Illuminatus!
Oct. 24th, 2003 11:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icepixieWe had the illumination of Old Kenyon in honor of our new president's inaguration tonight. Old Kenyon is a dorm, and is also the first/oldest building on campus (1826, rebuilt using many of the original stones in 1950 because of fire). Anyway, the windows facing Middle Path/the rest of campus were all illuminated at once from in the rooms, and transpaent gels spelled out "Welcome Georgia Nugent." Turning them all on at once was a touch anti-climactic; I was expecting one at a time, and multiple colors, instead of simply purple letters. But then the Chamber Singers and the crowd sang the most well-known of Kenyon's four school songs, "Kokosing Farewell", which is always beautiful.
At any rate, aside from the weirdness of all the lights coming on at once, it was appropriately historical and even a touch awe-inspiring. It was certainly pretty when it was all said and done, and actually ringing the bell in Old Kenyon's steeple was great. I don't remember ever hearing it before.
*
Since I got into fiction and don't feel like I'd be jinxing myself, here's what I submitted, for those who aren't on my friends list and/or didn't read it the first time around:
Ghosting
Once-brown wood had been bleached to a cracked gray by the pounding sun of more summers than I had been alive. I focused on the remains of the small jetty in front of me, the formerly sturdy pylons sticking up out of the water like spears held upright by some underwater army. The planks of the deck had long been consumed by the deceptively gentle waves that lapped against the remaining wood.
There are some places in the world where history sort of piles up, layer upon layer, until it becomes an almost physical form. This was one of them. Sun-warmed first kisses during summer vacation competed with drownings due to boating accidents for the attention of the hairs on the back of my neck, which prickled more and more the closer I walked to the water.
"Sarah, this place is creepy," my best friend, Ginny, said in a near whisper. "Why are we here?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't answer, couldn't tell her why this place had drawn me like the moon's gravity attracts the oceans. All of this history that I could feel on the breeze had no personal connection to me. None of the ghosts here were mine.
Instead, I watched and listened as the wind whisked the sand around at our feet and combed through our unbound, sunbleached hair. It had picked up since we'd arrived and dumped our bikes on the sand.
The clouds which had been threatening during our ride over to the lake finally succeeded in covering the sun, leaving a gloomy fog to shroud the water. In tandem with gusts of wind, the small lake waves lapping against the sand grew up into more dangerous rolls. With a little whimpering noise, Ginny fumbled for my fingers. I grasped her hand in mine.
"What's that?" Ginny asked after a moment. She used her free hand to point across the water.
It took me a moment to focus on the speck her sharp eyes had picked out of the gloom. It was a small boat, heading slowly toward us with a jerky motion that suggested a not very experienced rower fighting against the waves. Despite the July heat, I felt a shiver run through my body. The boat, it seemed, was heading straight for us.
However, it didn't occur to either Ginny or me to leave. We continued to stand on the shore, the waves running up to almost meet our toes and then falling back, as the boat and its occupant approached. We were mesmerized by the figure on the water, which almost seemed to draw its material from the surrounding fog.
I don't know how long we waited there. The sun's movement was hidden by the clouds, and neither of us had brought a watch. Eventually, though, the little rowboat came close enough to the shore for us to see it clearly. The lone occupant was a boy about our age, eighteen. He was wearing a gray jacket and pants, but didn't seem to be bothered by the heat. His pale cheeks were like a beacon in the gloom.
I found my voice and called out to him, but he didn't respond. He just kept rowing toward us, apparently with the intention of running his boat aground on the sand.
I lapsed back into silence, strangely content to wait and see what would happen. I floated just underneath consciousness, barely aware of my surroundings, until the feeling that something was very wrong crept up my right arm. Ginny's hand seemed lighter in mine, and I finally wrenched my gaze away from the boy in the boat to look at her. Ever since we had met in first grade, Ginny had been pale and fair-haired, but now she appeared even more so. Her gaze was fixed on the boat, and when I shook her shoulder—it was like moving through mud to raise my arm—she made no response.
I felt compelled to look again at the boat, which had yet to come ashore, though the boy was still rowing at the same pace. However, I still had control over my senses, if not my movements, and I realized that Ginny's continued to feel less and less solid. There was no warmth or texture to it, and barely any weight. Turning my head was almost too hard, but I moved it, inch by inch, to see her.
Except I didn't see her. I saw only a vague outline that looked like Ginny. She was still staring at the water, but I could see trees and sand through her translucent body. Had the sun been shining, she would have sparkled like a window pane.
