Eye in the Sky

 My new "hiatus" is allowing a little freedom to post at random, whatever and whenever I feel. Sharing another great song from a while ago. 

Music, lyrics...all complete. Use your imagination with the amazing intro...it tells so many stories. What do you see?

Eye in the Sky by The Alan Parsons Project. 

I Only Have Eyes for You

 When a beautiful song that was before your time makes you listen...and daydream, and appreciate its simplistic message and artistry. Of new love, or old; or infatuation or devotion. Hopefulness. Innocence. Confessions. Soul Mate. Twin Flame. Devotion. Withstanding the test of time. 

Every time I hear it, I listen as if it's the first time I have. I imagine the visuals...black and white, opening or closing a film, or transitioning between scenes. It tells so many stories. Listening allows me to see them. 

I Only Have Eyes for You by The Flamingos. 

Old Wauhatchie

For this blog entry, I'd like to share a flash fiction piece I wrote recently.  "Old Wauhatchie" might resonate a little with my friends in Tennessee and Georgia...Chief Wauhatchie of the Cherokee Nation and the Trail of Tears, a time when the tribe was forced to give up its land due to the Indian Removal Act of the 1830s. There is a road in existence today called Old Wauhatchie, just around Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga.  This short story is part history, part dream sequence, part paranormal and I took some liberties, but it is fiction.  The history itself was not changed, just mentioned.

As always, copyright applies, ©Veronica Randolph Batterson, and thanks so much for taking the time to read my blog.

Old Wauhatchie

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

  

The mist rose from the river, its ghostlike veil spreading slowly and sensually through the brush of trees and along the path where she waited.  It separated like arms, wrapping around her ankles, swirling, and gently enfolding her in an embrace she couldn’t feel.  She watched as it continued and spread, caressing the earth like a familiar lover, confident and comforting.

Twilight was quickly turning to dusk; the colors from the departing sun created shadows that danced and angled before her eyes.  The swelling mist played tricks, bringing the dark forms to life.  The silhouette of a man jumped from a rock, only to be replaced by the contours of a bear running into the woods.  An arrow shot from a bow near a tree, its momentum turning it into a bird with wings that spread and hovered over her until it glided out of sight. 

She knew he was nearby and felt his presence throughout her body.  Her senses were sharp; the slight snap of a twig brought her head up.  She waited.  Then the scent reached her nostrils, a woodsy blend of cedar and oakmoss, hints of evergreen and honeysuckle with a puff of tobacco.  It lingered under her nose, intoxicating and light, keeping her still in anticipation. 

Then drumbeats, faint and steady, filled the air and echoed through the trees, hinting at greatness to come.  Or danger, but she wasn’t afraid.   She knew she was being summoned, as it was her time, and he would be there waiting.

“Listen to the river,” the wind breathed.

Through the mist, lifelike forms appeared.  They walked toward her, hundreds it seemed, women carrying babies on their backs and children dragging behind.  Their faces etched with sorrow, in their arms they carried all they owned.  Men intermingled, solemn and stoic, walking tall yet anger simmering at being driven from the only land they’d ever known.  Their land. 

And she saw Wauhatchie, Chief of the Cherokees, chief of these displaced souls, limping to follow.  Stooped and aging, his face belied his youthful greatness; he was simply a man forced from his home now, like all his people.

This tribe of spirits walked past her and through her.  She felt the rush of air, a whisper of breath touching her skin as they passed.  Sadness and despair washed over her and the sense of loss was so great that she wanted to cry out at the injustice.  This trail of tears left her cold and empty.

The drumbeats stopped and there was quietness all around her.  She heard a pebble skim across the water.  She turned toward the sound and saw someone emerge from the thicket of trees.  He was there.

He was as she remembered, as he was when he left.  His dark hair, touched with gray, looked damp from the mist.  The smiling green eyes still smiled.  For the first time, she wondered how she appeared to him.  It didn’t matter, she thought, as he took her hand in his own.

