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Una Mañana Mas - One More Tomorrow by Theresa C Newbill - [1,007 words]
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The Mystic Vagabond
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Residual Effect by Theresa C Newbill - [623 words]
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TITLE (EDIT)
The Mystic Vagabond |
DESCRIPTION
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[525 words] |
AUTHOR
Theresa C Newbill |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
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[May 2007] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (8)
El Gallito (The Rooster) (Short Stories) Political [745 words]
Nostradamus's Revenge (Short Stories) - [197 words]
Reflections 1 (Short Stories) - [534 words]
Residual Effect (Short Stories) - [623 words]
The Engagement (Short Stories) - [1,641 words]
The Salty Skeleton (Short Stories) Haitian Voodoo [1,000 words]
Una Mañana Mas - One More Tomorrow (Short Stories) - [1,007 words]
White Horses (Short Stories) - [993 words]
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The Mystic Vagabond
Theresa C Newbill
Beauty is all around you. All you have to do is, turn around.
A Tribute To All Writers And To Those Who Inspire Them.
So, why did you become a writer?
The Mystic Vagabond
I was five years old when I first invoked the Moon Goddess. I wasn't a High Priestess and Wicca was a foreign word to me. I was just a kid taking a midnight stroll around the neighborhood with my mother. We did that often when my father was home screaming out in pain and waiting for the Nyquil to take effect. Back then the doctors sent cancer patients home to die with no more than an over the counter drug to deal with the physical discomfort. That night, like many nights before it, we walked. The usual crowd was gathered around Dominick's Social Club. There were men playing dominoes and cards challenging anyone to a game while a young group of women watching them were drinking illegally. I could see the Go-Go dancers on stage everytime the door opened and closed while a yokel was trying his hand at clever lyrics and catchy tunes on an acoustic guitar. I loved the fast paced action of the nights and the way my mother's soft hands held mine in the sense against calamity. The rendezvous were always the same but this night things were different. Solemnity was whirling around in the gutters of casual litter. And I loved the darker iridescences, the moments of just being. It was then that the eye of a vagabond caught my smile. He spoke some poetic gibberish about a lover's sighs for accessible bliss and the spirit's vulnerability when it stands before an inflexible. My mother compared him to an idiot minstrelling without bells, but there was something about his face. One sole face at night is an inconsistant thing, like a photograph of fate. One voice repeating, one tireless chorister, in the luster of a full moon. "A stone never changes, " He concluded. And with that prophecy everything around me seemed to magnify. There was an odor evoking orchids and when I looked at the moon it had a peculiar purple luminous flittering mist, like a momentary color where essences were changing. A cool wind was blowing, swirling about the mist with motion and force. I was drawn to the freshness of the moon, the freshness I found within myself. It wasn't a transformation. It was a moment of heightened rational reasoning and knowledge where the cool air passed into harmonious heat. My ears popped and I remember my head turning, my eyes searching the mystic vagabond out, only to find him gone. We reason these things out later in life;the words spoken, the voices in our head, but beneath, far underneath the surface, our souls know that the nothingness has a point and it is not beyond the process of thought. But it is a choice. Time comes and goes with silence, solemn sentences, and interior monologues. I am now the poet, searching for another naked being with a naked will that will ride the cosmos with me. My voice born from the body of the world!
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2006 Theresa C Newbill |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
May 2007 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1714
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