Tuesday, March 23, 2010


The Light
By E.S. Wynn

My first memory is of waking up.

Spread out like a sacrifice, supplicant on the cold, ocher tile of my bedroom floor, I am staring back across the flat plain of my scarlet pajamas and into the eye of something crimson, a bloodwash light that slides silken from a distant corner of the ceiling. The light is alive, depthless; it moves and ripples in hazy sheets, and in my mind, I can hear its voice, dark and rich, full of purpose. I am three, I listen, but I do not move. It is speaking, and I understand. I commit its words to a part of my mind that I no longer have access to.

I may never know what the light said; only one thing remains, one fragment of feeling which reminds me every day

That I am different.

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E.S. Wynn believes that, sometimes, nothing is stranger than truth.


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