper was filthy and faded, the floor covered in dust and dirt. Her heart froze.

Up the stairs, was she floating? First door on the left, that had been his room. Entering she was prepared to search the old far wall for the hatch but it had been busted long ago. Age, time, years had taken none of the memories away.

Flashes, not from drugs but from her whirring brain. He had blue eyes the same color as the sky at high noon and a laugh that made your insides take flight. She had given him everything but he had been ungrateful.

Bending she crawls into the passageway, fingers searching, was she shaking? No. She had complete control. Her hands, hands that had lived, pry up the board in the back corner. Belly down, dust filling her nose she reaches in, stretches. Contact. She feels the cold steel of the tire iron. No one ever found it.

Pulling it out she lets her eyes scan it slowly and then, there, on her knees in the rotted wood, she pushes the boards back into place. Hefting the weight of the tool in her hand a world of weariness falls upon her for a brief moment and then, just as quickly, it is gone.

Like a ghost she moves through the house, out the front door and back to her car. She did not go to the school or walk the haunted football field that she knew still stood in pieces. No, she had a little trip to make out to the ocean. Now she would have closure.

For the first time all day, she smiles, and starts her engine leaving the tainted town for the second time, this time never to return.

Inspired by Cellar Township built by Outy Banjo

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat, smoke and tuna sandwiches. The space was lit by an orange-yellow glow streaming in from high windows. The light spilled down haphazardly upon stacks of boxes that stood floor to ceiling between me and the noises coming from the other side of the room.

“Where are you?” I half yelled into the ceiling, hoping my words would find the right ricochet to his ears.

“I’m over here .. past the pile of old maps,” came the tired reply.

I stood for a moment, staring at the maze of boxed pillars. I leaned left then right, trying to see if there might be some clue as to the entrance to his maze but there was none, so I took the most direct route ahead. There were more twists and turns than I had possibly imagined, the boxes were almost new but they were packed full, some overflowing with notes and most with the label “OS” scratched in black felt pen on the side.

I ran my hand along the pillars as I walked for what seemed miles until I found the heap of old maps, only they weren’t that old. I thumbed through them quickly, noticing the dates on each were just days apart but the land mass changed drastically map to map.  They would have played like a flip book cartoon showing the evolution of the world if I could have held them to do so, but something seemed wrong.

Just then, I heard his voice much closer than before, “Don’t bother with those, they will be destroyed with the rest of these once I get to them.” I looked up and saw him, a small figure hunched over an incinerator.   His shirt sleeves were rolled carelessly around his sinewy arms that lifted and emptied each box expertly in almost a machine like fashion.  Each time he emptied a box, a small puff of smoke escaped from the top of the black iron box and he waited for it to dissipate before lifting the next.

He didn’t stop when I approached.

“What are you doing?” I asked, but he didn’t stop to answer. He paused only long enough to wipe the sweat from his wrinkled brow then bent again quickly to empty the next box.

I turned around and looked again at the pillars of white boxes. They seemed to be marching toward us …”Into the valley of death rode the six hundred …”.

A puff of smoke found its way into my lungs, and I coughed almost uncontrollably, caught off guard by the thick black soot.    “Oh, I’m sorry about that,” he said, “some of them flash burn and belch out a nasty ash – I’m almost afraid I’m going to blow this place up one night with one of those.”

“One of those what?” I sputtered.

“It’s usually the artist colonies that create the most ash, but lucky for me most of the others were merely homesteads – which is where the name came from by the way. Anyway, those homesteads barely make this old iron box breathe hard,” he replied without breaking the pace of his movement.

I had been drawn to a box overflowing with notes as he spoke, and I stopped and looked up to read one that tempted me.

“We regret to inform you that we have been forced to abandon our island due to pricing changes. At this time, we do not have recommendations for moving, as many of our friends and neighbors are facing the same circumstances. We thank you for making our lives rich, and we wish you the best of luck.

Respectfully yours …“

I yanked the note out of the box and held it out toward him, “This is what you are burning, notes from homesteaders?”

“Notes, assets, terrain files, basically everything and anything associated with that establishment,” he grunted under the strain of what must have been another artist colony since the iron box groaned, then roared, then belched.

