a year in stories::thirty

Still in love with you. Always in love with you. Hearing your voice in my ear, talking about computers, about futures.

This is a story inspired by a recently famous image.

Myth of Ancient Love


Bones. Bones. Tiny little bones. Lovely little bones. And all this sand. Sand. Everywhere the sand, and bones. Little lovely bones and ugly giant skulls. Skulls so large they fit inside. Bones so small they are barely there at all. Dusting away the sand, the dust, the swelter. The sun. Glaring. Mummies appeared. Humans of rot. Giants of loss. This place was once an ocean says the man, the discoverer. This place is now a desert says the son, the surveyor. This place was once a disaster says the woman, the seer. Before the desert and before the ocean this place was a horror says the seer and the seer turns her seeing head up to the shining star. The sun. The swelter. Sweat. In the distance the landscape shifts. The desert breathes and its breath is dry and caustic. Air shifts. Shimmers. Pulsates in the distance. Close at hand. Swelter. They find more and more mummies and the girl, the counter counts them. The workers dig and the discoverer tells them not to ruin the scene. The mummified faces gnash in fear from a thousand thousand years ago. The mummies are small. Too small. They fit in the mouths of the giants. The giant skulls swallow the mummies. The mummies fit by fives in the mouths of the skulls of the giants. This place was disaster says the surveyor in a whisper. The seer nods and puts her hand on the surveyor’s shoulder. This place is a mausoleum of their terror says the seer. Her eyes deepset and shadowed. Her cheeks fleshy. Her neck thick. Her hands thick. Her fingers dance, thickly. She is thick and she sweats. Her reek is caught in her flesh and the surveyor moves from her. The workers work, digging. The discoverer drinks water. Pulls back his hat. Bald. He is bald and his bald head shines baldly against the sun’s shine. A wraith the worker says to the other worker as they dig and watch the discoverer. They dig and the discoverer disappears in the silhouette of the sun becoming thinner and thinner till he is nothing. Nowhere. Not there. Only his voice and the voice says stop. Stop says the discoverer and he slides down the hole. Past mummies small. Past mummies large. Towards mummies. The discoverer takes the brush from his belt and brushes. He brushes at a finger and the finger becomes a hand. The hand is on a surface. A back. The back of another. The seer and surveyor do not move and the workers yawn but the discoverer works. Brushes. He brushes and the hand leads to an arm and the back leads to another hand and another arm. The discoverer brushes, discovering. The scene reveals itself brush by brush. Wind blows and the brush battles the shift of sand. Wind. The surveyor takes his brush and brushes. The workers brush too. Only the seer watches, seeing. The horizon runs from the sun. All goes dark. The desert colds, blackens. The workers turn on lights, flashlights. The seer sees from the light of stars. The constellations writ large and deep on the sky. Etched against eternity says the seer but no one hears. They brush. They all brush and what was once a finger reveals itself. It is a mummy holding another mummy. A last embrace. Against disaster says the surveyor. They held each other through Death says the discoverer and looks at the seer, the wife. The wife watches the stars but they do not move. She turns to the discoverer and smiles.


The news spread of the lovers from the old world, the dead and buried world, the world revealed again. The stories followed of who they were, where they were, how they loved each other, infinitely, even through Death and back into life. They traveled the world, the lovers from the ancient world, and the stories of their lives, of their Deaths spread, built large and thrown across oceans and mountains and deserts.


The ancient lovers embracing through cataclysm while giants marauded their land.

A poem, for love. For life.