Saya
The Wisp
1919, Japan
Grey, thick morning. The air flowed around me on the porch. I could not see beyond my fingers, it was almost oily, this humid air.
The scent was dewy, modest and slight. The trees beyond, which were blind to me, gave my nose a soft birch scent. Imagined colors, slim and white in the breath of the twirling fog.
As if my eyes were closed, the scents drifted around me in a dancing silence. Undulating and free, yet caught in the tiny mists, making everything cleaner and enhanced in the droplets.
As the birch swirled in waves, so too did other trees. Maple, beech wood. Ao ganpi, little buds of bright yellow on the tiny branches, the exception.
My nose pinched for a second, then recovered, catching the scent of a pine and then more birch. A skip in the timeline, a hole. My eyes came alive, as if in fire.
The grey became colors. Hints of them, swirls and scents twirling in a dizzying array.
Far away, the sawdust unmistakable, the scent of white. Of yellow, blonde and pale skin.
A young girl bowed to me far away, hands stretching a tail of long swan feathers from her feet to her arms outstretched in finality. Clear crystal blues in her face were staring downward, at a ground which did not exist any longer. The grey threatened to envelope her altogether, engulf her in the dream of her.
As she stood still, I watched her pull swan feathers out of her body. White, long branches, cascaded from her arms.
As I watched, Ophelia, the young swan, found her wings.
And as a wisp, just as she did before, she stepped away into a grey fog of memories to a place I could not find.
YOU ARE READING
Demon Stories: Vol. 2
Misteri / ThrillerDemons, angels, in between. Human or monster? Monster or ill-lived? The sea calls and the sea takes, the sky weeps and the sky dances. For those who will, the sea and sky make peace. For those who are desperate, the earth in the middle makes a home...