“But, why?” I asked, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

He finally stood up, as much as he could in his state of constant hunch, and faced me. He didn’t look at all like the man I’d met three years before. His hair was thin and dark, a far cry from the boyish blond locks that once framed his face, and his eyes had turned from aquatic pools into cold steel traps, and they narrowed just before he spoke.

“Look, having this stuff around just makes people uneasy and there’s no sense in keeping it all – can’t you see it’s just cluttering up the place? My job is to keep the books neat and tidy and these, these monstrosities are making that nearly impossible for me. Historical records are for historians, not a forward looking business group.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish this out soon so I can clean up the stability and quality data warehouses. I trust you can find your way out.”

Inspired by OpenSpaces everywhere ~ Aera by Alia Baroque pictured

Green is her favorite color.

This is where she makes dreams.

Occasionally, you can hear melodious humming from the quiet little factory in her mind.  Open air studios sprinkled with blurry images, inaudible sounds and fragrance not yet categorized but dominated by earthly scents, like the smell of burning peat moss from her distant past.  In the darker recesses unused pieces are stored in piles and stacks. Some neatly organized, others strewn about like the aftermath of a great storm, but each has a place.

Light and darkness form shapes that are known only to her, responding to her tiny whispers and chants and unfolding into complex images.  She beckons them to tea and biscuits, before she molds them into stories with her misshapen hands.

Day and night have merged into a suspension of time that has lost its power over her, for dreams do not end nor do they succumb to celestial timekeepers.  She has no schedules to keep.  Her pace is easy but filled with intent, like the waves lapping against the stone shores.

Chambers and antechambers collude and spill out along a vast expanse.  Over time her simple escape has grown up, out and into the sea but despite the sprawl it is warm and inviting.  Bright smoke dances for her.  Stars fall from the sky for her.  Whispers echo down the hall.  Wait for her there, she will find you.

Peace lives here.

This is where she makes dreams.

Inspired by Pteron, built lovingly by kei514 Flow

Time shifts in small earthquakes. These quakes do not register on a regular scale but can only be detected by machines buried deep in the earth. With each spike on the paper, each anomaly from the steady rhythm, tectonic plates move and time skips forward. How many of these little quakes had shaken the invisible layers of crust floating above the mantle?

Years had gone by, hundreds of tiny tremors, unnoticed, beneath her feet.

And now? Now she stands against the parapet of her domain watching the orange crystal orb, lifted and spilling magic, spin marking its own passage of time. With a sigh she pushes off the edge and walks slowly to the floors below. What a fortress she had built, castle walls rising high above the water on her rocky island, orange crystal orbs spinning, pulsing, lending magic to her world. It was lit and blazing among the dark walls, lights that cast a beacon to the sea.

Another vibration of the ground, another tick of the clock.

She could no longer remember if she had been walling the world out or building herself in. Her feet echo as she makes her rounds, pushing through huge ornate doors to check either outer room on the next level, eyes scanning the lamps to make sure all was aglow.

Down again, empty low ceiling rooms, she slides fingers down gleaming orange silk curtains that lead out to the balconies, they whisper and shift at her touch. The flames outside always stayed lit, but it was part of her evening to check them, part of her routine. Leaning against an edge her golden eyes rake over the gardens below, gardens full of the same magic that held the edges of her dark home together.

Tectonic plates drifting, moving where they cannot be seen.

Silence in her castle, huge, stony, empty silence. She had let them all go. “Where have you gone?” she calls out in a frantic moment darting her eyes about. No sound, she tenses, concentrates. Once she had lovers and she had grand parties; once she had laughter. More empty rooms checked. Then she descends the cherry wood lined stairs letting her skirts drag upon them, rippling and swooshing. These were the things that kept her company now. Above an epic fireplace hung a picture of the very castle she was walking, what strange vanity she had.

Near the wooden castle doors she pauses and breathes in the mist that rises from a formidable opening. For the first time she smiles. Reaching out a hand she lovingly touches the vines that had pushed through her stony floor. “Hello,” she whispers and it is as if the vine arches like a cat to her delicate touch.

