And Soon They’ll Carry Him Away
Life as theater. That’s a funny line, given my experience with it. I remember wading out into the middle of the creek. It ran high, because of all the rain that spring, and I couldn’t see the bottom too well. I picked my way out there to claim one of His work shirts, snagged on some underwater rock.
And, I couldn’t stop looking at the sky. It was weighted down with more rain.
I slipped on a rock and fought to keep my face above the silty water as I studied the angry sky. Tried to imagine the shapes in the clouds. Who they were. What they would become. To divert my mind from my dilemma.
Was I dying? Drowning? Seizing? My body was doing something I couldn’t understand. Couldn’t control. I roiled along with the current and hoped someone would recognize me, that my face wouldn’t be bashed in when I ran aground.
I reached for a puff of white shirt. Or I tried. My arm was dead as the cloth bloomed over my face. I watched the clouds of material obliterate the purple sky.
And purple faded to black.
A fiction series to explore a phobia. Read the introductory installment here and the second installment here.
Prince to the rescue.
Purple rain. I like it.
Thanks Lou. I needed a little Prince to get me going today.
I aim to please.
Wow! Never has a death scene been so beautiful.
It sort of has an Ophelia quality to it, though.
Without the pretty Shakespearean language.
WOah. That’s a beautiful image of her possibly dying and drowning. Lovely contrast.
I struggled with this scene, so I am glad to hear that it works.
Excellent. Peaceful yet action packed at the same time. “And purple faded to black.”
This may be the most peace she’s had in a while.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
His shirt as her shroud – there’s the rub indeed! Mesmerising.
I never think of these connections as I write them, Jim. That is an interesting metaphor.
A true lady, she worries about her face to her last breath. So sad and beautiful at the same time.
What’s funny is that I write these things when I’m NOT sad. When I’m sad, I tend to skew toward comedy.
As I was reading this, it seemed like it ought to be a poem, rather than a prose piece. Great imagery. Do you suppose this is what it felt like to Virginia Woolf?
I wonder.
Gorgeous and sad and well-written and I want more.
Thanks, Lance. Hope you have a great weekend.
Someone, anyone, but preferably someone good and caring, fish her out!
I am truly becoming more and more a Pollyanna — don’t like dark, sad endings.
It’s good that I made you care about her that much in two posts, Karen.
I’m hoping this isn’t the end, Andra, great writing!
Tomorrow’s installment is in the queue.
Oooh. I sense escape from a life less lived, still less regretted…
Maybe someone will regret her. I hope there’s someone to regret everyone who’s been.
Oh my…are we moving on so quickly? I do think the imagery of her looking for cloud shapes in the sky–much better than having life flash before her eyes!
I love how the dying is half dream here; I wonder if it’s really like that.
I hope it is a while before either of us finds out.