"Ginny," I croaked, my voice weak with exhaustion. "What..." There was no end to that question. I didn't know what to say, and by the time the first word was out, there was no one to say it to. Ginny was gone.
My movements free again, I turned to look, horrified, at the spectre in the boat. He was no longer ghostly, but tanned and healthy-looking. He was rowing with stronger arms, now heading back where he came. A sickening smile rested on his lips.
I saw his eyes for the first time as he pulled himself away from the shore. They were completely black, devoid of all life, as if I stared into the mouth of one of the abandoned coal mine entrances in Ginny's old hometown in West Virginia.
I felt my body falling to the sand. I was helpless to stop myself from crumpling into a heap of limbs and hair as another blackness, this one nowhere near as sinister as that in the boy's eyes, enclosed my world and carried me to unconsciousness.
* * *
I woke as the setting sun blazed across the lake, turning the water pink and orange to match the sky. My head felt like it was full of the sand I was lying on, and I blinked several times in an attempt to reorient myself. I thought it had been cloudy before, but perhaps I was wrong. Everything was so fuzzy.
I got up and walked to my bicycle, which was lying sideways on the sand. It looked odd, and I wondered if there shouldn't be another one there, and another person with me. When my stomach growled, reminding me that it was time for dinner, I shook off the sensation and pedaled the half mile back to my house.
The order and familiarity of setting the table made me feel more normal. Even so, after I'd placed out four of everything, I went back into the kitchen and asked my mother, "Do the Taylors have a girl named...Jenny? Ginny?"
Mom looked at me curiously. "The Taylors don't have a daughter, Sarah."
"They don't?" Of course, they don't, I thought. I remembered their two boys, Matthew and Mark, from the Little League team my own brother was on. How could I have thought they had a daughter?
Mom put her hand on my forehead. "Honey, are you all right?" I didn't respond, wondering the same thing. Mom continued, "Maybe you just spent too much time out in the sun at the lake today. You should come in if you start to get too hot."
"That's probably it," I said slowly. "I'll be more careful next time."
Mom clasped my shoulders and smiled at me. "Good. Ready for dinner?"
"Yeah." We each took a serving dish and went into the dining room, calling for my dad and my brother as we walked.
* * *
A few days later, I went back to the lake. It looked the same as ever, with tiny waves lapping relentlessly at the broken pier. I could feel that history was still collected and distilled here, so much that I could almost see past events unfolding before my eyes. I knew that I couldn't lay claim to any of the ghosts here, and yet...there was still something that pulled at me on this shore.
I sat down on the sand and stared across the water, letting the sun warm my shoulders and the past fill my mind.
At any rate, aside from the weirdness of all the lights coming on at once, it was appropriately historical and even a touch awe-inspiring. It was certainly pretty when it was all said and done, and actually ringing the bell in Old Kenyon's steeple was great. I don't remember ever hearing it before.
*
Since I got into fiction and don't feel like I'd be jinxing myself, here's what I submitted, for those who aren't on my friends list and/or didn't read it the first time around:
Ghosting
Once-brown wood had been bleached to a cracked gray by the pounding sun of more summers than I had been alive. I focused on the remains of the small jetty in front of me, the formerly sturdy pylons sticking up out of the water like spears held upright by some underwater army. The planks of the deck had long been consumed by the deceptively gentle waves that lapped against the remaining wood.
There are some places in the world where history sort of piles up, layer upon layer, until it becomes an almost physical form. This was one of them. Sun-warmed first kisses during summer vacation competed with drownings due to boating accidents for the attention of the hairs on the back of my neck, which prickled more and more the closer I walked to the water.
"Sarah, this place is creepy," my best friend, Ginny, said in a near whisper. "Why are we here?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't answer, couldn't tell her why this place had drawn me like the moon's gravity attracts the oceans. All of this history that I could feel on the breeze had no personal connection to me. None of the ghosts here were mine.
Instead, I watched and listened as the wind whisked the sand around at our feet and combed through our unbound, sunbleached hair. It had picked up since we'd arrived and dumped our bikes on the sand.
The clouds which had been threatening during our ride over to the lake finally succeeded in covering the sun, leaving a gloomy fog to shroud the water. In tandem with gusts of wind, the small lake waves lapping against the sand grew up into more dangerous rolls. With a little whimpering noise, Ginny fumbled for my fingers. I grasped her hand in mine.
"What's that?" Ginny asked after a moment. She used her free hand to point across the water.
