Ambience
A short tale about losing & remembering joy...
after “Let Me Begin Again” by Major Jackson & The Witching Hour community/workshop with Yoda Olinyk ❤️🔥 🌱 🪐
*cover photo taken & shared by the wonderful Lida Pavlova (@lidapavlova_magic on Instagram)
On the afternoon the girl reached adulthood, she walked among the evergreens at the edge of town. What happened next happened suddenly: a sharp bone of granite fell from a cliff, cleaving her in two like a bifurcated twig. Amber & Ebullience (Ebby, for short).
When the granite fell, it spilt the flesh of a nearby tree. The resin poured onto Ebby, suspending her tender stride in clear gold.
They hadn’t been separated for long, so it’s not surprising that Amber kept walking, not realizing Ebby’s place beside her was vacant. She forgot to remember Ebby, and of course, never thought to visit her or search for how to free her.
Five autumns of forest sinew closed around Ebby’s paused body, protecting her from harm. She remained the same,—the opposite of being frozen in ice so cold it flash-freezes death—cuddled from every side by sweet nectar, preserved in life that could continue if she were chiselled free.
Amber, however, was much changed. She stopped leaving her cottage. She stopped speaking. She was humbled by loneliness—stuck to emptiness like a mosquito to sparkling spiderwebs.
The few times she ventured among the villagers, she felt worse. Amber noticed, acutely, all who were indifferent, who were unaccepting of her without Ebby, or who thought her dead. Perhaps they were right.
One day, Amber fell so hard she couldn’t stop the bleeding on her shins. The smell was penetrating and sharp. Iron. Iron enough to slice tree resin. Ebby. Iron enough in her own blood. My own blood. But I can’t be me if I free her? Am I not most me as just Amber?
She thought of gripping Ebby’s hand, wondering what their fingers would be laced with.
Perhaps the sun, twinkling in the cut chunks of resin.
Maybe the moon, making the pile look like fire.
An Ambience for which there would be a potluck of ambiences, into which the village might melt, softly, licking their lips.
Maybe Amber hadn’t seen those who believed Ebby was still alive; those who were patiently—though not unpainfully—waiting.
She could see them now, at least.
So she ran away, for the time being.
That is to say, she began again.
I also write notes! ❤️🔥