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Odin Roark

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Books by Odin Roark
Faithures of a Muse
By Odin Roark
Posted: Thursday, March 22, 2012
Last edited: Tuesday, April 03, 2012
This short story is rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent stories by Odin Roark
· Cave Cracks
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· Like No Other
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           >> View all 49
In writing "3 Way Mirror," there were times I couldn’t tell where the protagonist (a man of lost identity) ended, and the author began.

Faithures of a Muse

It had been many years and he walked quickly.
The familiar seizures reaching out to shake him.  

Looking up into the night, he remembered back when once he knew she waited, not yet born,
waiting to emerge and light up his darkness.  He remembered too the failures of past nights, failures that still spoke in the dark through the wind.  There too were the bright lights from small squares dotting the boxed cylinders of childhood fantasies, waiting to power the future faithures of growing up.  

Sitting beside the grating, the trains rumbling beneath through tunnels carrying other costumed seizures and failures, he recalled how for years he looked up into the suspended dark air of starless voids, watched, and listened to the city's breath of souls not yet awake, suspended by the updraft of urban density,  and he clung to his faithure.

Without warning, the tapestry of time suddenly stopped and above, somewhere among the dotted light of Manhattan's night, he heard the voice of light, the sound of the air's rushing clamor to be noticed, the moment of her birth, somewhere.  He was sure this was the prelude to that which couldn't be contained.

But years passed through the nocturnal, a darkness cold, while the weight of hot, clinging tears of summer's weeping knew only gray shadows of sunlight forever urging a night unwilling to fade to black.

Then... then the day not unlike any other day...

Night did come.  He knew this time would come and all the lights would cry out to be heard, and the wind would wink its wily way and he...  he would wait for tomorrow's dawn to recall his faithure, trusting she would find him.  And after this night the dawn did come and he knew she was somewhere close.  

The seizure was sudden and the plane he suddenly would take placed him in Hong Kong, the city of shoebox roofs, trees of frazzled tentacles, their trunks of blooming blade-sharp petals deluding the eyes that saw them as blooming fronds of happiness.
After years of  failures corrupted by pink, purple and chartreuse neon lures, she revealed herself.  She came just as he had imagined, emerging from the darkness of a crowd, her movements like that of the air that suspended the souls of the tall city... graceful, purposeful and most assuredly destined.

Time has passed, taking them back to the other city.  The cylinders of light are more powerful now, the illumination brighter, the enigmatic gusts of air rising from below the gratings are now peaceful, suspending the inner-self higher.

Now, small hands of the muse grip what she calls his paws, entrusting him with new faithures to birth beyond. 


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Reviewed by Diana Legun (Reader)
I tried to look up Faithure, but got "No human translation found," but I'm guessing it is an Italian derivative. Anyway, this writing brought quite a dose of 'city' to me. I grew up in a little Indian-named town of 300 people, so this piece gave me smell, noise congestion that I have not lived even to date; as well as discomfort in the words "other costumed seizures and failures." I would like to read "3-Way Mirror." ~~ Diana

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