I have no recollection of having posted this very short story. If I did, it would have been many months ago, and “followers” have changed drastically since. If it is a repeat for you, just ignore, although I have made some edits. thank you.
a short story by ~ Sha’Tara ~
One could almost say she had the characteristics of a winter bird without stretching the comparison. A killdeer on a windswept dune in December heard only after darkness covers the shores, that would describe her presence.
Slim of build, almost translucent of skin, she could stand in perfect stillness beside a doorway and remain unseen by those passing in and out. Generally silent, there was a quality to her voice that demanded stillness and silence. Not from weakness nor self-pity, her way of remaining in the background was her means of allowing her to observe the world, voicing some of her thoughts little more than the occasional soft word. She could just as easily remain alert and active for long hours without apparently tiring. Never was she seen indulging food or drink beyond a body’s basic needs. Her pleasure, and she radiated pleasure, did not emanate from satisfying carnal desires.
She was not what would be called pretty, but she was truly beautiful, with the movements of a small wild animal raising its head to look inquisitively at the world; with the velvety touch of an angel. And what to say of her attire? She wore no makeup and draped herself in the simplest of styles, in second-hand clothes. If asked why she didn’t spend more on herself, she’d smile, as if shyly, and shrug. “It doesn’t go with the innocence of children,” would be the extent of her explanation on the subject.
Certainly, the innocence of a child would have described her. She was called naïve by some. To that she’d reply, “Do not confuse naïvety with innocence. I choose to remain innocent. It is my way of counteracting the many grave faults of this man’s world. Do not make the mistake of thinking I am unaware of what goes on here or helpless to do anything about it.” Only then did her voice take on the severe tone of the Teacher, a tone of voice loaded with implications which none but the awakened caught.
She was an empath. Compassionate. When she interacted with strangers, she mostly smiled and helplessly, they would smile back at her and then at one-another. All children who met her were attracted to her, that is until the time when their innocence was forcibly taken from them. Then she faded from their eyes and their memory. They will not remember her until they get old and tears will roll down their lined faces in realization of what they had encountered; what they could have learned; how much it could have changed their lives.
There were tragedies in her life as in every life. Through it all, she brought hope and comfort where none existed. That was her nature — to give, not to take. It was as if she gave her own flesh and blood to those in need. She “fed and clothed” by what she did not spend on herself – that was one of her “open” secrets. But with each sorrow, her translucence increased. A dawn would come to finally dim her starlight beyond earthly recall.
It didn’t matter what they called her, I recognized her from times before time. She was of the Star Dancers; those whose home is the infinity of the Cosmos; who scatter themselves as stardust over myriad of worlds and touch the lives of countless others. Sadly, yes, some of us get lost and for long periods, sleep in forgetfulness. Our memories of the Star Dancer are but myths in the conflagration of time that burns within our confused minds.
But she did come. A speck of dust on the wind, perhaps, but she appeared on our horizon, burning off into the skies like a meteorite.
What does that matter now that she is gone, you may well ask? What matters is, she came, scattered a bit of magic stardust and there was joy where none was to be had; there was hope where despair had held sway.
What matters is, I can now remember and continue to do some of what she began. How could anyone forget such a passing? How could anyone mourn? How could anyone who ever encountered her not make a supreme effort to remember?
[poem by ~burning woman~ ]
We’ve only just met, so you believe
But I’ve known you for many long years
Watched you grow, watched you develop
Seeing your follies and bewilderments
As your body dragged you into puberty
I made certain you would never see me
Hiding in the shadows that encompassed
Your days, your events, your wet dreams
I sent others to waylay you, to seduce
Desiring to know what you would do
Now I reveal myself to your wondering mind
To your wandering eyes and thoughts
Who is she, you think, can I trust her
You question yourself as you fall deeper
Into my siren image from dream-time lust
It’s simple to pretend we’ve never met
I certainly can and for you it’s true
You only saw me in your adolescent dreams
Dreams I gave you, fed you, for anticipation
Now I manifest from shadows: take me
Can somebody explain this to me? Who is the math wiz who can decipher the following?
