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It's time for the AUGUST challenge,
CHANGE OF HEART.
CHANGE OF HEART.
LET ME FALL
{872 words}
{872 words}
"Let me fall,
Let me climb,
There is a moment when fear
And dream must collide."
I am the last of my race. I am Tuatha de Danann. And, no, human, that does not mean elf, or fae, or damned. I take that last back.
I am damned.
"Someone I am
Is waiting for courage,
The one I want,
The one I will become,
Will catch me."
I have no memories of my youth. Youth. The word is a mockery to me.
Though I look a young woman, I have lived centuries which I do remember. I remember when the sphinx had a nose,
when the pyramids were caressed by shimmering limestone,
and when courage and honor were not hollow words.
Yes, that long ago do I remember.
"Let me fall,
If I fall,
Though the phoenix
May or may not rise."
Then how do I even know I am Tuatha de Danann? The knowledge sings to me from the depths of my spirit in the night.
Its melody mocks with teasing glimpses of a time long gone, yet unborn.
"I will dance so freely,
Holding on to no one;
You can hold me only
If you, too, will fall
Away from all your
Useless fears and chains."
How do I know I am Sidhe? It is the face which mocks me from the mirror.
High cheekbones which seem intent on bursting up and out of flesh which shimmers as if coated with stardust.
A living waterfall of honey-wheat hair, looking more like a lion's mane than any other earthly term I could use.
Large, slanted fae eyes, chilling even me with their lack of warmth or mercy.
"So let me fall,
If I must fall,
There is no reason
To miss this one chance
This perfect moment;
Just let me fall."
But enough about me. What do you think about me? On second thought, do not tell me.
What care I what humans think of me? But I lie. I do care. At least about what one human thinks of me.
Roland Yeomans. DreamSinger.
He is Lakota myth come to life.
Let me climb,
There is a moment when fear
And dream must collide."
I am the last of my race. I am Tuatha de Danann. And, no, human, that does not mean elf, or fae, or damned. I take that last back.
I am damned.
"Someone I am
Is waiting for courage,
The one I want,
The one I will become,
Will catch me."
I have no memories of my youth. Youth. The word is a mockery to me.
Though I look a young woman, I have lived centuries which I do remember. I remember when the sphinx had a nose,
when the pyramids were caressed by shimmering limestone,
and when courage and honor were not hollow words.
Yes, that long ago do I remember.
"Let me fall,
If I fall,
Though the phoenix
May or may not rise."
Then how do I even know I am Tuatha de Danann? The knowledge sings to me from the depths of my spirit in the night.
Its melody mocks with teasing glimpses of a time long gone, yet unborn.
"I will dance so freely,
Holding on to no one;
You can hold me only
If you, too, will fall
Away from all your
Useless fears and chains."
How do I know I am Sidhe? It is the face which mocks me from the mirror.
High cheekbones which seem intent on bursting up and out of flesh which shimmers as if coated with stardust.
A living waterfall of honey-wheat hair, looking more like a lion's mane than any other earthly term I could use.
Large, slanted fae eyes, chilling even me with their lack of warmth or mercy.
"So let me fall,
If I must fall,
There is no reason
To miss this one chance
This perfect moment;
Just let me fall."
But enough about me. What do you think about me? On second thought, do not tell me.
What care I what humans think of me? But I lie. I do care. At least about what one human thinks of me.
Roland Yeomans. DreamSinger.
He is Lakota myth come to life.
He is the shaman who sings dreams to life.
And he will tell me my beginnings or die.
"So let me fall,
If I must fall,
I won't heed your warnings;
I won't hear them."
My mind is churning with images humans could not comprehend as I sway up the steps of the Art Nouveau house,
that is just one of the doorways into Roland’s psyche.
Just its name alone is punishment to think, much less speak: Jugendstilhaus in der Ainmillerstrabe.
Once it had been the home of the infamous Countess Franziska zu Reventlow,
her erotic lifestyle and cosmic nonsense had inspired and broken the hearts of an entire generation in Munich.
Now it has to settle for being the most elite restaurant in the city.
No knocking on the door.
This restaurant is much too elite for that. Only a rare electronic key will work … a key based on the silicon ingrams of Roland’s own brain.
I have mine in my longer than human fingers. Roland had sung this establishment into being along with most of Munich back when he used the pen name, The Brothers Grimm.
I slide the key through the black slot whose color matches my short-skirted version of a S.S. uniform.
True, I am some seventy years out of date. But what is seventy years to a Tuatha de Danann?
A mere hiccup in time.
I remember Wagner trying to teach me German ... among other things. I go cold inside.
