2012 HauntedNorthAmerica.net Riokaza
Fish scales gleam against the carved and patterned wood. The smells wafting from the street-side carts fraternize with the salty scent of the ocean, creating a new entity to dance with many strands of music forging their own paths amidst the air sustaining us. Atlantis.
I walk, buffeted by the heat of nearby forges and ever-present sea breezes, catching odd words and continuous tones from open doors leading to aged learners caught up in the thrill of sharing what they know. Crowds blur into a kaleidoscope of colors, with random characteristics coming into focus as I pass: a pair of large lips colored a dark red, a pair of brown eyes glancing up at the sun, short steps alongside long strides, booming voices blending with a multitude of murmurs. The tall sway scattered among the short, together like a moving tundra, its trees and grasses each straining to bridge the distance between them. Idly I trace the cool stone swirls and precise carvings of a familiar doorway and walk through. The flat paint scent is there but I barely smell it. I only have attention for the painting cloth stretched flat between two stones and my brush empty of pigment.
