Sunday, June 9, 2019

Wayward Station--excerpt from pending literary-suspense novel, Cucariva.


Solitude attended him like an old friend.

He stared blindly into the depthless night. There was no moon; Andromeda flickered from her wayward station. Chained to rock in penance for the hubris of her people, much like him now, and it had required no chains and no hubris but his own. He could feel the earth’s incontestable draw beneath him, sucking at the hollow of his soul. In his weaker moments, which were many, it was his greatest fear: that the world, whatever its providence, would shape him down to his essence, and no essence there’d be. His blood ran cold, not in consideration of the void within him, but rather those malignant things which might take residence.

But in those rare moments of fortitude, he saw clearly, and understood to his bones how lucky he’d been. The anguish of what he’d lost, bore testament to what he’d found. Deep down, he’d always known the question was never, must never be, why she no longer loved him, but why she had ever had. And somehow now, in her absence, she’d never been more present, for she was everywhere. Her hand in his, in the bliss of his memories; her lips brushing his, in the rapture of remembered touch. It was her face he saw, God’s fairest creature, in his mind’s eye. She who walked beside him, on his now empty road.

It would always be her.




Monday, May 20, 2019

The Astonishing Light...


Hope, Dickinson said, is the thing with feathers, which perches in the soul. Jacob had not grown so cynical as to doubt it. But opposite each truth perched its countervailing twin, and as he inhaled, the frigid air rushed in and filled the empty places within him, places where things like hope had long ago lived. Somewhere in his blood ran memories of those things. Hope. Love. It was like walking around with the grandest of secrets.  Unless, of course, it was lost. Leaving more empty places, which remained empty, or filled with cold, irredeemable things...


Thus reads a passage from the denouement of Cucariva, my literary-suspense manuscript. The tale is, ostensibly dark, and by the end, Jacob, the protag, sees he has irreparably lost the love of his life. But even in this anguish, flicker small embers of hope. As I work on revisions, I've been searching for the right words to convey the pivot that he must execute, that next step--however arduous--in the evolution of his love--namely, that true love is never, must never be, about what we want or what we possess, but simply, how we feel, and what we can give. And in realizing what he lost, Jacob comes finally to understand all he had, and how he must move forward in eternal gratitude. In the end, it is not about what darkness or solitude awaits him, but the light and love she gave him and the world, and that he wishes always for her.

And wouldn't you know it--I'm a writer, but the perfect words I stumbled upon(see the image) are not my own. I'll need to wrangle my own take, but it gets at the heart of all that Jacob wishes to convey. 

This is beautiful, and this is truth.