I remember too much, feel too little.
I enjoy the glares of the pompous patrons as I roll my hips to the back table reserved for DreamSinger alone.
The maitre d' nearly breaks his neck getting to me, but I am already seated, making sure my short skirt is hiked up suitably indecent to induce doomed desire.
He stands trembling over me as I take out my copy of The Spirit as Adversary of the Soul by old Ludwig Klages from my skirt pocket.
I am almost through with his nonsense. Seeing how close he can come to the truth, while stumbling right past it always makes me chuckle.
The maitre d' isn't close to chuckling. "Fraulein, you simply cannot wear that uniform in here!"
"Sure I can. What is the matter? Afraid those power brokers to our right will find out your grandfather wore this uniform for real?"
He spins around so fast he leaves an after-image. Roland clears his throat across the table from me.
“He cannot help his past.”
I study this strange man. His eyes. By the White Lady, his eyes.
They look as if they have seen all the pain in the world … and have felt most of it.
“I’m tired of this dancing, DreamSinger. Who am I?”
Roland looks truly surprised. “I thought you knew. You are my muse, La Belle Dame sans Merci .”
"Is that my name or my nature?"
"Both."
I sit back in my chair. I had been right, after all.
I am damned.
"So let me fall,
If I must fall,
I won't heed your warnings;
I won't hear them."
My mind is churning with images humans could not comprehend as I sway up the steps of the Art Nouveau house,
that is just one of the doorways into Roland’s psyche.
Just its name alone is punishment to think, much less speak: Jugendstilhaus in der Ainmillerstrabe.
Once it had been the home of the infamous Countess Franziska zu Reventlow,
her erotic lifestyle and cosmic nonsense had inspired and broken the hearts of an entire generation in Munich.
Now it has to settle for being the most elite restaurant in the city.
No knocking on the door.
This restaurant is much too elite for that. Only a rare electronic key will work … a key based on the silicon ingrams of Roland’s own brain.
I have mine in my longer than human fingers. Roland had sung this establishment into being along with most of Munich back when he used the pen name, The Brothers Grimm.
I slide the key through the black slot whose color matches my short-skirted version of a S.S. uniform.
True, I am some seventy years out of date. But what is seventy years to a Tuatha de Danann?
A mere hiccup in time.
I remember Wagner trying to teach me German ... among other things. I go cold inside.
I remember too much, feel too little.
I enjoy the glares of the pompous patrons as I roll my hips to the back table reserved for DreamSinger alone.
The maitre d' nearly breaks his neck getting to me, but I am already seated, making sure my short skirt is hiked up suitably indecent to induce doomed desire.
He stands trembling over me as I take out my copy of The Spirit as Adversary of the Soul by old Ludwig Klages from my skirt pocket.
I am almost through with his nonsense. Seeing how close he can come to the truth, while stumbling right past it always makes me chuckle.
The maitre d' isn't close to chuckling. "Fraulein, you simply cannot wear that uniform in here!"
"Sure I can. What is the matter? Afraid those power brokers to our right will find out your grandfather wore this uniform for real?"
He spins around so fast he leaves an after-image. Roland clears his throat across the table from me.
“He cannot help his past.”
I study this strange man. His eyes. By the White Lady, his eyes.
They look as if they have seen all the pain in the world … and have felt most of it.
“I’m tired of this dancing, DreamSinger. Who am I?”
Roland looks truly surprised. “I thought you knew. You are my muse, La Belle Dame sans Merci .”
"Is that my name or my nature?"
"Both."
I sit back in my chair. I had been right, after all.
I am damned.
To read more adventures of Fallen, buy THE LAST FAE in
Kindle, Print, or Audible:
Brothers Grim, and a solitary Sister Grimmer.
ReplyDeleteAn intriguing take on the prompt.
I try not to be predictable. Thanks for liking this effort. :-)
DeleteRoland I had to stop and think about the image of the maitre d' 'spins around so fast he leaves an after-image.' Love it. But a rather grim picture all the same.
ReplyDeleteInteresting take on the prompt, Roland. Missed you last time. Glad to see you back.
Denise
Your email reminder to me last month must have been sent wrongly to the spam folder ,,, and this one as well. Luckily, I spotted a word about it on FB. I am so seldom on social media these days. This has got to change with the release of my audio book and new collection of horror tales! :-)
DeleteYes, I'm now using MailChimp and they often go to spam. Guess they have to be careful these days!
DeleteWhat I truly like about your entry is the rhythm. You have a sort of answer back with your Let me fall phrases. This poetic touch enhances your grim tale and kept me reading.
ReplyDeleteGood job.