Here goes, interesting apparently endless sequence of repeating numbers 3 and 6 given to me in my dreams. I got up at 4 AM one morning to try it out on a calculator, then I typed it out on the computer when I found out it worked. I stopped at 258, as you will see, but it seems to go on forever…
When you add the numbers within each sum result, i.e., 84=12=1+2=3 or 249=15=1+5=6 you always get the same sequence of 3, 6, 3, 6, 3, 6 all the way. Check it out. What fascinates me is that the numbers within the resulting sum number (main number) when added together always add up to 3 and 6 and 3 and 6 repetitively.
Those of you in arithmetic and numerology, do you know what this sequence is? If it is a legitimate sequence, is it known, and does it have a name?
Some interesting totals that show up: 33, 66, 111, 222. Obviously 444 (12) and 555 (15) will have to appear if one continues.
1+2=3, +3=6, +6=12 +(1+2)=15, +(1+5)=21, +(2+1)=24, +(2+4)=30,
+(3+0)=33, +(3+3)=39, +(3+9=12=1+2)=42, +(4+2)=48, +(4+8=12=1+2)=51, +(5+1)=57, +(5+7=12=1+2)=60,
+(6+0)=66, +(6+6=12=1+2)=69, +(6+9=15=1+5)=75, +(7+5=12=1+2)=78, +(7+8=15=1+5)=84, +(8+4=12=1+2)=87,
+(8+7=15=1+5)=93, +(9+3=12=1+2)=96, +(9+6=15=1+5)=102, +(1+0+2)=105, +(1+0+5)=111, +(1+1+1)=114,
+(1+1+4)=120, +(1+2+0)=123, +(1+2+3)=129, +(1+2+9=12=1+2)=132, +(1+3+2)=138, +(1+3+8=12=1+2)=141,
+(1+4+1)=147, +(1+4+7=12=1+2)=150, +(1+5+0)=156, +(1+5+6=12=1+2)=159, +(1+5+9=15=1+5)=165,
+(1+6+5=12=1+2)=168, +(1+6+8=15=1+5)=174, +(1+7+4=12=1+2)=177, +(1+7+7=15=1+5)=183,
+(1+8+3=12=1+2)=186, +(1+8+6=15=1+5)=192, +(1+9+2=12=1+2)=195, +(1+9+5=15=1+5)=201, +(2+0+1)=204
+(2+0+4)=210, +(2+1+0)=213, +(2+1+3)=219, +(2+1+9=12=1+2)=222, +(2+2+2)=228, +(2+2+8=12=1+2)=231,
+(2+3+1)=237, +(2+3+7=12=1+2)=240, +(2+4+0)=246, +(2+4+6=12=1+2)=249, +(2+4+9=15=1+5)=255, +(2+5+5=12=1+2)=258…
So, what am I looking at there, if anything?
[a short story]
It was dark. Night actually. Sometime in the night. I heard a voice, best described as spectral. I am dreaming, I thought as I tried to wake up but I was already awake, obviously, or I was dead. Deep in the silent night it’s often difficult to know if one is alive or dead. Especially when in your mind you have become convinced that “death” is just another form of life, one you’re not quite yet comfortable with.
So let’s say I was alive then, as you would understand that to mean, that I was in a body, and that body was actually functioning. I could move with it, or make it move things. That kind of being alive. For the record.
The voice trembled some. It was difficult to place in terms of gender, or age. It was the voice of an old male child who never quite gained its adult voice. The voice of someone who had done a lot of smoking, perhaps died from it. Again, what does that mean… nothing. And I was dead wrong in my evaluation so let’s not spend more time on that.
“I would tell you of things you should know ere this night ends.” Said the voice.
“Who are you?” I had to ask, you understand. It’s simple human curiosity. We always want to know whom we’re addressing (or undressing, but that’s another topic.)
“I am Noone” the voice said. It pronounced it “Noo Nee”
“What sort of language is that?” I asked.
