In honor of Mina Lobo’s second Bloggiversary, she’s hosting a Resurrection Blogfest. Writerly folks resurrect a favorite post published within the past year that they’d like to revisit. Click HERE for a list of more fun peeps to reminisce with!
I started this blog the tail end of March, so I didn’t have to travel far. One of my favorite posts was the final “sneak peek” of my YA novel series, THE ESSENCE OF MEMORY. Zodiac was originally published April 30th, 2013.
Featured Artist: ReyeD33 A special thanks to the talented Roko for providing such incredible images for my tales.
Inspiring Soundtrack: Michael Danna – Life Of Pi – Tsimtsum
Sanctuary of Samothrace
I watch him fall in the scorching path of blinding light. The last of my hope falling with him.
I run to Talos, his crumpled form empty of life. I drop to my knees, powerless to undo what has been done. His beautiful gift, sculpted in my image, lay battered and broken, never again whole.
A reflection of my shattered soul.
In that moment, with love bleeding into the earth, I prayed for death. I scream at the offending stars that dare shine their traitorous light. The scales are no longer balanced. Justice has abandoned us.
I understood, for the first time in my existence, the mercy of forgetting. I longed to be numb…to rid myself of the agony that feeds on tortured memories.
If I cannot join his soul in this life, I will follow him to the depths of the Underworld. I will quench my thirst for peace from the river Lethe.
I will surrender my immortality and slip into the comforting arms of oblivion…
I watch intently as she studies each piece of antiquity in the exhibit, knowing they must tug at the deepest recesses of her consciousness. Though millennia have passed, it is no less painful, remembering what she has forgotten.
She stares at a life-size replica in the traveling display, curiosity etched on her expression. It is my sculpture, The Essence of Memory, that has her so transfixed. I shaped it in her image, on the island of Samothrace, in a time of love and legends.
It’s beauty was shattered the night of my death. An eternity of battered and broken pieces…remnants scattered across a forgotten sanctuary, never again whole.
The strewed remains of a memory. The loss of Mnemosyne…
She goes by Synora in this life. At seventeen, she is more radiant than I’ve ever seen, more like the ethereal form she abandoned so long ago.
My fingers still ache to capture her image, as I have done for centuries.
I focus on sketching her eyes, striking and unchanged with each new life.
“That’s amazing! You’re really talented” a girl declares, stealing a glance over my shoulder. “Hey, that looks just like Synora! Minus the wings and toga party ensemble,” she babbles, “Are you an art student here?” she pins me with a questioning look.
“Cuz, if you’re crushing on my girl over there, she digs artsy guys. But not psycho stalkers skulking in corners, secretly observing her every move,”she says pointedly, eyeing me with an offending amount of suspicion.
Before I can react, she snatches my book and darts away. “Back in a sec lover boy,” she calls behind her back.
My gut clenches. I watch, helpless, as the scene unfolds.
“This is a token of affection from a very hot, but sketchy, sketch artist,” the girl announces proudly, shoving my notebook into her hands.
“Saras, we don’t steal from starving artists,” Synora scolds, glancing briefly at the open pages.
But then she saw it, her own face, brilliantly blended with the statue of the Winged Victory of Samothrace, making it whole, unbroken, unchanged…
She flips the pages back and gasps.
“Who did this…these…drawings?” Synora demands, shaking my book.
“Whoa!” Saras snatches the book from Synora’s grasp, flipping erratically through the pages.
I barely hear their words over the frantic beating of wings against the cage of my chest.
“These are all of you!” Saras gapes. “Oh. My. God. He is a sketchy stalker!”
“Saras, where is he?” Synora pleads, grabbing my book and pushing her friend forward, frantically searching the crowd.
Her eyes find me.
Thousands of years have passed without her seeing me
The pages of her past slip from her grasp and fall to the floor.
© 2013 Samantha Redstreake Geary