Clues are like a daisy chain - woven together to reveal the Mysterium Magnum

Click here: Writing Novels, Alchemy, Tarot and Poetry: Sybaritic Word Play

deep in the conjuring of mysterious worlds

Hi

thinking of you
many blessings

am deep in the writing of several books.
all is well.

Slainte

Blessings and creative pleasures and .................lots of lovely bits
Laurel

Terrific means Terrifying by Laurel


A terrific storm is coming, I smell it."

"Terrific means terrifying."

"Does not."

"Originally, it does."

"When?"

"Before the 1800's."

"Who cares?"

"I do. The origins of things interest me - words, storms, people, books."

"I wrote a cookbook once."

"What kind of cookbook?"

"Recipes"

"Alchemical?"

"No"

"I have to be outside in this storm. You and I have nothing to build on, no foundation,no origin, no roots."

He fondles the knife through his kilt. Traces the sheath with his fingers, stands straighter. "Your not leaving."

"I am."

"I don't think so," he draws out each word as s l o w l y as he can.

The wind fiercely rattles the wooden door. The storm enters above the door, below and on each side of the liminal space. The peat fire smokes more than it burns. He moves towards her.

"Maybe terrific did originally mean terrifying." His fingers play with the knife. As he remembers the skean dbhu knife is recently sharpened, he takes up more space in the small croft. "Your perfume is strong, what is it?"

He is far too close to her now. She catches the scent of blood, cold coffee and oatcakes, mixing with the peatsmoke.She begins to move backwards, stealthily, towards a less lethal storm. "Talisker"

"What?"

"Talisker is the perfume I'm wearing." "Do you like it?"

"Talisker is a whisky." He looks confused.

She continues backing towards the door, very softly she says "I love the perfume of whisky. don't you?"

"I don't know."

"Could I have a wee dram?" she makes her voice low and coaxing.

"If you stay."

"I'll nae leave just yet." she takes one half step away from the windy wonder of a sultry storm.He backs towards the whisky, not taking his eyes off her.

She knows he will have to turn to pour the whisky. She will have a second. Soothingly, almost hypnotically, her words weaving into the strength of the storm "perfume smells strongest just before a storm."

"And whisky?"

"The same." she turns, quickly running into the ferociously fragrant freedom, of the finality of this storm. She runs freely, throwing her arms wide, gleeful in the clean cold tremblings of the sky.

Her eyes water in relief, her lungs strong as they inhale deeper and deeper waves of clean, almost pure, air. She runs faster, wanting her body and clothes to be seriously soaked. She aims for the center of the Beauty of the Terrific- Terrible Storm. She laughs, as a thought rises, by the 1900's terrific meant severely good.

LaurelAstrology, Yoga, Tarot, Meditationmy blog Click here: duende and desirecan be found at my website Symbolicbridging.com

I am about to post a fabulous stormy story, for you, but the title space won't let me type into it.
hmmmm, think I'll try again later.

thinking of you all.

writing is going brilliantly.

wonder why the title thingy will only stay blank - no thing - fool.

hope all is well

blessed be

laurel