This is part of a story I was inspired to write at the Writer’s Zen Garden on Facebook, when someone posted Lynn Stirling’s video, ‘Taking Flight’ as a source of inspiration. A classical myth of an Olympian preying upon a goddess turned into a f/f. To read Part 1, go to http://tinyurl.com/KSTrenten-facebook.
The river is disappearing into sky and cloud. My sister is trying to change the landscape into one she controls. I decide to play her game. I start rowing my ferry out into the Styx, which is transforming into clouds.
Helia’s eye burns bright for one moment, before it closes. Darkness follows. I catch a glimpse of something shining….there! On the edge of the horizon, flickering. Could it be the light I seek?
It’s getting dark. I can barely see, until forks of lightning illuminate my way.
Is Zeu trying to help me, or strike me down? You can never tell with her. Rain following, weeping fat drops, which come near, without touching me. Did I make my sister cry, without realizing it?
The flower takes flight, rising into the air, as if it can’t wait to get away from me. I search for it, but all I can see is the rain, the clouds, and the lightning illuminating all of it.
Something dark looms overhead. Its force pulls me out of my ferryboat, although I cling to its sides. What has that kind of power? The darkness is usually obedient to my wishes.
I flip through the air, parted from my boat. My hands and feet connect with a ladder, dangling from the darkness.
Is this another whim of Zeu’s? Is she trying to help me? Or is all of this her doing? Lightning and thunder are her weapons. Perhaps the darkness is merely giant storm clouds, running around, doing her bidding, like a pack of well trained dogs.
I climb down the ladder to the cold earth. Light rushes up around me, the light of a cold, pitiless day. Helia has opened her eyes, again, but she’s not in a good mood. The earth is green, though. New life is emerging from it. Wet and damp, I regard my surroundings, as I start walking.
My darkness is coming to meet me, accompanied by the light of a thousand, special mortal moments. This is the only light everyone can see. I reach for one, delighted by its brightness.
Can it be? Was this the light I was seeking all along? Not the universal brightness, but just one unique flame?
A flower is growing out of the earth. I can feel Tartarus, creeping up around me, all hissing, heated stone. It doesn’t make this single blossom any less precious, or beautiful.
I kneel beside it, cupping it with my hand.
“Persephone,” I whisper, giving it, no, her, a name.
(For the last part, go to inspirationcauldron.blogspot.com)