from a novel-in-progress:
The earliest memory of her father was her last. In time Violet Sweet wondered if this memory was knit by threads of facile imagination, or if it were real at all. Or, if the unspooling of a dream was that in which it grounded the entirety of her bed-rocked unconsciousness determining the remainder of her life.
Violet on her back. Clouds cold as broken slate slid by like sheets of ice in an ice-choked river. Icy grass blades poked through her blouse. She felt the earth hand palming her like a supplicating giant. Night fell. A sheet of torn fabric; light poking through. Still she lie in twilight’s autumn rush watching shooting stars, a chasmic vault scratched the cathedral of the world knowing not what might be, but what IS to be.
Violet slipped off her blouse and dropped it to the grass. She stepped out of her jeans. The night air dropped like diamonds on bare skin. The world thrums. It spins to imminent peril. She feels its burning core, a hot iron pressing through autumn loam. Penance to the sinning back burdening the sins of the world. She is sexless, ageless, soulless, the tissue-torn soul detached from the pilings of her heart. She lie succumbing to divine absence, a detached soul in communion with a reflected pool, as formless as clouds, as direct as sunrays. The skies are an iron press, hard on her chest where someday breasts will emerge, and thighs, slightly parted, to give birth to bottled heat. The vacuum within her solar plexus. Eyes are the causeway between this instance and all that comes thereafter. A drifting chasm of space beguiled. A birth of awareness, that there is something other than her, her ears drumming the rolling bars of sea battering the shore, almost smiling knowing that what is brought to her, she will one day give back unabidingly.