Time Paradox: NaPoWriMo

 

The portal door opens, and I am here. Before. I look out at this beautiful sun-splashed world. What did they do to it, this planet they called Earth? There is magic here in this moment. I feel it in the sun-steamed breeze. I taste it in the flower-blossomed air. I close my eyes and make a wish. Hoping it works better this time, I spread my wings, pause for one more second to watch the iridescent feathers gleam in the sunlight. Then, I take flight to make first contact—again.

paradox of time,

space bending, moments flowing,

slip-rippling along

ends become beginning points

with magic, wishes, and hope

 

Today is Day 19 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write a creation myth. I suppose this haibun is a sort of re-creation myth, based on some microfiction I wrote a while ago. It’s also possible that I had time paradoxes on my mind from watching an episode of Star Trek: Voyager a few nights ago.

This haibun is also for Colleen Chesebro’s weekly poetry challenge. The prompt words for her birthday week are wish and magic, and I wish her heaps of birthday magic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

River to the Stars: #Haibun

 

 

I paddle slowly. The river wanders like my thoughts, meandering, unhurried. The water forms patterns, sparkling ribbons that dance with the breeze’s soft kiss. The breeze smells of earth, water, and of greenery sprouting and blooming, the scent of life and promise. I watch a great egret perform a sun salutation. A turtle on a moving branch floats by, a surfer hanging ten. I see fish swimming just beneath the glimmering surface of the water. Their silver scales catch the light, as they twirl in an aquatic ballet. This river has been my place of dreams, my place for dreaming. I say goodbye.

 

The blue planet fades

soon only a memory

carried in my heart

adrift, sailing through star seas

scarcely feeling the shockwaves

 

I am in a tiny vessel hurtling through the vast universe. I am sad and scared–but filled with wonder. Though I think of Earth, remember the sun-glowed river, it is like a dream. The stars call to me. I’ve awakened, and I listen.

 

the_blue_marble

This is my first attempt at a haibun. Colleen Chesebro provides an outstanding explanation of the form, if you are interested.  The prompt words were  earth and water.

 

 

The Journey: Tanka

 

Ship berthed, door opens,

friends lost, remembered now, here

the odyssey ends

far from the blue planet Earth,

immigrants from a dead world

 

 

earth_western_hemisphere

By Reto Stöckli (land surface, shallow water, clouds) Robert Simmon (enhancements: ocean color, compositing, 3D globes, animation) Data and technical support: MODIS Land Group; MODIS Science Data Support Team; MODIS Atmosphere Group; MODIS Ocean Group Additional data: USGS EROS Data Center (topography); USGS Terrestrial Remote Sensing Flagstaff Field Center (Antarctica); Defense Meteorological Satellite Program (city lights). (http://visibleearth.nasa.gov/view.php?id=57723) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

This tanka is for Colleen Chesbro’s Weekly Tanka Challenge.

The prompt words were friend and door.

 

 

The Golden Egg: Microfiction

varnadragons

 

Journal Entry, 4773

Ambassador Armstrong and I traded stories after dinner. I enjoyed hers about the boy who flew too close to the sun. She admired our language, saying it reminded her of the birdsongs of her planet. In response, I told her this tale:

Eons ago, great, winged creatures inhabited our planet. The Mianthx were massive, lumbering creatures, powerful of body, but dull of mind, and without our grace and beauty. Unlike us, with our shimmering, varigated feathers, they were covered in dull, grey-green scales.

There was Mianthx prophecy that foretold the appearance of a golden egg—from which a great leader would be born. And one day, an ordinary Mianthx produced such an egg and showed it to her mate. The couple was overjoyed. It was their first egg. They shared in its care, keeping it warm in their birth pouches. When the birth-time came, their family members and officials (alerted to the news of the golden egg) gathered around to witness the event. The midwife helped the Mianthx couple with the hatching process, but all fell silent when a small being with soft, downy, multi-colored feathers appeared.

“It’s so strange-looking,” some onlookers whispered, “and what are those odd sounds it’s making?”

However, her parents loved her and called her Dulcka, or “Dear One.” As Dulcka grew older, she became a being of wondrous beauty, with feathers glowing and iridescent in the light. Her appearance was matched by the kindness of her soul, and by her mellifluous voice, like a chorus of flutes—so unlike the raspy voices of those around her. She became beloved by all.

One day the world was threatened by a vast, dark cloud that was starting to block the sun. Without light and heat, all life would perish. Dulcka flew high in the air, higher than any of the Mianthx had ever flown. There she sang to the wind, telling it to blow the cloud away. So powerful was her voice, that the wind obeyed her, and the cloud was dispersed, letting the sun shine down once again on our planet. Dulcka was lauded for her deed and re-named Melasios, or silver-voiced leader.