Shalom aleichem,
Pat G
That means a lot. Thank you, Pat
DeleteReally liked how you answered and questioned and gave depth to thought. Nicely done indeed.
ReplyDeleteI didn't know if readers would like this format or not. Thanks for letting me know that you felt it rang true. :-)
DeleteA unique take on the prompt for sure. I like the combination. Well done!
ReplyDeleteWell, I like to take a different slant to prompts to catch folks unexpected. :-)
DeleteHi Roland - certainly a unique take on the prompt and your way of handling your posts ... I too enjoyed the prospect of her falling, yet she stayed ... and worse she is damned. Cheers Hilary
ReplyDeleteSometimes when you find yourself falling the only left to do is to enjoy the view, right? Thanks for visiting, Hilary. :-)
DeleteI like how you use some of your characters to fit the WEP challenges. I would like to see the Sphinx with its nose in place, and hear its memories. Hope all is well with you, Roland.
ReplyDeleteThere is an abscess on my back that is making driving a challenge! And time is shrinking quicker than I can find it!! Mark Twain had the same thoughts about the sphinx when he saw it in Egypt. I wrote about them in DEATH IN THE HOUSE OF LIFE. His thoughts are moving and eloquent. So nice to see you here!
DeleteI like the intertwining poetry and prose, it sort of draws us even deeper into the rhythm of her thoughts. And what a muse! She holds so much of history, and is vulnerable yet daring. I wonder what she'd order at the restaurant...
ReplyDeleteIce tea brewed from the melted snowflake tears of angels. Thanks, Deniz, for liking my little story. :-)
ReplyDeleteI'm fascinated by your story--the rhythm, the images you evoke. The combo of prose and poetry makes this such a great piece. Well done.
ReplyDeleteHow very nice of you to say, Diane.
DeleteYou have a Celtic muse. Is she the one saying to let go of your fears.
ReplyDeleteTalking to herself and off-handedly suggesting I do the same. :-)
DeleteAlways a cadence to your work and a poetic diction, very evocative. Interesting read. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Nilanjana. Means a lot coming from you.
DeleteA nice mix of poetry and prose, giving the overall mixture a sense of rhythm. Well done.
ReplyDeleteThat's very nice of you. :-)
DeleteYou have a unique take on the prompt as always. Your writing really flows here, and the imagery was phenomenal. Well done!
ReplyDeleteOn a weary, painful work day, your words are a balm. Thanks
DeleteI enjoyed the blend of prose and poetry, history and modern day, reality and non-reality.
ReplyDeleteIt was a gamble. I'm happy it worked for you. :-)
DeleteThis is a really cool take on the prompt. The back and forth between poetry and prose added to the elegance of this mystery. This is a delightful mixture of so many things. Thanks for sharing your story.
ReplyDeleteFallen would like that you think her words elegant. :-)
DeleteI like where you went with this. I love the mythical creature used for this story, the way you mentioned remembering when the sphinx had a nose. Great work, really. I'd read a longer version of this.
ReplyDeleteThat's great of you to say. I think you would lIke the chapter, "Lies That Locusts Tell" in THe Last Fae.
DeleteWhat a fantastic mixture of mythology and history. There's so much wonderful imagery in this piece. I particularly liked the skirt hiking up beyond decency.
ReplyDeleteThat skirt hiking is Fallen to a T! I am so happy you enjoyed her introspective bit of poetry and prose. :-)
DeleteRoland, oh Roland, you weave so many images with your words that I wonder who you really are. Did you only pretend to die in the Pass of Roncevalles? Anyway, as soon as I read Tuatha de Danann, I was swept into your world...into your magic spell. I sensed that this was your muse and smiled at your deceit, nay your craft. (Mine of course is Welsh with Breton blood.)
ReplyDeleteA potent muse is yours, sir. Odd to write to another Roland, isn't it? My mother named me Roland and gave me the middle name, Durand, (Not Durandel the sword's true name as she didn't want me picked on too much!)
DeleteShe read me the Song of Roland, impressing upon me that pride is a weakness not a strength; A sure sense of self grounded in compassion was much better.
If I were the Roland of the pass of Roncevalles, I would be wise to keep it a secret, right? :-)
Been aware of you for some time - a few centuries. Strangely, my mother spent a few years of her childhood in France so read Chanson du Roland in its original language. So, I was named after the hero - and a great uncle. She gave me a child's version of the 'chanson' when I was young - I still have it.
DeleteI spent a whole century just last week at work! We were both named after Roland, too? How vraiment incroyable. :-) I envy you that child's version of the "chanson."
DeleteThanks for following. I am losing too many recently.