“It isn’t a language, it’s a statement. I am a statement. I am supposed to be read, not heard. This is terribly inconvenient.”
“You’re telling me!” I exclaimed, somewhat exasperated.
“Yes, indeed I am telling you. That’s why I’m here, to tell you. But I’d rather be read. Can you read me?”
“No, I can’t. You’re a being, (and I thought, I sure hope so!) not a book, or a parchment or scroll. You can’t be read. Spell your name for me, I’m confused by it.”
“Ah well, there you see, you got it wrong in the pronunciation. It is no one. That’s not a name, it means you don’t exist. You are no one.”
“I know. That’s why I keep telling you I’m meant to be read. I can articulate only what I can read. I don’t have a spoken language, only a written one. I am from a written world. We are not a language, or even languages. We are words, we exist only in words, sentences, paragraphs, and of course the more advanced of us exist in stories. I’m just a word construct.”
“So how can you make a voice, then? How can I hear you audibly? How can you articulate, as you put it?”
“How could I answer that? Perhaps putting words together creates certain images and looking at those images, sound emanates in the mind of certain beings? Perhaps… wait… perhaps when I’m near you I’m no longer Noone, I mean no one, but actually someone, or some one?”
“You mean like a living ghost? A “for real” ghost?”
“I cannot read ghost. I do not relate. Perhaps we word beings do not know of your ghost concept. If I were a ghost, what could I do?”
“Well, not much. You could haunt places, make ghoulish sounds and scare the bejeesus out of credulous people. Come to think of it, this would be a good time to try it out.”
“A-good-time. You want me to be happy?”
“Oh, don’t be so literal. No, I mean it’s Halloween. It’s believed that ghosts come out on Halloween and do all sort of mischief, or scare non-ghost types. Ghosts are spirits of the dead, some long ago, some recent. Some ghosts are demons from fire worlds. It is believed they can be nasty. They can even rob you of your soul and when you die to have to become one of them.”
“Not a good time, then. Not a good time at all. I don’t think I want to be a ghost. I think I would scare myself and that would be very inconvenient.”
“Speaking of inconvenient, what was so important that you had to wake me up for, and we had to go through this whole mishmash of weird introduction?”
“Oh, yes. I almost forgot, but I can’t forget, I’m words after all. I’ll read myself to you. You are Anson Jones. You are going to be thirty three years old on October 31. You have made your living from words, having written several novels and three books of poetry. All your income has derived from the use of words. You are a very fortunate man. On midnight of October 31 this year you have qualified, from your life-long use of words, to become a word being. You will be translated into a book. But not just any book. You will become the most important book on Word World. You will, in fact be so important, you will be published as a trilogy. You will enjoy a long shelf life in every library on Word World.
That has never happened on Word World and the anticipation is heating up, a river of ink needed to maintain written word speculation on what your entry will do to our social life, our economics, our very encyclopaedic space. Some articulate it as a revolution. Some write that it is an apocalyptic event. A few crazy word splitters even write that you are he who was predicted to come; that you will bring us into a third dimensional state of consciousness.
So, Mr. Anson Jones of Earth, we shall all await your arrival with bated breath – as a figure of speech of course, we do not breathe as such, we write it. Thank you.”
“What can I say to that? Nothing. I went back to sleep thinking it was a silly dream after all. Was I surprised when I woke up this morning and realized I could not speak, that I could only write my thoughts down? Not really. I just know I used the word “inevitable” a few too many times in my novels. It was sure to turn and bite me in the ass sooner or later.
a short story – by Sha’Tara
Last day of school. Last day of formal training. Jerry Colmack, ignorant of most current political trends and protected from the endless wars they engendered, did not fully understand the reasons that had forced him to become a professional dreamer. From his viewpoint, it had just been an easy way to avoid boring and confusing calculus, physics, geometry, not to mention the hated regimented sports and enforced military training. Not that he wasn’t thoroughly versed in all the sciences, particularly astronomical physics and space navigation, but this knowledge had been absorbed subliminally to impinge upon his consciousness while in out-of-body flight as a unit of superconscious energy…
Nevertheless, as his Mentor was fond of saying, in life there’s no free lunch and now, just when he was developing an unabashed admiration for the fairer sex, he was likely to be chosen to explore for habitable planets. Damn! he mumbled, then rebuked himself. After all, TRAVEL was what he had trained for since the age of nine, his great dream.