In time, Melasios mated with one of the Mianthx, and they had a baby, who was born with soft, downy variegated feathers. It is said we are all descended from Melasios.

 

This story is for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge, using the sculpture pictured above. And once again, I’m way over the word count.

This story is a sequel to this story.

 

 

 

We Will Talk Amidst the Clouds: Microfiction

2010_utopien_arche04

By Makis E. Warlamis (Own work, Daskunstmuseum, 2007-01-05) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Journal Entry, 4772: I woke up early, too excited to sleep. Today I begin my new position as chief consul. Thousands of years have passed since my ancestors made first contact with the world of our guests. We miscalculated then; the inhabitants of that planet were not ready, and we backed off, observing only from a distance. We were surprised that the beings we’ll be welcoming here today finally dominated their planet, and even more surprised that they survived. They were fond of wars, those bipeds.

It’s too bad that we’ll have to transport them from our planet’s surface to our capital. I love how it hovers amidst the clouds, a beacon of serenity, and a perfect place to hold our discussions. Too bad they cannot experience the joy of flight, as we do. There’s the beauty–the glow of light on feathered wing, the iridescent colors, and the glorious feel of the air, as it rushes by, carrying the scents from below and above. Oh well.

It’s time now to go. To meet the Earth ambassador. Apparently she is named for an ancestor who was famous for—what was it? A walk? Oh yes, I remember now, on their moon. Ambassador Neila Armstrong. End log.

I spread my wings and fly out to meet her.

 

This story is for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge. This week I’m close to the word count! The prompt is the painting above.

The story is related to this earlier one I wrote.

 

 

Patterns

 

 

It was a gloomy November day. JFK had just been elected to a second term. Ed sat at his usual table at the diner and thought about the war going on in a faraway place called Vietnam. He wished he could stop it. Stop all wars.

Ed wasn’t the president though. He wasn’t a world leader. He was just an ordinary guy with a knack for working with numbers. He often saw patterns that no one else noticed. He had a steady, if boring job, as an accountant, and business was booming. Still, he sensed there was something more, something that he could do—maybe something he was destined to do. If only he could find the right combination of numbers.

So there he was at the diner, where he ate almost every day. Most of the staff knew him. They let him sit there and work, writing on pads of paper—or paper napkins when he ran out of paper–refilling his coffee cup as needed.

There were napkins and papers strewn about the table. He looked at the calculations. There. That was it. Yes! He had found the equations that could change the course of history. He sat back, savoring the moment.

A waitress came by, someone new. “Can I fill your cup, Hon?” she asked. Coffee streamed from the full carafe, some of it missed his cup and spread like hot lava across the table. “Ooops, sorry,” she said, as she gathered up the brown, sopping pile of papers. “I’ll get you some fresh napkins,” she added as she walked away from the table.

Bob lit a cigarette. Tomorrow’s another day, he thought.

 

Do you make up stories about people you see?  Marian Beaman’s post  on her blog “Plain and Fancy Girl” that featured some of her husband’s art inspired this story. I was thinking of the restaurant portraits she included, and in particular this one.  I hope Cliff Beaman doesn’t mind.

 

At Dawn: Microfiction

 

Caspar David Friedrich

Caspar David Friedrich: Frau in der Morgensonne G45

Caspar David Friedrich, “Woman before the Rising Sun,” [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Gwendolyn rose early, as she did every day. Sometimes the dogs came with her, but today she left them in a tangled, snoring heap of legs and tails. There were no predators here. She walked up the hill. There she waited as the sky gradually turned pink and orange, and then filled with the resplendent golden glow of the suns. She greeted the dawn like an old friend, and certainly they knew each other, as she had performed this ritual every day for over a decade.

In the distance, she saw the horses grazing. Their coats gleamed blue in the dawn light. She glanced again at the sky. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Nina and Jin had been gone for many years. Death came, even in paradise. They had been the scouts, the pioneers, the homesteaders. Their ship, the Endeavour, had been well-equipped, and they landed safely here, on Paradise.

She left her morning post. In the evening, she would climb the hill again. Gazing for what? Hope, she supposed. A sign of another ship that had escaped from Earth. A sign that she was not the only human in the universe.

 

I remembered a title today! This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s microfiction challenge.

The prompt is the painting above by Caspar David Friedrich. I totally forgot there were also theme words, which did indeed fit the painting, but I went my own way, ignoring the woman’s appearance. I’m a rebel.