There are places I remember, galaxies where energy forces appear to blur the boundaries of the natural known laws of physics. These places overlap what is possible and what is thought to be inherently impossible...regions where thought energy and physical reality come together. From the beginning of the idea of time, these places have been called many names in the ancient language of the little know space travelers that guard them.
"You must protect and care for her as if she was born to you. Teach her in the ways of her Drachon ancestors. She is from two heroic bloodlines that were forbidden to marry. However, as you can see, their love and the passion of attraction were stronger than the bonds of planetary rules." Wrapped in a silk woven blanket of rainbow colours, the baby cooed and gurgled, her wide eyes starring at the scare face man who roughly shoved the bundle into the grasp of Wonew Maet. The stout and heavily armored women stepped back in shock.
"You can't expect to take care of this. Are you out of your ever-loving mind? I don't know anything about babies. I lost an arm in battle. You need two strong arms to take care of a baby." Wonew Maet held up her stump left arm as she cradled the baby in her right.
"You will learn. Noblesse Oblige." said the Captain sternly. A slight smile folded the ugly scar that ran from his temple to his chin as if it were weathered parchment.
"What's done is done, what you cradle in your arm is the hope of our people and yours. All of you will be safe here on Ploutos. The Magistrate Dactyls will be hunting for her, so keep her hidden, keep her safe until she is of the age to fight them."
"Oh! Oh! The little..." with a look of disgust, and turned-up nose, Wonew Maet held the baby at arm length.
The laughter of the Captain echoed through the rocky canyon as he walked to his spaceship, the infamous Coq au vin.
3 comments:
Learning to be a popular writer isn't the same as being a good writer, so I've been told. I want to be both. My daddy told me to always remember, behind the clouds the sun is shinning even on the rainiest of days. He would read Shakespear to me as bedtime stories. The comfort I felt in the sound of his voice would put me to sleep. I love language. Writing stories is fun. To laugh and cry and learn is all part of the story. I miss a special friend who teaches me the different aspects of how to write good stories. I'm greatful for time given to me to learn even more about myself and the world around us.
The other day a man made a comment that I didn't have a ring on my finger. An angery feeling came over me because of the way he said it. I said something about not having a ring in my nose. He said writing stories on my blog doesn't count as real writing. I guess that's because I don't charge money. I refuse to let money control me. The stories of my life and the stories from my imagination are my assets? I'm blessed with a strong treasure chest in that aspect. It takes valuble time to learn how to write well. It even takes time to learn how to write trash. :)
I have a married friend with a nipple ring who sticks with me through good times and bad. Friendship and trust is also an asset.
I have to imagine that the no ring comment in part inspired your "The Open Bottle Message" post. Writing stories on the wall of your cave counts as real writing. I wonder how many eons such writings at this may last, and what future digital archeologists will make of them???
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