The Creed of Divine Shadows
The gesture blocked the sun and it’s warmth, a silhouette against the wooden post, dark and gamboling mystery. The favor of cool shadows against the sky, against the pale tan reflection of wood in the burning light of a brilliant sun, wavered and presented a shadow. His hand flittered in butterfly movements and rapid mime. The shadow danced and reshaped itself against the smooth wooden surface of the fence as his fingers bent. The shadow became an alligator, they folded and the darkness became a grinning monster, yet again and a pumpkin at the pinnacle of Halloween. He grinned and shaped both of his hands in an elaborate configuration; the sun burned the skin a pale pink on the backside of his hands, itchy and tender, it was hot unlike the shadows in haloed compliance with his movements. In creepy crawly waves of ambiance, in sure shades of gray and black, the sun seared and bleached the outline of his hands and gave rise to the imaginings of shadow beasts and the star.
A small star appeared against the rough hewn surface of the wooden fence, pointed and in triple horned reverie. The star became two, then three, then four pentagrams in arching circles of revolution. Five, then six spinning in conjured exponential array, until a thousand stars rotated and swirled before him. He screamed as he tried to close the gateway to oblivion, shadow puppets gone to the darkest depths of desolation. He screamed again as he shook his hands and was slowly pulled into the circle, flayed by terror he gasped and whispered, “Plllllleeeeeeeaaaaaaassssssseeee, pleaseeeeeeeeeeeee.” as he disappeared into the wood.
The silhouettes in dancing temptations of secret knowledge and dark abyss’ diminished and his cries became muffled then silent. The shadows became light and the dance of the stars slowed to clear sunny rays of brilliance. In the twilight tide shores of love, life and lessons in err, the stars twinkled in the indigo heavens and the world revolved in mysterious turn.
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I have been writing since I was a child and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print where it will be read and considered, in fear, joy or laughter. The best a writer can aim for is to spark the imagination of those he is writing to.
Labels: Ron Koppelberger