Tuesday, 25 September 2007

MOYA by Marion de la Croix

(The assignment was to describe an object so the emotional state of the narrator (point of view/character) is revealed without telling the reader what the emotional state is or what motivated the "said" state.)

The thorn imbedded deep in his toughened sole. His foot had swollen to three times its normal size and coupled with a soaring temperature he felt disorientated. Unable to progress another pace Moya crawled into the shade of a nearby acacia. His village lay in the distance and although he surveyed the mountainside through eyes unfocused with age, he saw no one he could summon. His emaciated body was powerless to fight the fever and he sensed he only had a few hours before death carried him over the horizon.

He lay down and his eyes misted over. He sighed and closed them, in preparation for his progress along the death avenue his ancestors had forecast by the drawings on the cave walls. Each man, so the proverb went, could decide on their own reincarnation.

Moya opened his eyes and just as he had imagined, the avenue wound ahead amongst a backdrop of clouds. He soared slowly above the pathway like a dove, pain and fever dispersed and the natural desire to breathe fell away. He allowed his senses to diminish with every wing flap. Nothingness enveloped him and like the butterfly he venerated, he had become cocooned in its chrysalis of suspended animation.

Without regret, he thought of his new wife Shana barely fifteen and sixth in his harem. Now the women could argue amongst themselves without his admonition.

Life withdrew and left a rack of bones and desiccated skin. In his ultimate vision he saw his remains fall away and his soul emerged into the butterfly.

Marion de la Croix ©

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