Traveling between islands on God's Stilts, I think of my father and mother, as I always do when burdened by the legacy they gave, the role they left me to play: messenger on a dying world.
I look down at the clouds, dark, gaseous poison, and imagine their bodies stare up at me.
I look down at the clouds, dark, gaseous poison, and imagine their bodies stare up at me.
It is easy to feel free, to forget the translucent shackles that bind. When the wind tousles your hair, when you launch yourself forward one impossible step at a time. When you see the sun, your saviour, and damnation, shining down from above, its heat reflected again from below.
In those fleeting moments, I can remember my parents for the people they were--my father's steady hand as he strapped the practice stilts to my feet, my mother's mischevious glint as she showed off a coin trick, or other sleight of hand--and not the monsters they became.
In those brief movements, the long looping steps that take me through the sea of clouds from one island to another, I remember their smiles and not...
not...
Blood in the crib. That silence, thr stultifying quiet as they stood stock still above.
I gasp, and have to stop.
not...
Blood in the crib. That silence, thr stultifying quiet as they stood stock still above.
I gasp, and have to stop.
The quiet of this empty space, where I am most free. Ironic that it should echo the moment those translucent shackles were clapped on my wrists.
In the distance, I see a small bump in the clouds, my destination. It wouldn't do to be late. Step by thundering step, I continue on.
In the distance, I see a small bump in the clouds, my destination. It wouldn't do to be late. Step by thundering step, I continue on.
