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Sangrelysia
by Vivian Darkbloom
Remembering
The middle of a story. Vacant plot lines, the drama forgotten.
Names of the characters, even my own name, vanished into vaporous
dust, evaporated into the hot brightness of the golden charioteer
overhead, while below me glided by with silent rapidity the
sparkling waves of the river Styx.
It was then that I came to know my preconceived image of the
penultimate journey to be false, having procured at some point in
my mind's eye a somber association of "Styx" with some twilight
region dimly lit in crepuscular shadows, a slow solemn
procession.
First misconception: the vessel. Not a cumbersome boat at all,
nor even a body, merely a presence like the glint off a coin
gliding swiftly across the surface of the water.
Next misconception, boatkeeper Charon, however I imagined him --
it was not a he but a she, angel with flaming sword, guardian of
light, leading the way. Only, the sword was more a serpent,
writhing, pirouetting and swirling with balletic abandon, dancing
across the sky in twists and turns, the ice that burns, cold
steel, velvet eel, rushing breeze, knees and thighs protrude from
dresses beneath the tresses under feathery wings.
A sense of overwhelming wholeness, bliss, knowing that I am
loved, the apple of the Universe's heart. Without a body, if you
can feel the lightness: no little aches or itches. Neither hunger
nor thirst. No craving for breath, yet paradoxically the sweet
scent of pure sparkling water gliding by swiftly beneath. No
body, yet a finger to dangle along the surface, to enjoy the
ripples trailing behind.
She with the flaming sword ever ahead.
Then the story shifted, and I emerged momentarily aloft in a
palanquin borne by many maidens, submarine.
Then back into dreaming, groggily, the memories slowly returned;
only: in reverse order. When traveling backwards in time, birth
becomes death.
First (last) was the tumultuous avalanche, preceded by an
earth-temblor of startling magnitude. Yells and cries all about,
most of panic, one triumphant, and I look around to see a figure
sporting a heavy, large, spheroid object of a dark metallic
reddish-golden green, surfaced with strange worm-carved beetling,
which resembled alien scribblings in an extraterrestial alphabet.
Before that was the climax. The physical sensations of orgasm
were familiar. The release, the relief of built-up tension, the
gift of pearls, from me to her. And at that moment, from the very
center of the Earth's molten core, a beam of high frequency
energy burst through us, a ray intersecting the cosmic sphere in
the emergence of a bright supernova, giving birth to our very own
star, our own mote of brightness in the dark twinkling heavens.
Before that, sensations of seeing her facing me, of feeling her
around me. The audience of circled young nymphet nymphs, a
wedding ring.
But never before had I felt such a profound connection with (the
name returned:) her. The Princess. Sylvia. It was as though I was
feeling through her body, and she through mine; but even more
profound, as if our souls and destinies were entwined, making
love, braided threefold, mine inside of hers, her within mine. I
inhabited the living statue of Venus that was her body, feeling
her (as me) inside of me, feeling her sensations as she dwelt
within my frame, feeling herself (me) inside of me (her,
Aphrodite incarnate).
On the half-shell, rolling pelvic waves beneath, the panting of
the four winds raging above.
In reverse, memories resurfaced. Like the floats on a fishing net
long submerged.
Elyiathe musing, "Wizard, such a pure virtuous heart as yours
must be tasty indeed. Best eaten, though, stir-fried with
water-chestnuts."
Before that -- "Then take me with you, at least," pouted
Clarissa, olive-skinned, tawny hair with golden flecks. Her lower
lips a cryptic furrow of invitingly dripping curls. (dripping
underwater, how drole!)
Before that -- "No," I declared with finality. "It's too
important a decision to make just like that. I won't do it.
Before that -- Clarissa saying "I don't want it any longer. I'm
sick to death of this beginningless, endless recurring monotony.
Same exact thing, day in, day out. Never any change. No place to
grow."
Before that -- Elyiathe shouting at Clarissa, "FOOL! You'll lose
your immortality!"
Before that -- Clarissa looks up with a grin, from where she has
been nuzzling between my legs, and declares "Take me. I want to
lose my virginity!"
Before that -- Clarissa, olive skin, tawny hair flecked with
gold. Nuzzling affectionately with soft lips and rough tongue the
ruddy rounded tip of my unbelievably stiffened shaft of delight.
Across the way, around the circle (if you could call it that --
more like a three dimensional geodesic sphere constructed of
young girls) meanwhile, Sylvia as thrown back her head in ecstasy
in response to the performance of the beautifully red-haired,
strawberry-freckled head which she holds cradled tenderly between
her legs, lips to her lips.
Somehow, the geometry has worked out so that Sylvia's face is
directly opposite to mine, lips a finger's width from mine. We
kiss hard, mouth to mouth, passionately. Romance at its finest,
no candles or moonlight required.
Before that -- a seemingly endless succession of young faces,
moist tiny mouths engulfing me sweetly down below, one by one,
with ruby lips and blushing cheeks; while in front of my own
mouth, for taste treat, a sequence of young crevices, each
planted artistically at the crossroads of a torso (below a belly
button) and two spread thighs. Partners shifting after each brief
but satisfying connection, in a series of permutations resulting
from a shape too complex for my bewildered brain, but which I'm
told guarantees every possible combination of partners in a
regularly repeating progression. Like knitting needles, moving
along the rows, we each tied a prim succession of sexual knots,
one by one.
In preparation for the grand climax.
Before that -- Elyiathe replying reluctantly, "Yes, I suppose. Go
ahead."
Before that -- one of the girls calling out: "Can we form a
preparatory gauntlet" and the rest of the girls cheering and
repeatedly chanting the awkward phrase "preparatory gauntlet!"
Me and Sylvia exchanging confused glances. Gauntlet (glove)
being, as we have seen, somewhat misleading as a descriptive
term. Geodesic hemisphere would have been closer. Water nymphs
are not known for verbal accuracy.
Before that -- The Queen dismounts her giant golden koi.
Before that -- the underwater grotto. The end of our voyage.
Light from the water's surface above is now but a faint glimmer.
Crepuscular twilight of a crevice in perpetual darkness, beyond
the reach of sunlight.
But the surrounding darkness is lit in earthen tones by radiant
gems and stones littering the ground all around, and in
particular a ring of glowing clear crystal spheres, in a magic
circle surrounding what appears to be a meteorite impact crater.
Curious fish of all varieties swim by on all sides.
At the center of the crater, deeply implanted with only a
fraction of its surface showing, lies the dragon's egg. There is
no question what it is. A glimpse of dark metallic reddish golden
green, seemingly engraved with fragments of bizarre alien
writing.
Before that -- "Here we are," said Eliathe
And now we tip and thank the projectionist for chewing up
sprockets to rewind the reel. Because this is where we came in,
so now we can take our leave, join together the torn ragged
edges, and continue the story which we had forgotten, where we
left off.
Chapter 24
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