Moonstruck
November 12, 2020 at 9:51 am
(This post was last modified: November 12, 2020 at 9:53 am by Foxaèr.)
No, not the movie.
It’s something new I’m writing. The elven/incubus thing didn’t pan out for me (but if you want to read the few chapters I did write, let me know).
She stood at the stern of the ship as she had done every single day since the departure from the mainland of America. Her stare at the horizon was a silent condemnation of having been dragged away from the home her family had known for many generations.
That particular day, a few hours until the arrival in a foreign country, I watched as she did not seem to take notice of the rain that pummeled her tiny body. The storm was rather vicious, sending the ship to and fro, yet she clung to the iron railing in spite of the ocean’s wish to have her body resting in the depths below.
As the empath of the family, I had been particularly drawn to our grandmother since the beginning of the trip. Her feelings regarding our departure were the strongest, rivaling that of the storm that raged around her. She was no witch, however. The family legacy had skipped her, as well as my mother.
The storm was simply a natural aspect of the present weather situation. It had been smooth sailing across the ocean until an hour ago when the proper conditions had resulted in a beautiful tempest. Unrelenting wind and rain was accompanied by a thrilling presentation of lightning. I imagined that there was an orchestra of thunder to accompany the storm, but for some reason I had no auditory connection to what I visually witnessed.
Awesome waves came barreling against the ship, that would not be beat into submission as it suffered the whipping like a true champ of the sea, and water sloshed around me without actually affecting me. It was not magic. Rather, it was the fact that I was incorporeal that prevented aspects of the physical world from bothering me.
I died only a few months ago, yet I had not witnessed anything related to an afterlife or my consciousness withering away into oblivion. Such philosophical contemplation was for another time, however.
My death, as natural for which the ravaging disease of cancer had allowed, was something magic was unable to prevent. It had upended the family in more ways than one. My parents had divorced, my father deciding to remain in America, while my mother decided that a move to England was in order.
What had remained intact, possibly the most important consideration of changing times, was the bond I shared with my siblings. We were still learning about ourselves, a slow process since no one in our immediate family had been gifted. From what we could gather, the last individual to have been blessed by magic was our great-great grandmother, whom had died long before we were born.
The stubborn matriarch of the family turned her head and seemed to stare directly at me, even though I knew there was no way she could possibly see me.
A moment later, a large figure ran through me. I felt nothing, although the rational part of me expected to have experienced something. As far as I could discern, I partially resided on a different plane of existence. Being dead was as new to me as being magical.
It’s something new I’m writing. The elven/incubus thing didn’t pan out for me (but if you want to read the few chapters I did write, let me know).
She stood at the stern of the ship as she had done every single day since the departure from the mainland of America. Her stare at the horizon was a silent condemnation of having been dragged away from the home her family had known for many generations.
That particular day, a few hours until the arrival in a foreign country, I watched as she did not seem to take notice of the rain that pummeled her tiny body. The storm was rather vicious, sending the ship to and fro, yet she clung to the iron railing in spite of the ocean’s wish to have her body resting in the depths below.
As the empath of the family, I had been particularly drawn to our grandmother since the beginning of the trip. Her feelings regarding our departure were the strongest, rivaling that of the storm that raged around her. She was no witch, however. The family legacy had skipped her, as well as my mother.
The storm was simply a natural aspect of the present weather situation. It had been smooth sailing across the ocean until an hour ago when the proper conditions had resulted in a beautiful tempest. Unrelenting wind and rain was accompanied by a thrilling presentation of lightning. I imagined that there was an orchestra of thunder to accompany the storm, but for some reason I had no auditory connection to what I visually witnessed.
Awesome waves came barreling against the ship, that would not be beat into submission as it suffered the whipping like a true champ of the sea, and water sloshed around me without actually affecting me. It was not magic. Rather, it was the fact that I was incorporeal that prevented aspects of the physical world from bothering me.
I died only a few months ago, yet I had not witnessed anything related to an afterlife or my consciousness withering away into oblivion. Such philosophical contemplation was for another time, however.
My death, as natural for which the ravaging disease of cancer had allowed, was something magic was unable to prevent. It had upended the family in more ways than one. My parents had divorced, my father deciding to remain in America, while my mother decided that a move to England was in order.
What had remained intact, possibly the most important consideration of changing times, was the bond I shared with my siblings. We were still learning about ourselves, a slow process since no one in our immediate family had been gifted. From what we could gather, the last individual to have been blessed by magic was our great-great grandmother, whom had died long before we were born.
The stubborn matriarch of the family turned her head and seemed to stare directly at me, even though I knew there was no way she could possibly see me.
A moment later, a large figure ran through me. I felt nothing, although the rational part of me expected to have experienced something. As far as I could discern, I partially resided on a different plane of existence. Being dead was as new to me as being magical.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
~ Erin Hunter