The needle moving on a seismograph, making electronic notes, recording.

Her pitch colored hair ruffles in the breeze as she crosses the long bridge, her spinning, soothing sculptures riding high above the grounds. Through the gardens that kiss the base of her castle she whispers, “Speak to me, speak to me…”, her once lithe figure passing glittering mushrooms, twisted vines, blue lights with a magic heartbeat and the peaceful fountain.

White rolling mists leave wet droplets on her silk shell as she reaches her final goal, the place she stays in more and more, longer and longer. Far below her castle lies a lush grotto soaked in her magic and the nature of the earth. In this grotto, beyond the low hanging branches of the trees, over bridges and bubbling streams, was also her eternal winter. “In here, in here, in here…” she whispers inside her own madness for as each castle wall rose it destroyed the high built edges of her mind. Adrift in the magic she was lost with only shimmers of clarity. She lay down by a blazing fire, content in her lost mind.

Time passes in ways that cannot be seen, in ripples and tremors that move the earth.

Inspired by Tusk built by Amberly Kinsella

The door swung open with a fury and her momentum carried her swiftly out of the cage.  It was a dash of luck that her flailing hands struck the hard edge of the floor to which she now clung.  The edges of the last plank dug into her calloused palms but she’d learned to ignore pain in almost every situation.  This was merely an inconvenience at the moment, no need to panic.

She surveyed the distance between her dangling feet and the sandy beach below,  “Perhaps I should have waited after all,” she mumbled through clenched teeth.

Unsure of the day or time, she counted back to her last clear thoughts.  It was like any other assignment she’d been asked to carry out – discover, distract, destroy.  Discovery was easy.  The brown gray stacked stones of the castle rose from the Earth and shone brightly in the sun, there was no attempt to hide or even cower against a hillside.  This stronghold stood proudly and bare-chested, without so much as a moat to protect its walls and gates, just as he did.

She found him sitting in the study, his tanned fingers sliding methodically along the pages of a book.  He knew she was there, so she spoke as if she was expected.

“Do you leave all of your guests standing for hours on end at the door?” she said, folding her arms across her partially bare chest.

His fingers stopped and his head did not move but his eyes cut across the room to survey her.  He stood up and took one slow step toward her, his cloak falling quietly from the chair to the floor.  He held his palms face up and out toward her and started to speak.

“I am terribly sorry; I must have been absorbed in my reading.  Do accept my sincerest apology.”

He spoke in a deep and smooth voice that rushed over her like a raging river; she certainly felt like her head was underwater.  She wanted to respond by capturing his gaze but her eyes were transfixed on his chest that appeared to be chiseled from the finest stone. She willed her hands to stay close to her sides lest they reach out and trace the deep lines set into his skin.

“Your apology is duly accepted,” she stammered a bit but set her jaw tightly as she refocused on the assignment.

Silence strolled into the room and filled up the space between them for what felt like days. It made her twitch, but he appeared to revel in it.   A half smile crept onto his lips.

“So tell me, what brings you to me?  Are you a scholar? a trader?  messenger .. a .. slave?” he spoke again in smooth waves.  The utterance of “slave” snapped her back into focus and she raised cool eyes to meet his.

“None of those,” she said sternly. “I am on a spiritual journey and I’ve found myself a little off course. If you could entertain a visitor for the evening I would be thankful and indebted.”

“A spiritual journey you say? I’m intrigued. I’ve never had a visitor, much less a traveling spirit seeker, but you are welcome to all the comforts I have to offer,”  he said with a smattering of mockery in his voice before once again the smooth river rose from his chest, “Are you weary from your journey, or shall I show you around the place?”

She tipped her head a tiny bit, unfolded her arms and stretched her tawny limbs out before her.  “Thank you for the offer; I would be pleased to accompany you.”

It was at this point her thoughts started to blur into a fog.  Their footsteps fell rhythmically on the stone walkway winding through the garden.  Fountains splashed and fragrance swept over her while she marveled not at the blooms, but at the brown hair that spilled over his shoulders.  He knew the names of every plant and every exotic stone, and he had a story for every one.