It took me a moment to focus on the speck her sharp eyes had picked out of the gloom. It was a small boat, heading slowly toward us with a jerky motion that suggested a not very experienced rower fighting against the waves. Despite the July heat, I felt a shiver run through my body. The boat, it seemed, was heading straight for us.
However, it didn't occur to either Ginny or me to leave. We continued to stand on the shore, the waves running up to almost meet our toes and then falling back, as the boat and its occupant approached. We were mesmerized by the figure on the water, which almost seemed to draw its material from the surrounding fog.
I don't know how long we waited there. The sun's movement was hidden by the clouds, and neither of us had brought a watch. Eventually, though, the little rowboat came close enough to the shore for us to see it clearly. The lone occupant was a boy about our age, eighteen. He was wearing a gray jacket and pants, but didn't seem to be bothered by the heat. His pale cheeks were like a beacon in the gloom.
I found my voice and called out to him, but he didn't respond. He just kept rowing toward us, apparently with the intention of running his boat aground on the sand.
I lapsed back into silence, strangely content to wait and see what would happen. I floated just underneath consciousness, barely aware of my surroundings, until the feeling that something was very wrong crept up my right arm. Ginny's hand seemed lighter in mine, and I finally wrenched my gaze away from the boy in the boat to look at her. Ever since we had met in first grade, Ginny had been pale and fair-haired, but now she appeared even more so. Her gaze was fixed on the boat, and when I shook her shoulder—it was like moving through mud to raise my arm—she made no response.
I felt compelled to look again at the boat, which had yet to come ashore, though the boy was still rowing at the same pace. However, I still had control over my senses, if not my movements, and I realized that Ginny's continued to feel less and less solid. There was no warmth or texture to it, and barely any weight. Turning my head was almost too hard, but I moved it, inch by inch, to see her.
Except I didn't see her. I saw only a vague outline that looked like Ginny. She was still staring at the water, but I could see trees and sand through her translucent body. Had the sun been shining, she would have sparkled like a window pane.
"Ginny," I croaked, my voice weak with exhaustion. "What..." There was no end to that question. I didn't know what to say, and by the time the first word was out, there was no one to say it to. Ginny was gone.
My movements free again, I turned to look, horrified, at the spectre in the boat. He was no longer ghostly, but tanned and healthy-looking. He was rowing with stronger arms, now heading back where he came. A sickening smile rested on his lips.
I saw his eyes for the first time as he pulled himself away from the shore. They were completely black, devoid of all life, as if I stared into the mouth of one of the abandoned coal mine entrances in Ginny's old hometown in West Virginia.
I felt my body falling to the sand. I was helpless to stop myself from crumpling into a heap of limbs and hair as another blackness, this one nowhere near as sinister as that in the boy's eyes, enclosed my world and carried me to unconsciousness.
* * *
I woke as the setting sun blazed across the lake, turning the water pink and orange to match the sky. My head felt like it was full of the sand I was lying on, and I blinked several times in an attempt to reorient myself. I thought it had been cloudy before, but perhaps I was wrong. Everything was so fuzzy.
I got up and walked to my bicycle, which was lying sideways on the sand. It looked odd, and I wondered if there shouldn't be another one there, and another person with me. When my stomach growled, reminding me that it was time for dinner, I shook off the sensation and pedaled the half mile back to my house.
The order and familiarity of setting the table made me feel more normal. Even so, after I'd placed out four of everything, I went back into the kitchen and asked my mother, "Do the Taylors have a girl named...Jenny? Ginny?"
Mom looked at me curiously. "The Taylors don't have a daughter, Sarah."
"They don't?" Of course, they don't, I thought. I remembered their two boys, Matthew and Mark, from the Little League team my own brother was on. How could I have thought they had a daughter?
Mom put her hand on my forehead. "Honey, are you all right?" I didn't respond, wondering the same thing. Mom continued, "Maybe you just spent too much time out in the sun at the lake today. You should come in if you start to get too hot."
"That's probably it," I said slowly. "I'll be more careful next time."
Mom clasped my shoulders and smiled at me. "Good. Ready for dinner?"
"Yeah." We each took a serving dish and went into the dining room, calling for my dad and my brother as we walked.
* * *
A few days later, I went back to the lake. It looked the same as ever, with tiny waves lapping relentlessly at the broken pier. I could feel that history was still collected and distilled here, so much that I could almost see past events unfolding before my eyes. I knew that I couldn't lay claim to any of the ghosts here, and yet...there was still something that pulled at me on this shore.
I sat down on the sand and stared across the water, letting the sun warm my shoulders and the past fill my mind.