She met him years before, on Old Wauhatchie, where winter brought an icy chill and summer bore scorching heat and singing cicadas.   She lost him there, too, when the river rose and took him away.  Then he joined the others, specters with tales and stories of their lives, sharing with those who could feel them.  And he waited for her.

The drumbeats sounded again as darkness enveloped them.  Her vision adjusted, allowing her to see everything as she would in daylight.  The river reclaimed the mist, the wispiness retreating to the murky waters in wait for the next arrival.  He looked at her and kissed her hand.  They had a story to tell.

“Listen to the river.” 

 ©Veronica Randolph Batterson

 

Dance of the Blessed Spirits

I'm not sure where I was going with this short story, but it ended up as a dream sequence.  It's a strange, little flash fiction piece I wrote that I'd like to share.  As always, copyright applies.  (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Dance of the Blessed Spirits

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

The man took the path.  He had three from which to choose and selected the one closest to him.  The rays from the sun slanted through the tree branches and made natural spotlights, lighting his way in the beginning.  Birds chirped and leaves rustled.  The breeze touched his skin.  Glancing at his bare arms, he noticed the gooseflesh appearing but didn’t feel cold. 

He began to walk.  His natural gait was off and he felt his body gliding along the footpath.  He saw his legs take steps, but couldn’t feel the ground under his feet.  Images started moving before his eyes, as if being controlled by a slide projector.  Image.  Click.  Image.  Click.  He could even hear it.   There he was as a child, with his first pony.  Then a sour-faced teenaged him replaced it.  A still of his wedding appeared.  He was happy, but she was there in the background, smiling at him with his new bride.  The sight of her made him catch his breath.  His heart ached. 

The photos ended and he found himself in a forest.  It had grown darker and quieter.  A stained glass window suddenly appeared, blocking his path, but he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward it.  Rays of light broke through the trees and played upon the panes of red, yellow and green.  The shafts of colored light danced across his face, making it difficult to see, but he knew he was heading right for the glass.  He braced himself for the impact, but felt nothing.  The glass shattered all around him, never cutting his skin but shards covered his body. 

Suddenly the forest parted before him and the path opened to a meadow.  The shards of colored glass rose from his skin and flickered in the sky, painting the arch of a rainbow over the blue.  Flowers appeared, dotting the green landscape as if being applied by an artist on canvas.  He watched the scenery come to life then he heard a breath being given to what he saw.  The rush of a brook as the water skimmed the rocks, the screech of a hawk spotting its prey and the doleful howls of a pack of wolves. 

Movement near a copse of trees made him jump.  She was pale, her body translucent as she stepped forward.  A crown of flowers rested on her head; the gold of her hair played down her back and over her shoulders, covering the white dress she wore.  She stared for a moment as if he looked familiar to her and then turned away.  He cried out but made no sound.  Oh, how he remembered her. 

The woman then turned and walked toward him.  She was close and he could remember the attraction and love.  Her blue eyes were inviting as he leaned close to kiss the spirit, to recall what he missed.  But the trusting eyes saddened as she stepped away.  Her form became smaller but other spirits appeared in his vision.  People he knew.  Some he’d forgotten.   

The sight of them caused a conflict of emotions.  Sadness, remorse, shame, yearning, happiness.  These souls had been part of his life.  Some he’d treated well, others he hadn’t.  Why were they here now? 

The woman looked over her shoulder at him.  He wanted her to come closer again, but she raised her arms toward the sky, swaying to music only she could hear.  The others followed her and slowly they disappeared from sight.  He tried calling out again, but his voice failed.  The blessed spirits of his life were gone.

Darkness replaced the bright colors.  He couldn’t see anything but felt his body moving, then dropping suddenly as if in a freefall.  He became dizzy and closed his eyes, fearing what might appear before them.  Abruptly, he stopped and the only sound he heard was his own breathing.  Steady and calm.  Over and over.  Then he slept.   

©Veronica Randolph Batterson