Michael has asked us to weave a tale about journeying beyond the veil of mist – with a fairy tale aura.
I’ve been overthinking, overproducing of late – afraid of losing words if I don’t continually use them. So, this is a stream of consciousness, free fall piece. I had intended to use the prompt to properly introduce characters that haunt me in my private writing – causing rewrites, rethinking, re-plotting multiple times. But, that would require that I think, overthink, how to place Calaxia and Jacobin in the proper context. So, I just let the words go, and the names were used. If I sit on this, as I should, to let it ripen and age, I will miss (as I often do), Michael’s prompt for mlmm; seems like not quite the write/right thing to do. So, read at your own risk – more writing in the raw.
Beyond the veil of mist, an ashen world holds its breath. Stillness down to the bone. A quiet so deep, her footfalls make no sound on the leaf-strewn fall path.
Dressed in misty colours, blending as a chameleon into the air, Calaxia longs for cry of a hawk, snap of a branch, skutter in the under-forest. Shapes shifting through the periphery of the greyness; a lichen-licked ghost pine tree, wolf or wraith slinking along side her.
Her forehead beads with moisture – liquid air melding with cold sweat. Her breath, short puffs hung suspended like dragon’s .
Familiar territory, if only as a dreamscape. All light, newish moon or clouded sun, doving grey into the mists. Cobwebs of beams.
Flashing like the slash of a wound, the red ribbon overhangs the trail, caught upon an ancient, bending thorn bush. Releasing into her hands, she felt its frayed edges, tattered ends. The only splash of colour in the washed out forest. Using her free hand, and teeth, she knots the ribbon around her wrist, tailing down like a stream of blood.
Pushing her hood down, settling across her shoulders, even her raven’s hair was dull in this mystical non-light. Amethyst eyes blinked against the sameness. “Jacobin,” she cried, clapping her hands, ribbon cutting through the grey. To waken, or slip forever into this misty veil.
Photo credit: Adventures in the Wild