There are gaps from there to where they were last, standing out on the southern facing wall looking over the churn of the ocean.  There they stood talking quietly about the sea, how the foam pools against the crags in the rocky shore, how the kelp dances seductively in the tides and sea birds defy the laws of gravity.  She drank his words until she was drunk and light headed, she remembered his hands following the edges of her body and lifting her up to what she then assumed would be his bed chamber.

Her mind left her, her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. She wanted him to take her to the far away places to gather stones and clip flowers.  Then she heard the bright clank. She wanted to recover her senses, but she was too far gone and she drifted into a deep sleep.

She awoke in a panic, not on the wide berth of his bed, but on the cold floor of a cage.

Inspired by Rustica and Arcana Nuevo by Maxwell Graf, Angelica Zuma and Pierre Roelofs

On the wall the clock seemed to crawl. The office was cold and sterile; she had been typing all afternoon. He insisted that she actually type on bond paper. Her toe rests on the bag under her desk absently. Her eyes spark as she smiles wryly and folds the piece of paper in not quite thirds. The time had come. She finds relief in changing from her scratchy wool suit into her outfit for tonight. No one even notices her dash from the bathroom to the door in order to grab a car. One hand was already taking out her tight bun to let naturally wild hair loose while the other worked at the coat which hid her from prying colleague eyes.

The taxi pulls to a stop in front of the neon lit building; the ocean blue glow on the front mesmerizes her. She could feel the tension slide from her body as she hands the driver cash and steps from the vehicle to stand in front of the club. As if her body was responding to unseen cues it took stock of her black leather pants, the sky blue, slick top she wore and the black heels that she would only regret when the adrenaline subsided.

A transformation had already taken place. Slender fingers brush her hip as she walks up the illuminated stairs, breathing out and in with each step that brought her closer. Blue eyes trace spiral sculpture as it spins just inside the entrance and her lips were already molding to the half smirk she would wear the rest of the evening. Her gaze begins to flit through the entry way into the leather and plush performance room to the right, then to the dance floor.

Not yet, she tells herself. Patience. Walking through the club she takes in the pulsing lights, heated bodies, and the smell of want filling the large room. Finally she sits, in the sheer curtained lounge to the left, on a white leather couch and she waits for the evening to bloom.

What occurs are these things that slip into saved sensation.

It was dark, the kind of dark where everyone looks good and skin is tan in the flickering low lights. This darkness she wears like a gift and becomes something all the more entrancing, all the more captivating. There was a woman against the round pillar; her black short hair and her hungry look enticing.

Standing she moves like a cat across the room, red hair kissing bare shoulders. Her club siren watches her and then the matches the beat, beat, beat rhythm of swaying hips and suggestion without touch. Here in the dark with music as her guide she closes her eyes to feel the thumping in her chest, the movement of her secret self.

Her eyes lock on brown ones as her knee slides between legs so the smooth, smooth, smooth insides of their thighs kiss. The body responds and the only thing she notices is the dark haired woman in front of her, against her, moving with her. Somewhere behind them the DJ spins at his high station. Her smoldering partner leans in to seemingly speak over the music but there is silence and only hot breath against an ear. The woman’s face brushes hers, soft, damp skin against skin. Hands reaching into hair, pushing the red mass back so she is pinned with those intense eyes.

There was so much talking without words.

Lost in the rhythm, heels on a floating glass floor, she was bewitched and bewitching. She swallowed down the music and let the desire flow forward.

Inspired by the club PulseXtrem built by youyou0FR Yao

The city hummed. This electronic world the only world that existed anymore. The city pulsed. This lit up world, the only world humanity knew.”Head out princess, we have a main hack to complete,” says a familiar voice from the chip in her right ear. “Oh, and welcome to Insilico.”

The darkness of these cities never bothered Cris and her footfalls are lost in the steady sounds around her. Across her hip, in a bag protected by her pale hand is her lifeblood, her computer. Unfamiliar with the surroundings, though all the survivor cities had the same feel, she takes a moment to orient her sky blue eyes.