But there hadn’t been girls in his dreams then, just his heroes of earliest space flight within his solar system, and now, there were! Particularly, there was Sylvia—lithe, dreamy, with laughter as clear as a mountain brook, black eyes reflecting life’s effervescence and long dark hair worn straight and free, henna and apple-spice, tickling the cheek, filling the air when she bent over you to examine your work, share ideas or whisper… Sylvia…
“MISTER Colmack, may I have your attention, PLEASE!” The voice thundered, shattering his mood. The Mentor was a large man with a voice to match.
“Uh, sorry Mentor, I was dreaming.”
“There is a time for dreaming and a time for listening. All right, everybody. This is your last day together. Soon, you will be assigned your respective duties. Don’t fail your school.” and in a gentler tone: “Don’t fail yourselves… Jerry!”
“Please come with me. The Inspector wants to see you.”
As they crossed the main corridor, he saw Sylvia leave the Inspector’s office. As she stood to attention with her back against the row of green lockers, she bowed low to the boy’s Mentor and stared at Jerry. Her face registered that she wanted to see him urgently. He even felt her trying to mind meld but he shrugged helplessly and discontinuing the effort, she turned away down the hall towards the main exit door.
An old man stood by an open door, holding its shiny brass handle as if for support. He waved them in a Spartan office.
“Inspector.” The Mentor bowed low. Jerry did the same.
“Mentor; graduate.” He gave a short bow of acknowledgment then turned a piercing gaze upon Jerry. “Graduate Colmack, your reports are highly favourable. As there is so little time, I am going to acquaint you with your first assignment in the quickest possible way. I need not go into details. Your preparation and training will fill in the gaps.” He handed Jerry a thin folder. “Memorize these instructions before your departure.”
Departure! He trembled involuntarily. This was it! The culmination of years of training, of enduring the taunts of those who knew nothing of dreaming. “Hey, dreamers, when you gonna get a real job? They should burn down that fancy bedding place of yours! What are the chicks like in sex dreams? What’s space like, spaceball? Bullshit, hogwash! Waste of tax money!” He had heard every kind of derogatory remark, been physically abused and made to feel as if he was responsible for the mess the world was in. Scapegoats, that’s what he and the small select group of his peers were. But it was worth it. He held his orders. He would TRAVEL!
The old man continued, “We now have our cryonics facility fully functional and totally self-maintaining, safely installed one mile underground and served by a fusion generator brought to peak efficiency by the newest computer advances: a combination of chemistry and biology; sentient software. Your shells can now be preserved indefinitely. We are ready to send out our first seekers. You know the task: to locate proper colonizing planets for those who want to leave and start new colonies where there is fresh air and space to grow.” He looked at the smoke floating past the stained windows and sighed. “Graduate Colmack, are you ready to enter upon your greatest adventure?” The question, to Jerry’s surprise was neither rhetorical nor condescending. He really was asking!
What could he answer? He didn’t want to sound too eager… or frightened, and he was indeed ready. He would take the jet lift down and enter the cocoon which would hold his physical body. While in deep sleep, prompted by auto-suggestion, his etheric body or ‘consciousness’ would rise out of his physical body and the sealed cocoon to float unimpeded to the surface. With the power of pure thought, he would leave the earth’s atmosphere. Using a technique developed during previous experiences in super-conscious travel, he would fling his energy consciousness across the time/space boundaries that had confined his race since it had come to inhabit the solar system. Out—into the great void, and to other worlds, other star systems, perhaps even other galaxies, probing, searching, for that one special world. Alone? Would he have to do this by himself? “Yes sir.” he answered simply, and added, somewhat self-consciously, “although I thought that perhaps I would have had a few days to see my family again…”
“I am sorry, Colmack, but your family at the moment is behind enemy lines, so to speak. Revolutionaries have cut communications between this sector and the Van-Mond hills. Perhaps when you return, things will have settled a bit. Listen, Colmack. We need you now. Earth, as a sustainable eco-system, is dying, understand?”
