This is a book I'm working on, and I'm not done but trying a new thing so wish me luck.
Desperate to preserve Devin's delicate veneer of innocence, her father clung to a facsimile of normalcy, his strained smile a frail barrier against the relentless onslaught of life's harshest truths. But for Devin, the enchantment had withered; once lavish blooms of childhood comfort and warmth morphed into jagged edges and cruel deceptions, now twisted into malevolent mirages under the weight of grief's heavy hand.
Under the cloak of night, Devin would steal away from her bed, drawn to the haunting melody of her father's sorrow seeping through the cracks of his façade. In the hushed solitude of his chamber, he would let his tears fall, a testament to the shattered remnants of a man. In those fleeting moments, he would again be the flesh-and-blood father she loved. She grasped at the faint echo of connection, yearning to reclaim the essence of her lost father amidst the fragments of his grief-stricken shell.
And so the days ebbed and flowed, each one a somber refrain in the symphony of mourning that enveloped their existence. Until, like a harbinger of hope amidst the desolate landscape of despair, a brochure materialized in their mailbox, its glossy pages whispering of salvation with the tantalizing promise of renewal: "Change your life and get a breath of fresh air with a move to Fawna."
Devin's gaze lingered upon the brochure, its glossy surface a portal to a realm untouched by the mundane. There was tranquility emanating from its depths as if it held the key to a sanctuary beyond the confines of earthly existence. As she traced the contours of the idyllic island depicted within, she couldn't shake the sensation that it existed on a plane beyond comprehension, a distant realm where the sorrows of this world held no sway.
The image captured within the brochure seemed almost like the beautiful lie of childhood that had been ripped from her, but maybe one she was still young enough to convince herself to believe in, a vision of paradise suspended in time and space. Devin couldn't help but wonder about the hands that had captured such perfection, the lens through which they had viewed this pristine sanctuary. It was as if the island existed in a dimension all its own, a sanctuary reserved for souls weary from the burdens of earthly existence.
But as Devin's thoughts drifted back to the reality of her home, the oppressive weight of grief descended once more. The miasma, a silent haunting spreading itself wide, seeping in through her pores and filling her lungs with its suffocating weight. The manikin man greeted each morning with song, a hot skillet, and pancake batter, while her sister, still too young to comprehend the magnitude of their loss, moved through the world with an innocence untouched by mourning. "Good morning, princess. Did you sleep well?" The manikin man's voice, mimicking the notes of a father, seemed to be effective when aimed at the little bird chirping for her father's sweet delights, shaped in her favorite geometric shapes. "Mum."
Seated at the worn kitchen table, the manikin man carefully placed a plate in front of the delicate bird so as not to frighten her, his movements slow and deliberate. As he watched his daughter, a flicker of anticipation mingled with the ache of longing that nestled deep within. It had been a long time coming, this moment the omnipotent mother and the plastic-encased father, had both awaited with bated breath, yet feared would never arrive.
And then, as if summoned by the gentle whisper of fate, the bird uttered her first word again. "Mum," she spoke the word with a sound carved out of heaven, then spun into silk, tailored by Mightus' hand, a prayer whispered into the void in the hopes that somehow, someway, it might bridge the chasm that stretched between them. But it was too late. Too late for her mother to hear the sweet sound of her child calling out to her. Too late for the word to find its way back to her waiting ears. And as the manikin man of morning stood frozen in the silence that followed, a wave of grief washed over him and paper-thin cracks marbled his once smooth surfaces, breaking open, flaking off his stoic mask, then mercy embraced him, as they all wept.
Short story by Sipora
Read 138 times
Written on 2024-02-22 at 21:26
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The people of fawna
In the wake of her mother's departure six months prior, Devin, a mere seven years old, found herself ensnared by the lingering ache of loss. Her father and younger sister grappled with the shards of their devastated reality, yet for Devin, the once ethereal allure of fairy tales and bedtime stories now dissolved into distant reverberations of innocence lost. No longer shielded by the veil of childhood naivety, she confronted the somber specter that silently prowled their home, suffusing each room with a weighty pall.Desperate to preserve Devin's delicate veneer of innocence, her father clung to a facsimile of normalcy, his strained smile a frail barrier against the relentless onslaught of life's harshest truths. But for Devin, the enchantment had withered; once lavish blooms of childhood comfort and warmth morphed into jagged edges and cruel deceptions, now twisted into malevolent mirages under the weight of grief's heavy hand.
Under the cloak of night, Devin would steal away from her bed, drawn to the haunting melody of her father's sorrow seeping through the cracks of his façade. In the hushed solitude of his chamber, he would let his tears fall, a testament to the shattered remnants of a man. In those fleeting moments, he would again be the flesh-and-blood father she loved. She grasped at the faint echo of connection, yearning to reclaim the essence of her lost father amidst the fragments of his grief-stricken shell.
And so the days ebbed and flowed, each one a somber refrain in the symphony of mourning that enveloped their existence. Until, like a harbinger of hope amidst the desolate landscape of despair, a brochure materialized in their mailbox, its glossy pages whispering of salvation with the tantalizing promise of renewal: "Change your life and get a breath of fresh air with a move to Fawna."
Devin's gaze lingered upon the brochure, its glossy surface a portal to a realm untouched by the mundane. There was tranquility emanating from its depths as if it held the key to a sanctuary beyond the confines of earthly existence. As she traced the contours of the idyllic island depicted within, she couldn't shake the sensation that it existed on a plane beyond comprehension, a distant realm where the sorrows of this world held no sway.
The image captured within the brochure seemed almost like the beautiful lie of childhood that had been ripped from her, but maybe one she was still young enough to convince herself to believe in, a vision of paradise suspended in time and space. Devin couldn't help but wonder about the hands that had captured such perfection, the lens through which they had viewed this pristine sanctuary. It was as if the island existed in a dimension all its own, a sanctuary reserved for souls weary from the burdens of earthly existence.
But as Devin's thoughts drifted back to the reality of her home, the oppressive weight of grief descended once more. The miasma, a silent haunting spreading itself wide, seeping in through her pores and filling her lungs with its suffocating weight. The manikin man greeted each morning with song, a hot skillet, and pancake batter, while her sister, still too young to comprehend the magnitude of their loss, moved through the world with an innocence untouched by mourning. "Good morning, princess. Did you sleep well?" The manikin man's voice, mimicking the notes of a father, seemed to be effective when aimed at the little bird chirping for her father's sweet delights, shaped in her favorite geometric shapes. "Mum."
Seated at the worn kitchen table, the manikin man carefully placed a plate in front of the delicate bird so as not to frighten her, his movements slow and deliberate. As he watched his daughter, a flicker of anticipation mingled with the ache of longing that nestled deep within. It had been a long time coming, this moment the omnipotent mother and the plastic-encased father, had both awaited with bated breath, yet feared would never arrive.
And then, as if summoned by the gentle whisper of fate, the bird uttered her first word again. "Mum," she spoke the word with a sound carved out of heaven, then spun into silk, tailored by Mightus' hand, a prayer whispered into the void in the hopes that somehow, someway, it might bridge the chasm that stretched between them. But it was too late. Too late for her mother to hear the sweet sound of her child calling out to her. Too late for the word to find its way back to her waiting ears. And as the manikin man of morning stood frozen in the silence that followed, a wave of grief washed over him and paper-thin cracks marbled his once smooth surfaces, breaking open, flaking off his stoic mask, then mercy embraced him, as they all wept.
Short story by Sipora
Read 138 times
Written on 2024-02-22 at 21:26
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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