“We haven’t got time for you to take a guided tour, move along please,” clips the AI who is now like a second voice in her head.

“You know,” says Cris so low most wouldn’t notice, “If you weren’t heartless and just a bunch of firing wires I would find ways to deal with you.” She moves past local denizens through brightly lit streets, neon signs screaming down at her while Zero simply ignores her altogether. Cris once thought having the AI with her might be fun. Fat chance.

It is her job to blend in, to seem as if she has always been right here in this city. There were a few, still powerful, in this burgeoning society and those are the ones she sought.

“Hey, femme fatal, where am I going? Little help please,” she mutters.

“Head past the traders and stores, unless you are feeling like a new look today,” snarks Zero knowing full well Cris lived in black leather pants, thick boots and various tank tops. “Then move down the ramp and try not to stop at the club over there. I know your preference for entertainment but we don’t have time.”

Cris narrows her eyes but says not a word as she glances at the building with lit, red neon outlines of shapely women.

“Notice to your left, there is an ally, back there is a diner and a few ways to get out of trouble should we need them. Take note please. There are boxed apartments, the ones with huge windows, head up the spiral staircase until you reach the top.”

Cris does exactly as she is told, despite her desire to do otherwise, she has already found out the hard way what happens when she doesn’t listen to directions and ends up with more cyber trouble then she ever needed. At the top of the stairs she looks out on the glowing city before her. She could feel the new life flow through it, the new life that humanity had created.

“Straight ahead there is a building, tall, spotlight on top, you need to get there and hack into the account numbers I will give you. It’s the best spot for what we need to achieve.”

Leaning on the railing by the apartment Cris looks out onto this city. Somewhere below her there were kids doing “Breathe,” getting high on the combination of oxygen and whatever toxins where included. Below there were people plugged in, wired up, strung out and fighting to live. The dark streets spread out as if welcoming the dirty leftovers of what had once been a world of real land and waters.  Now all that was left was water, and these cities made of science suspended high above the poisoned clouds and anchored in a life that no longer existed.

The city buzzed. This battery centric world, the only world that was left to her and she smiles wickedly out on it.

Skills Hak's "Insilico"

Story inspired and set in the roleplay sim of Insilico which was created by Skills Hak with the help of her muse Cinndreia Messmer. This sim and roleplay rules were still under construction at the time of this post.

She pressed her face against the cold stone, closed her eyes and ran her hands along the soft curves.  Unrelenting, the towering mass stayed quiet.  She was accustomed to long spans of stillness before her ears heard the voices or her eyes filled with the semblance of that which lay inside.  She was equal parts hunter, emancipator, and lover but she feared this was not be found, freed or adored.  The inchoate mass sat in the darkness; celestial light glanced off the smooth parts of the stone but could not penetrate the exterior.

The pain in her back slowly crept up to settle in her neck.  She moved one hand, pressed her cold fingers underneath her hair and rolled her head slowly against the tension.  Her body ached with exhaustion, yet she had accomplished nothing in weeks.  Her knees were stiff from the hours spent sitting by the shapeless form, failing to coax it from within.  Exasperated, she filled her lungs with the cool air hovering there at the edges and slowly released a whisper, “Speak to me.”  There was no reply, no breath, no movement.  The stillness was maddening.

She shifted and turned her back to the prisoner, sat with her arms curled around her legs and her forehead pressed against her knees.   What had she done wrong?  She retraced her steps, but she found nothing unusual.  The mass was there beneath the fossil encrusted soil, just like all the others.  It was buried deeply and she had painstakingly removed the sediment that clung to it, revealing the remarkably smooth onyx skin.  Every morning, she came here to speak her first words, a warm greeting, a gentle smile, a soft touch.  In every other case, in different voices, she heard in reply their stories of entrapment.  Each one in their own way, lost, forgotten, or betrayed but she gave them life. Never before had she taken so much time, given so much of herself only to be shunned, without even a whisper.

She pressed her back against the muted stone, and raised her eyes to the night sky.  “Perhaps it needs gentle encouragement”, she thought and set her mind on a path to that very end.  She stood up, stretched and turned to face the captive.  She set her hand gently against a smooth edge, followed the tiny veins of silver that ran like rivers along the skin with her fingers, and whispered, “We will start in the morning.”

