Entrancing, Silvio. I feel as though I was just afforded a glance into your (or someone's) family and the sprawling roots of a family tree, laced with your ability to convey a subsurface sense of mystery.
"Her gaze wasn’t her usual one. It felt as if she knew things but wanted me to discover them myself." I can so see this! Perfectly described.
This is also a fantastic line: They are shadows, ectoplasms, feeble entities in search of a role, feathers fluttering down from somewhere remote.
So nice of you, Nathan! Thank you! I'd say the reality/fiction proportion in this one is 60%/40%, but, as you say (and I wholeheartedly agree), it's irrelevant. This one will have a follow-up someday, I think. I really appreciate your presence and comments, my friend. :)
This eerie letter gave me goosebumps! Who is the letter addressed to? Where did the box of pictures go? Did the writer really have lunch and the post-lunch conversation with Mom? So many questions! Wonderful!!
"They don’t even have a face. They are shadows, ectoplasms, feeble entities in search of a role, feathers fluttering down from somewhere remote."
Ah, what a perfect description of what many must feel. I know I do. Excellent story, Silvio. One that many can relate to, esp. as we approach the threshold where we lose access to people who might be able to tell us...
Thank you, Alexander! How sad it is that it takes just two or three generations for memory to become such a feeble device, causing people, things, and events to be lost forever.
Absolutely love this part and it relates to what we talked about in the comments last week. When I go home for long chunks of time to Lexington, Massachusetts, I think about this at the dinner table as well. Being in different places conjures memories of people or events, sometimes I'm not sure they are real. Such great work, Silvio.
"There are names floating around in stories casually told around the dining table that don’t mean anything to me, people I might have even met at some point in my life, maybe as a kid, when my interest was at an all-time low, who are now claiming a place in my memory. Or I might not have met them at all, I might have only heard their names and deeds, and funny or tragic stories. They don’t even have a face. They are shadows, ectoplasms, feeble entities in search of a role, feathers fluttering down from somewhere remote. "
Thank you so much, Kate! "Sometimes I'm not sure they are real" — exactly! And in the end, it probably doesn't matter, as long as they make the journey interesting and leave you longing for something good.
Entrancing, Silvio. I feel as though I was just afforded a glance into your (or someone's) family and the sprawling roots of a family tree, laced with your ability to convey a subsurface sense of mystery.
"Her gaze wasn’t her usual one. It felt as if she knew things but wanted me to discover them myself." I can so see this! Perfectly described.
This is also a fantastic line: They are shadows, ectoplasms, feeble entities in search of a role, feathers fluttering down from somewhere remote.
So nice of you, Nathan! Thank you! I'd say the reality/fiction proportion in this one is 60%/40%, but, as you say (and I wholeheartedly agree), it's irrelevant. This one will have a follow-up someday, I think. I really appreciate your presence and comments, my friend. :)
Always such a pleasure to read your work, Silvio.
Cool to know the 60/40% breakdown, not that any % combination would ever change my thoughts ;) It only serves to add to the lovely mysterious feeling.
Likewise, Nathan. I really enjoyed 4B!
This eerie letter gave me goosebumps! Who is the letter addressed to? Where did the box of pictures go? Did the writer really have lunch and the post-lunch conversation with Mom? So many questions! Wonderful!!
Thank you so much, Rose! Straddling between fantasy and reality, right? That's what it's all about.
"They don’t even have a face. They are shadows, ectoplasms, feeble entities in search of a role, feathers fluttering down from somewhere remote."
Ah, what a perfect description of what many must feel. I know I do. Excellent story, Silvio. One that many can relate to, esp. as we approach the threshold where we lose access to people who might be able to tell us...
Thank you, Alexander! How sad it is that it takes just two or three generations for memory to become such a feeble device, causing people, things, and events to be lost forever.
Too true. Then again, in the grand scheme of things, it has always been that way.
Absolutely love this part and it relates to what we talked about in the comments last week. When I go home for long chunks of time to Lexington, Massachusetts, I think about this at the dinner table as well. Being in different places conjures memories of people or events, sometimes I'm not sure they are real. Such great work, Silvio.
"There are names floating around in stories casually told around the dining table that don’t mean anything to me, people I might have even met at some point in my life, maybe as a kid, when my interest was at an all-time low, who are now claiming a place in my memory. Or I might not have met them at all, I might have only heard their names and deeds, and funny or tragic stories. They don’t even have a face. They are shadows, ectoplasms, feeble entities in search of a role, feathers fluttering down from somewhere remote. "
Thank you so much, Kate! "Sometimes I'm not sure they are real" — exactly! And in the end, it probably doesn't matter, as long as they make the journey interesting and leave you longing for something good.