“I think so. Must I attempt this by myself, sir?”
“Shall we tell him, Mentor?” He thought he saw a twinkle in the Inspector’s eye.
“Yes. It is time.”
“Your file indicates you have developed a psychological bonding with a female member of the Institute. Give me her name, please?”
Jerry reddened, fumbled with his folder, uncertain. Had he committed some sort of indecency, violated some rule? Was this a trick to test him, or embarrass him? What about Syl? Had she been grilled about their feelings for each other? For that matter, what were her feelings? At seventeen, he knew practically nothing about girls, and in many ways, Syl had proved experientially his senior by years, even though she was his age… What did the Inspector really want?
“Her name, Jerry?” His voice had softened.
Oh, what the hell… “Sylvia Domona, sir…”
“Thank you, Jerry. You’ve just confirmed our choice. Sylvia is already on her way to cryonics. She will precede you in space by some twelve hours. You will locate her, join your consciousness with hers and together, we hope you will accomplish the miracle we will be waiting for. To avoid explanations and possible embarrassment for her, she was not told whom we would be sending up with her. It will be up to you two to make the adjustments and develop a mutual plan of action. Now remember the basics, boy. In so-called ‘space,’ your pure consciousness will link up with every part of the universe. You will ‘feel’ the stretching and gradually lose sense of self until you find your target and re-enter the ego-field. Remember the law: If you find a suitable host body on a habitable world, you must wipe all memory of your temporary presence from its mind before you withdraw. You must cause no psychological or physical damage. Your presence must remain undetected by the sentients. You must find such a world, one preferably younger than earth by a million or more years, without life harmful to humans, you understand? You possess more than ample knowledge to determine this, if you hold tightly to the disciplines taught at the institute and practiced in your brief training excursions within the solar system. Maintain your current physical sexual orientation at all costs. Enter only a male-type host. Sylvia has been likewise cautioned. Do not attempt a mind-meld with a hermaphroditic sentience. Man may have been such in his earlier stages of development but cannot return to that evolutionary period. Establish the ‘base,’ as per your instructions.
Remember: you are under oath to return to earth, and your earth bodies… whatever your feelings. Likely, you will soon find life in pure consciousness superior to life in the physical shell and will probably not want to return, but keep in mind that once your task is fulfilled, you will have that choice in any case. Do not forget us, son. You are our only hope.”
He cleared his throat. “A couple more things. You have already encountered other disembodied entities or forms of consciousness. You know they will try to attach themselves to you or try to sway you to join with them. That is one of the reasons we decided to have Sylvia accompany you and vice-versa. If the attraction between the two of you is strong, you will be able to tear away from the seduction of these creatures, if we may call them that. You will remain aware that only upon your return to earth will you be able to fulfill the physical attraction burgeoning between you and Sylvia.” He looked keenly, though not unkindly at the embarrassed teen-ager and continued. “Miss Domona rates the highest of all her peers in psychic awareness and intuition and your powers of observation and rationalization are unmatched, making you the perfect pair to attempt this preposterous, though I believe, not impossible, task—space travel and colonization using only the pure energy of the cosmos to carry individuality in consciousness throughout the universe.
“We’ve done everything we could to eliminate danger, loneliness and fear and to ensure your safe return after successfully locating at least one suitable world. Now, if I may express an old earth saying: God speed to the both of you.”
