Fairy Tale: A Story for Elizabeth Creith
There was a woman who was a book, and she spent her days reading stories of her life. Her covers were ivory and silver, her letters the colors of ruby and obsidian, formed by the sweep and dip of her hair, and the curve of her waist. Some of her stories were tiny, and she held them in her hand and watched them spin and dart like dragonflies. Some stories were so grand and brutal, epic and cruel, she was lost in her pages for weeks, emerging exhausted and filled with brilliant light.
Naturally men heard of the wonders of her stories and wanted to own her, but she fled from worlds filled with green and gray paper. The dollars, pesos, marks, rubles stank of old blood and iron. In ancient lands, where the world was sinking back into its roots, she met a man, a Sufi, and he danced for her, whirled in scarlet robes until his face glowed with light and joy. He shared his food with her after the dance, lay with his head on her lap. Her stories rose in the air like fireflies, tiny and golden, twisting in the heat of the fire, spinning and whirling like his dance, and he closed his eyes and listened.
submitted at 2:45am
28 April 2009