Up before the spark of dawn, she dressed in loose fitting clothes, grabbed her tools and headed toward the stone’s resting place.  When she rounded the bend she stopped to take another look at the sleeping giant, but something was odd.  It must be this early light, she thought.  The shape appeared different, it was not unrecognizable but she noted subtle changes near the top and the base seemed smaller.  She put down her tools, pressed her palms into her sleepy eyes and ran one hand through her hair; she laughed quietly to herself and moved closer.  With every step, she could see the changes were not as subtle as she first thought.  Her heart slowed and she noticed the air seemed thicker.  The last few steps were like walking uphill in a driving rain.

She put down her tools and tried to gather herself.  She stepped through her normal routine, a warm greeting, a gentle smile, a soft touch.  Nothing came in reply.  “Perhaps I should wait for sunrise,” she said quietly.  But she was determined, still tired and frustrated.  She picked up her tools, and started chipping away at the mass in the ways she had done so often before but nothing changed.  The edges of her best tools dulled quickly and the stone was not marred.  The soft skin shone brightly in the noon day light, her tools left not even a blemish.  She tried a different set, more leverage and greater force, but her blows were met with equal opposition.

She worked furiously through the day’s light until her hands cramped and the glint of stars filled her eyes but the shape remained unchanged from the morning.  She stopped reluctantly, wiped the salt from her brow, and chastised herself under her breath,  “I am out of practice, I am tired and I’ve neglected my tools.”  She picked up her tools and left without another word.

She slept soundly and rose early to recover her tools.  She worked a stone against each edge until it sang just the right note, then she moved to the next.  One by one, each tool joined the chorus and as she finished the sun rose over the hill behind the shed, filling the small space with a bright yellow haze.  Satisfied and clear headed, she packed up and walked down the tiny trail leading to the stone.  The day was bright and clear and this time there was no mistaking the changes.

There before her stood an unfamiliar shape.  Complex movements emerged – still smooth, flowing and beautiful – but wildly different.  New curves appeared in the middle, the top blossomed outward stretching precariously out below the support of the shrinking base.  She worried herself that it would not withstand the unbalance and before she could stop them, words trickled from her lips, “Please be careful.”  She put down her tools, and curled up against the small base.  This time it was her stories that echoed about.  She closed her eyes and revealed her deepest fears, her loneliest moments, her loves lost and unrequited passions to the stone.  She felt movement, but she dare not open her eyes and she drifted into a deep and comfortable dream.

She knew when to wake.  She knew what she would see when she opened her eyes again, the shapes of entangled bodies – love, fear, passion, anger, hope – twisted together in a lustful dance.  She knew that from now on, this place would take shape, not from tools chipping away, but from that which was within her soul.

Inspired by La Reve, built by Lash Xevious

Her bleary eyes scan over the final checklist and she thumbs through the boxes packed tightly with essentials for the adventure ahead.  She checks from the list carefully penned on the yellow pad, and from the not so neat list in her head: camping gear, canned foods, baby wipes, batteries, water and water bottle, first aid and clothing crammed into plastic bags.  Then there were the things most easily forgotten – bungee cords, ropes, reflective tape, duct tape, goggles, dust mask, flashlight and more batteries, work gloves, and .. where is her hat?  She stands up, confounded for a moment before noticing the tugging against her neck.

“Big ass hat with leather cord, check.”

She climbs into the truck, eases over the ignition and listens for the gentle cough before the engine awakes.  Settling into the lumpy bench seat she whispers to no one “That’s a good sign”.  She said that every time the old truck growled to locomotion.  She draws away from the last bit of comfort and heads down the street slowly with the lights dimmed for fear of awaking the few neighbors in the middle of the night.

Easing out onto the highway just beyond her house she starts to feel the release from the here and now, just until the phone buzzes gently against her hip.  She draws the device from the case and the blue blur fills up the cab *see you at the turn off, don’t forget the mallet*.

“Oh, sonofa.”