For the first time, Jerry felt a kinship to the old Inspector. He looked at the lined face and into the deep-set blue eyes under thick, graying eyebrows. His eyes involuntarily watered as he extended his hand to the man who had been responsible to single-handedly convince the Ruler, the ‘Max’(assassinated two years ago by his nephew who now held a shaky reign threatened on all sides by vindictive revolutionaries led by the Max’s son) that dream travel was not an aberration deserving mind re-orienting, but could become an opening to the planets of other star systems, under proper guidance, instruction and containment.
With reluctant authorization and funding from who knows where, he had founded the Institute, recruited trainers and trainees, and been instrumental in developing the biological computer that would “man” the cryonics facility. Yet, in the beginning, his plan had been but a ploy to save the minds of young children who registered out-of-body experiences and were being rounded up to have their minds re-trained for possible use as spies.
Of this and other political tricks and risks, Jerry remained blissfully ignorant by design. His task was not to resolve earth’s surface problems, but to open an escape route to habitable worlds in far-flung star systems within the Milky Way, the greatest adventure ever attempted by man.
As he walked boldly and proudly to a waiting heli-craft, all he could think of was the line borrowed from an ancient sci-fi anthology: “Tomorrow, the Stars” and he added “and Sylvia!”
How fitting that man’s new quantum leap in evolution would be harnessed to the greatest motive force known among the race: romance as expressed by the mutual attraction between a man and a woman. Would a planet in the Tau Ceti system some day possess a sacred book that would speak of its Genesis, and remark upon the beginning of its human race via a “Jerry and Sylvia,” with its God represented as an old Inspector in rumpled gray suit, striped tie and twinkling blue eyes under bushy eyebrows? The answer to that question is even now out there, in the stars…
[a dream by ~burning woman~ ]
In the midst of all my writing activity… I fell asleep outside at my back yard computer “desk” while listening to Ana Vidovic playing “Recuerdos de la Alhambra” by Francisco Tarrega. I had a dream, almost a lucid dream.
In this timeless dream I stood in an old Middle Eastern or Turkish city square – the ground surface was of beige stone, as were the houses and walls surrounding this square. There were many people around but deathly silence. I was a tall blonde woman wearing a long white cotton robe draped from the shoulders down to my ankles with the neck carefully and deliberately exposed. I wore long blonde hair down to my waist and I had large, bright blue eyes. What had I been before this ordeal? A captured royal princess? A slave?
My wrists were tied with ropes at my back. Two swarthy men stood at each side of me and in front was an execution scaffold with a depression for a human neck. A very large bald headed man holding an over-sized scimitar stood by the bench, looking down, waiting. All so well staged, I would have smiled had it been a play.
I looked over the crowd and they were all staring at me. The overall impression I was getting was, I was trying very hard to decide how my situation should make me feel. Frightened? Angry? Desperate? Hopeless? Distant? I wanted a feeling to hang on to but each feeling flitted across my mind and none would stick. Should I again try to beg for my life, to argue my innocence? But I already knew it had nothing to do with justice, or innocence, but with religion and politics; with machinations I could not begin to understand. I wasn’t a human being, I was a tool, perhaps a weapon of state craft. My death was necessary to make a point. To whom? I had no idea. It occurred to me then that I did not understand the language being spoken, and no one had ever translated anything for me. But could they understand me?
I would not beg; I would not speak a word. I could not speak.
I realized then I was already dead, so prepared for this inevitability that I had gone past my physical body and was looking at myself from the other side of the ordeal. I could already see my head on the ground and the blood gushing out of my severed neck, over the ground and what had been a pristine white dress and in my mind it was all over. That’s death, I thought.
What does it mean, then, to die like that? I thought about it as I walked slowly to the place of execution, and as I knelt down to put my neck in the curved mold. It means to be utterly alone; it means being just yourself for the first time since the day of birth. It means a new birth, however frightening, however painful, however devastatingly stripped of everything that your life, your beauty, your dreams or everything else that ever meant anything to you or anyone. This is it. One life’s, however brief, final crossroads. Did I see a friend, a lover, a possible “knight in shining armour” to save me in the crowd? Honestly it would not have mattered, I no longer desired to be known, loved, or saved. I no longer belonged here. My feelings were dead.