This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: ‘the letters mb, in a word’ used any way we like.
This month, I’m participating in JuNoWriMo, a 50,000 word/monthly challenge. I decided to combine this with #SoCS, and so we have a pivotal scene from my novel-in-progress, A Rising Tide, the fifth of my Kifo Island novels.
Linwood Forrester suffers from dementia, and today, we delve a little into the twisting paths of his memories and reality as he dances before a rising tide in a tropical storm. Other than typos, the imperfections remain as testament to the creative process. I had an open-ended outline, but this scene was spontaneously written.
This story is R-rated, with sexual references. NSFW.
She Was Numb
Linwood danced the Ghost Dance. It was the dance he’d danced the first night he planted himself in Water Whispers. The night they’d conceived their Teddy – Theodore Roosevelt Forrester.
“Teddy!” The cry broke through the chanting song, destroyed the dancing, so that now the sands were sucking at his feet, his gnarled feet at the end of gnarled legs.
Something about Teddy, but the Trickster had poisoned his mind, and he couldn’t remember. It was important. But Linwood couldn’t remember.
The water was rising.
Water hadn’t risen; hadn’t spoken to him, had embraced him with the high stone walls of her anger. He didn’t remember what he’d done to anger her, and she wouldn’t talk until he made it up to her.
But the trickster said that she was dead.
“Where is my Water Whispers? Where has my Water gone?” He sang it out strong, through the monsoon rain and the killing lightning, but he wasn’t afraid. Why should he be? If Water still lived, he would find her, even in this storm. If she was dead, then let him follow after, as he had so often followed after her.
But why should he believe Wilma Carmichael about anything? She was the Trickster, Kokopelli. That he remembered. And four hands on four breasts, stroking and rubbing –
He started to harden there in the caress of the welcome rains – but he wouldn’t let that happen. No. Just another way to keep him from Water, keep him dumb and helpless to save his marriage, so that she could sweep in, sweep Water up in her rising tide of dark desires that can live only in the shadowy places. She’d gnarled his hands and feet, made his braids silver. Was it she who had numbed Water to his caress, this morning, and brought him here –
Linwood stared through the driving rain, seeing into this morning, into the welcome womb of their bed. Water had been cold. He’d covered her with a blanket; he remembered.
But now he remembered more. The smell; strange, clinging to clean salty air. Salty, like tears. It was the smell of rotting flowers, and he’d decided to pick her some more.
But he couldn’t find the flowing falls with their travertine ledges and their ferny and flowery places.
He’d covered Water with a blanket, but she’d been numb, never moving –
Linwood was driven down on stiffened knees, the numbness of rock gripping him as the waters surged in, soaking him, and the sand sucked at him.
Did you enjoy this dip into the Stream of Consciousness waters? Come join in – there’s plenty of room, and just a few simple rules. Check out the #SoCS hashtag, or get more SoCS!