Steven Hight
k1
She appears in a scene from a post-apocalyptic dream. Although it’s the middle of the day, the urban streets are empty, devoid of movement or any sign of life. The only sound to be heard is a vaguely menacing whisper of wind; somewhere nearby in a partially-opened window, the breeze rattles a set of venetian blinds. There is no smell in the dream…no exhaust fumes, no spicy scent of cooking, no trash on the curb, no coffee brewing.
With a sudden clacking of summer shoes and a slash of bright color, she sabers across your peripheral vision. You turn your head and catch a glimpse, the briefest glimpse, of long hair, bare arms and a party dress. You think…you think…you can smell the faintest insinuation of perfume. And you know her name, you know it so deeply that it must have been embedded in your genes for a thousand generations, yet your tongue will not/can not form it.
A dream. A fleeting moment in a dream. A pallid and transient sensation revealed and re-hidden all in a fleeting moment in a dream. Perhaps in another thousand generations it will be possible to speak her name.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, greg fallis and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
