The Flame


A repost from my Xanga blog, August 24, 2012 that I’m considering including in a book about morning inspirations, crazy as I know that might sound.  So maybe I will.  Maybe I won’t.  I don’t know.  This one just sort of sticks to me….

Pieces of a dream leftover at dawn… It seems I was exploring some monolithic ruins on Mars:

The great metal doors of orichalc carved splendor open silently to me and, unnerved at this, I nonetheless walk through them, down the broad, steep steps, into the pitchy darkness.  A glance back the way I’ve come confirms the doors have as silently shut behind me. 

I have to wrestle down the very literally blind panic this stirs in me, biting hard on my lip. The pain of that bite is sharp and a trembling in my limbs overtakes me for a moment, but then it’s all gone.  I’ve mastered myself! 

My senses have numbed as I stand there in the darkness looking vainly for anything.  I can’t even see my hand before my face, can’t even feel my hand or my body or my face.  It’s as though I’m engulfed in absolute Nothingness.  But it’s not.  I know it’s not. 

There’s a feeling of pendency here.  That’s the only feeling.  This is a waiting place and so I stand here waiting for something or someone to come.

It does.

At first I think my eyes are playing tricks on me when I see a pinprick of light appear out of the darkness as nonchalantly as though it had always been there and I’d simply not noticed it before.  But there it was as if noticing my notice, and grew then into a flickering flame like someone in the darkness had flicked their Bic lighter and held it out to me. A sensation of actual warmth reached me from it. 

It drew me in like a moth. 

I’m not sure if I moved or it moved, but it grew before my eyes and the warmth of it enveloped me like a down comforter.  It dazzled me with its stark brightness against the dark but didn’t pain me in the slightest.

Again I was made to feel as though I were just now noticing something that had been there all along: a humanoid being made of rainbow colored flames, features barely distinguishable against the dazzle.  He/she/it was studying me and very quietly, in a voice like you get from tracing a wet fingertip along the edge of glasses of varying heights filled with water – a woman’s voice I decided: 

“Do you want me to tell you a tale of  Mars that was before the oceans dried up, or Mars that still is…?”

Had I asked her that question?  Or did she just know why I’d come… Why we’d come? 

“Tell me what you will,” I finally answered.

She laughed and turned away.  “It may hurt a little.”

I stood there waiting, expecting her to speak again, but she didn’t.  Instead, she walked slowly away while I stood there.

More light appeared in the darkness ahead of her, spread out like myriad star fires, solidified into a sparkling pool…  No, not a pool, a field of crushed glass or crystals.

She looked more human now.  Against the crystal field, her own light had considerably diminished.  She was an ordinary but pretty girl, lithe and slender with large lavender eyes glancing back at me now and then, white-gold hair to her waist.  She was dressed in what seemed filmy sheets of opaque opalescent light that floated loosely around her as with fey breezes at play.

I sawthen the flickering torches that blazed around the crushed… whatever that sparkling stuff was.

She shot back a small smile, a faintly warning look, and then stepped out on the field.  I understood then the warning look. 

The moment her bare foot touched the field, I was there inside her awareness, sharing her feeling of it, the perception that this was broken glass.  I felt it as though her feet were my own.  First a cool crunch and slowly tiny pieces slid themselves in our feet, stabbing pains, a burning soreness… yet she ignored them. The pain became icy tingles… negligible to the experience. 

The motion felt ecstatic as flight, freedom, a joy of pure expression… 

She danced out into the field, sinuous movements and steps, the glass singing out in unearthly chorus that sounded, to my imagination, exactly as angels must sound when they sing.

Every chiming tone flowed through her into my mind… images and sensations as unstoppable as her relentless and fluid dance, her graceful arms floating in delicate intricate eloquence, drifting veils of light, of flame.  She was flame.    

We left bloody footsteps across the shattered glass – ‘Realities’ she corrected me mind to mind.

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About Ampbreia

I'm an ex-Pentacostal, ex-Muslim, ecclectic Agnostic with slightly Wiccan leanings. I am not affiliated with any organized religion or political platform, but I do believe in magic and all things wise and wonderful. I work as an admin in a calibration lab. I've published 2 books so far this year: Lost in Foreign Passions: Love and betrayal, passion and loss in the heart of an alien land (a memoir of my time as a Muslimah and living in Iran for a year), written under my previous married name, Debra Kamza, and Dream Lover (a paranormal romance, the tale of witch that summons her favorite character out of a Bewitched spin-off and the actor who plays him as well). I'm constantly writing stories and poems, thoughts and dreams, and quite a few opinions - many of which are not popular but oh well. Bite me. I'm interested in art, animals, the paranormal, and people. I love to dance, all sorts, but have been studying belly dance since 2006 and LOVE it! I love anime too and love dressing up and going to conventions. My writing runs the gummut of historical, science fiction, fantasy, romance, and erotica. Beware: I may not be safe reading for work. Just saying....
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