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.

 

 

 

Moon, Monsters, and Hope

harvest_moon-_7916064846By Phil Sangwell from United Kingdom (Harvest moon.) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Monday Morning Musings:

I gaze at the Harvest Moon

from my kitchen door.

Glorious, golden, and full,

she hums a message of hope,

and winks at me from the star-lit sea.

 

She appears, full moon

just before the autumnal equinox

gleaming and glowing for farmers’ gleaning,

giving them light in the darkness.

 

She’s a moon for lovers,

and for lunatics and werewolves, too.

Do you see them walking through the streets of Soho?

Lon Chaney and the queen? Aaooooooo!

 

Was it the call of the moon that brought to Whitechapel

a demon, a golem, a monster, a man

who ripped and mutilated bodies

and then vanished in the dark? Vanished in time?

 

We think monsters walk only in the night,

hiding in the shadows,

hiding under beds,

but some appear in daylight, too,

disguised as men.

They were there when the ovens glowed red hot,

the ovens that worked full-time, day and night

and yet people still deny they existed,

these extermination factories

though the stench of death rose in the air

and ashes drifted like snow.

 

And monsters are here now still, spreading hatred

spreading lies, burying truth like old bones,

denial, the métier of despotic regimes

We see the movie, Demon,

my husband and I

a Polish wedding goes horribly wrong,

the groom possessed by a dybbuk,

a Jewish woman who lived in the town

(I did say horribly wrong.)

A nightmare of a wedding,

but it goes on,

the guests getting drunker and wilder,

the bride’s parents denying anything is wrong,

until her father says,

“We must forget what we didn’t see here.”

Ghosts of the past haunt people and nations.

 

And so it goes,

bury the bones, bury the truth

but the truth is out there,

so I’ve heard,

and history is bound to be repeated.

But bones can be dug up,

And truth can be recovered.

 

After the movie, we see a wedding party

they are smiling and taking photos,

to remember the moment, the joy,

a record of a golden day.

At Independence Mall,

love glowing, love growing

in the cradle of liberty.

 

And so, we strive, we try.

Men have reached the moon

and ships have sailed past it.

We seek to tell other beings we are here

here on this pale blue dot,

the third planet from our sun.

Our golden record,

gold like our sun,

gold like the Harvest Moon,

is journeying, telling our story.

It carries the music of Berry and Bach,

bagpipes and flutes, a mother’s kiss, a baby’s cry,

the sounds of love, the sounds of creativity.

 

 

So shine on Harvest Moon,

way up in the sky,

Hum your song, do your magic.

Down here, we love and we kill,

We’re angels and demons,

We’re romantics and scientists

We’re human, fallible and strong.

We live in hope.

the_sounds_of_earth_record_cover_-_gpn-2000-001978-1

By NASA/JPL (The Sounds of Earth Record Cover) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

This week my husband and I watched the season finale of Season 4 of Ripper Street, a British show about police detectives in 19th century London in the area of Whitechapel where Jack the Ripper once lurked. This season, the show focused on Jewish characters who had fled Russian pogroms. Some in the neighborhood believed there was a golem attacking people there.

 

Yesterday we saw the movie, Demon (d. Marcin Wrona, 2015), released in U.S. September 2016. You can see a trailer and reviews here.

 

On the radio show, Science Friday this past week, there was a segment on the Golden Record. They are also asking for suggestions from listeners of what they would include in a new golden record.

According to legend, werewolves turn from their human form to wolves at the full moon. “Werewolves of London” is a song by Warren Zevon.

Immortality: Microfiction Challenge

A_Vincent_Van_Gogh

Vincent van Gogh. “Wheatfield With Crows,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Long before the time of now, our ancestors came from the sky. Our legends say, we are made in their image. We have lost the technology of these forebears, the knowledge that let them travel from the stars. Why? No one knows. We argue about the details, calling to one another in debate, but it is clear we are like no others on this planet.

We sing the songs of our ancestors, and we’ve created new ones in their trilling, gurgling language. Our voices brighten the dawn and soften the evening darkness. We sing for love. We sing in warning.

There are beings who envy us. They use hot air and machines to emulate us. Clumsy things. But we do not need such devices. We are born with wings and feathers. Born to fly. Over time, we’ve developed into a varied species. Our feathers come in many shades like the colors of this planet, black, brown, white, grey, blue, red, green, yellow. We are the descendants of gods, strong and graceful.

We are sharp-eyed and observant, too, and so when I notice something below that breaks my reverie, I caw to my mate, “Do you see that human? He’s painting us. Perhaps we’ll be immortalized.” She caws back to me in laughter. We are through foraging here. We soar over the golden wheat fields of Arles, heading home.

 

This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge.   One prompt was the Van Gogh painting above.

This story may or may not be related to my earlier story, “Shapes in the Mist.”

And this poem, “The Raven Flies.”

 

The Voyage is Not Easy

'Canoe_Fisherman'_by_D._Howard_Hitchcock,_1911

 

The voyage is not easy

in our small canoe,

traveling across the ocean

we sing,

I am coming hither,

liquid vowels gliding from our throats

punctuated by the rhythm of the oars

sliding almost silently

into sapphire sea

 

There is no time here,

there are no hours,

just the sea and the sky

we navigate by the stars,

watching them chase each other

guiding our way

we sleep with water flowing under us

and I laugh and laugh and laugh

feeling joy in being alive

as the water rocks me like a cradle

 

Here in this small craft

I will sing of the shrimp

and of a maiden rescued from the eel

I am coming hither

I will sing a song of the seas

rolling waves carry me

in this tiny craft

the water is wide

but I row steadily

silver fish fly through the water

and white birds dive to seize them

 

I am coming hither

the moon shines full and bright

I am coming hither

My voice will drown the siren calls

I sing,

I am coming hither

I am coming hither

the sun is rising

turning the sky orange and pink

leaving a path on the water’s surface

I am almost there.

 

A few days ago, I saw a story about a Hawaiian canoe traveling around the world. You can read about the canoe here and here.  Then this morning I heard the late Israel Kamakawiwo’ole  singing a song called “Opae E.”  I imagined a man on one of these canoes singing the song. There is a legend that a young woman is kidnapped by an eel. He calls on the creatures of the sea for help, but only the shrimp will help the man to free his sister. The shrimp blind the eel, and the man frees his sister.