Search engine offline
Get An Aroma Energy Story

The Gift - What is YOUR Gift today?

Facebook
Search engine offline
 

PS From The DragonLords

by Silvia Hartmann

PS From The DragonLords

At the very end of the DragonLords, there is a PS. At the end of the PS, there are 2 sentences that connect The DragonLords to Elory's Joy.

The DragonLords - PS


In a small shack constructed from random pieces of rusty corrugated iron, mismatched wood and weathered plastic sheets of many colours flapping in the wind, and to the sounds of the rain drumming softly on the roof, a small dark skinned woman threw a mixture of sage and salt into her cooking fire, routinely asking for the blessings of her ancestors.
The fire sparked and on this rainy night, and for the first time ever, she saw the face of her mother in the fire.

In an ancient church built from grey stone, an old priest tiredly recited a prayer he had spoken a thousand times and where the words long ago had drifted away, lost their meaning, becoming a stream of sounds that might as well have been a sob, or a child crying softly.
It was halfway through the prayer that the words began to shift and shine, to sparkle and he could feel them on his tongue again. He could taste the words and as he shaped them, the prayer turned into an evocation and in the darkened church, a light began to silently unfold and finally, his guardian angel shimmered into being.

On a dry hillside in a barren land, a small child was far from home, on a quest to find the little people who were said to live out here and had the power to mend broken hearts, fill empty bellies and make dreams come true.
The child was looking for the flowers where the magic folk would congregate; the child knew where they grew. He had come to this place many times and had called to the magic people, had told them of his troubles and listened to the silence in return.
On this bright morning, where great white castle clouds majestically sailed across the deep blue summer sky, when he had finished speaking, and began the listening, he could hear the sounds of many tiny voices, and they were singing ...

In a concrete tower, one of many in the city, in her small apartment, a woman was lighting a candle with a long, silver electronic lighter. It had been a hard day at work where she pretended to be nothing more than a quiet, tidy person, well organised, reliable.
Here, in her home, decorated with coloured lights and bead curtains, soft furry cushions and pictures of wild animals on the wall, she was her true self and it was such a relief.
She settled herself down on the large orange cushion before her little altar, just her bedside table really, there wasn't much space for anything else, but it held her precious things.
She closed her eyes and as usual, entered into her fantasy world where she would swim with dolphins, be a mermaid, be a bird, fly free.
But as she closed her eyes, she found herself on an unfamiliar plane of wild grass, shivering in the cool evening breeze, feeling her own hands on her shoulders, breathing deeply in surprise and it was so real, and in the sky above, great dragons were circling and crying out in joy ...

In a hospital, the night shift nurse began his secret rounds. He would go to each patient, one at a time, and hold his hands over them as they slept, and give them a blessing and his best wishes for healing.
He had done this ever since he first arrived here; he found it stabilised him, made him feel as though he was a healer, that he could make a difference amongst the dying here.
On this night, the first patient he visited was an old lady who was close to death and had no visitors since she had arrived. Her contact was the social worker. As he contemplated her deeply lined face that even in the deep, drug induced sleep looked sad and lonely, and held out his hands over her body, he had the strangest sensation of a presence. He looked up and saw the woman standing, translucent, on the other side of the bed. She had both hands held to her heart and she was smiling at him.

In his luxurious bed, beneath the black pure silk sheets, an engineer slept and dreamed. He dreamed of perfect structures, pure, brilliant logic, connections reaching far and wide and in between, crossing spaces, crossing dimensions, creating a machine the world had never seen before and in doing so, finally finding not just the solution to a problem he had been working on for the better part of twenty years, but realising that the problem itself was on the other side of a paradigm shift, and he would know just what he had to do to bring about a revolution.

In a hotel room, with the soft, moist night air drifting into the room through the open window and the sounds of the nearby motorway as so many waves rushing against the universal shore, sitting at the dressing table with her lap top beneath a brilliantly clear mirror, a writer felt the strangest sensation. She looked up and met her own brown eyes in the mirror.
Oh yes, she thought and smiled.
All the stories in the world ...
All the stories in the universe ... in the multiverse ...
They've all come home now.
They are there, awaiting their writers, as the dragons await their lovers.
Come home.
Make it so.



Right here, right now,
there exist many worlds
and many foreign places.

Amidst these, some travel,
and the most renown amongst them
are the story tellers ...

 

Silvia Hartmann, 2012

  by Silvia Hartmann
 
Random Game
"Project Sanctuary is the source of never ending growth and development that I have craved. I can learn and explore more of life in an afternoon in sanctuary than I can in months at university." Helen McMillan

Home | News | Art | Creativity | Dreams | Games | Symbols | Healing | Meditation | Metaphor | Story | Theory | Therapy | Tips | Training