The Universe is old enough
A micro story on a macro subject
The tiny asteroid slowly swayed in the gentle currents of solar wind. Dust particles that still remembered the youthful vigor of the universe shimmered and streamed around ancient rocks.
Paula sighed. Her eyes behind the plastic visor of her helmet were like two deep blue wells. Star diamonds trembled and shimmered at the bottom.
"But, Jim," she whispered, "what about the Universe?"
He smiled, slowly undoing the numerous clasps of her spacesuit.
"The Universe is all grown up, baby. It should be able to take care of itself for one night."
About the Creator
Vadim Kagan
I believe that each day is a blessing, every story is amazing and all poems should rhyme!
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Midnight
You finally obey the voices and very carefully wake up, trying to breathe slowly and deeply. The bedroom is filled with live golden light, shifting, and stirring as if a dozen candles are nodding to some imperceptible breeze. There is a woman sitting at the foot of the bed, nude, her back very straight, arms extended, and it takes you a long second to realize that this is your wife – her hair seems longer and of slightly wrong color, and she is quietly chanting: “Aum ing quorro, aum ing quorro…” The light seems to grow dense around her as she speaks, only to roll back to the walls leaving her silhouette shimmering with afterglow. “Aum ing quorro!” - she keeps insisting, familiar steel appearing in her voice - “Aum ing quorro!” Still, the waves of light come and go, throwing the shadows up and down the curtains. “What do the neighbors see?” - you wonder fleetingly, and then the woman brings her hands together, palms facing up. “Aum ing quorro!” - the voice is so low now that you feel it resonate inside your chest. The light coalesces again, but this time it forms a glowing sphere in her hands, and then she brings it against her chest and for a moment you can see the rib cage through the gold radiance of her skin, and then the light fades and you hear her soft satisfied laugh in the darkness. You hear the usual crawling under the blanket rustle and then it is quiet, with only a faint sound of a truck engine far away. And then you realize two things: you have never opened your eyes, and you can see the stars through the roof.
By Vadim Kaganabout a year ago in Fiction
Seasons Of Serenity
Bryn has got all the celebrity status he ever wanted. Pretty much, everything he touched turns into gold. This, within the art circles. Still, he was always surrounded by glamour and praise, but inside him there was an empty, desolate wasteland of an artist. He had sold out for the fame and the glory, letting gigs replace principles and objections replace magic. Yet now the city towers and the gallery crowds choked Bryn in a smoky haze of disillusionment.
By The Cafecito3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Good story. Nicely done.