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.




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