A quick check in the rear view mirror and a wide sweeping turn takes her back to the starting line.  Lights now search over every neighbor’s home, she curses gently as she leaps from the truck and yanks the garage door open.  Leaning casually against the wall and quietly mocking her girl scout badges, is the mallet.

Off again, this time with more urgency and the mallet at her side she speeds down the highway, texting with one hand and glancing occasionally at the long narrow road toward Reno.  *see u soon*.  The time passes quickly when your mind is racing through the possibilities of what lies ahead.  Every year the sense of wonderment and the draw of the unexpected urges them into the far recesses of the desert.  This year was no different, they planned like expert military leaders, mapping out every move as well as contingency plans – none of which included forgetting the mallet.

Two hours outside of Reno she sees the wavering outline of people and vehicles in the darkness; she slows her approach and convinces her heart to stop racing for the moment.  A quick round of warm embraces, hearty smiles and the caravan reforms and veers off the road on to the trail at the welcome sign.

Dust kicks up along the trail leading off from the sign into the lake bed.   The truck rocks back and forth and shes steadies both hands on the wheel to negotiate the uneven surface.  Driving headlong into the spray of white clouds spilling from the trucks ahead, she adjusts her hat and eases into her artist’s mind.

Slowly, the caravan drives into the belly of the black desert.   A blank canvas now, in these few remaining dark hours it will soon light up with color, sound and smells that are unmistakably alive.  The City will soon breathe it’s first breath.

The caravan halts at the entrance to the City.  Engines slow to idle but over their muddling, you can hear the call of the siren – her song ringing unmistakably clear.  Come see the life that springs from an otherwise dead ground.  Come feel the energy that sweeps over the lake bed from thousands of souls singing songs that echo from the desert floor.  Come build the city of fabled paradise, rising from the cracks of land abandoned but to those that embrace the magic.   Come march along the dusty roads, dance in vibrant scarves and feel the heat of the fire wash over you.   Come …

Burning Life 2008

She fell into the deep ocean of her subconscious, into that place she always goes, that place she cannot avoid. Chocolate hair spilled across the tiny pillow onto the mat and a thin blanket covers her sun soaked skin. This is who she was, this was her path. It comes on slowly, the drooping of her eyes, the drift of her mind, the quiet, and finally the fall into the abyss. Soft puffs of warm air slip over her lips in the steady rhythm of sleep. Her eyes move behind closed lids as she watches scenes only she can see; only she can know.

Tonight she is below more water than she has never seen, in the salt of the ocean, but there is no panic about breathing. These are the signs that allow her to know, these are the signs that whisper into her firing synapses that she is dreaming. Moving with the grace of a dancer she lets the scene before her come into focus, white flowers rise up from the sandy bottom and they glow softly like ghosts of their sisters on the surface. Dropping dark hands she watches as they slide through the translucent foliage; in the distance, within the spread of the flowers, stood trees with no leaves, spirits of a brighter more tangible world.

Then came the whispers; they did not frighten her but seemed to soothe. She was at ease here, stilled. Her dark eyes, the color of damp earth, sweep and turn her body to follow. Music now drifts, soft, nearly in the background, like notes speaking to her soul. Without questioning she walks toward the center ring of light; for a moment she lifts a hand toward the cluster of jellyfish who dance near, her desire to touch overwhelming. They take no notice of her. Continuing forward she focuses on the orb at the very center, the glowing force that felt as if it held this place together. Eyes widening a little she realizes what it is; this was the spirit of the moon, spinning gently inside this ocean. Drifting downward, twirling gently, were ghost white feathers.

Putting her hands up in front of her she cautiously walks toward the sphere, and then, into it. Like waking up the girl becomes aware of the beautiful female whale swimming slow circles; she was to be called Shelonda. There were no words, only connection, only hearts below the surface. The large guardian of this place begins to sing, her underwater song in tongues that can only be felt.

The girl curls into herself in the center of the dream moon, feathers drifting about her, whale song holding her close, sparks of light glittering in the distance. She was safe.

Outside the tent a nomadic village awaits her awakening; for Ayah is the dreamer of her people.

Alir Flow's "Shelondia" in the waters of Raimondo