Brianna Garcia
Stories (3/0)
A listening
Eye of the aerial, batting it’s pristine awareness on the silver and red corral that lace her fingers. Her hands holding a spirit as old as the red dirt she missed as a child. Her nerve endings and new beginnings wearing a skin as young as the 28th spring. The bones of Poca hear the drops of verity before the canals of her listening could absorb such light. Light is information. Light is energy. Light is what light isn’t too. Trickling down from the blue ceiling, everything inside her becomes still, as the glass on a frozen lake lay placidly, as if there were no such creation of time nor pace, at least when a message is finding its place in her bones, in her wake. As if her blood halts it’s sacred dance and her breath holds sentient space for the unnerving importance of what her Creator might whisper. Spirit has no planner. Spirit defies logic. Spirit knows better than to cap a housing where a ceiling is impermissible.. For the fire we wake to and the lantern we sleep with are the signs of dawn and dusk for only the earthly plane. “Sanity for the mind” claims she. Poca has always detected the space that exists beyond the parameters of time– behind the bell at lunch and the confines of numbers, behind the alarm of her brother's phone that tells his brain he mustn’t rest another second out of fear for another man gaining what his rest aimed to offer, behind the ticking of a clock and the conditioning of a watch to do and to say, to begin your day’s doings and unbecomings, behind the Sun and it’s respectful descent for the day. Ungoverned by this manmade structure, she waits.
By Brianna Garcia 2 years ago in Beat
A listening
Eye of the aerial, batting it’s pristine awareness on the silver and red corral that lace her fingers. Her hands holding a spirit as old as the red dirt she missed as a child. Her nerve endings and new beginnings wearing a skin as young as the 28th spring. The bones of Poca hear the drops of verity before the canals of her listening could absorb such light. Light is information. Light is energy. Light is what light isn’t too. Trickling down from the blue ceiling, everything inside her becomes still, as the glass on a frozen lake lay placidly, as if there were no such creation of time nor pace, at least when a message is finding its place in her bones, in her wake. As if her blood halts it’s sacred dance and her breath holds sentient space for the unnerving importance of what her Creator might whisper. Spirit has no planner. Spirit defies logic. Spirit knows better than to cap a housing where a ceiling is impermissible.. For the fire we wake to and the lantern we sleep with are the signs of dawn and dusk for only the earthly plane. “Sanity for the mind” claims she. Poca has always detected the space that exists beyond the parameters of time– behind the bell at lunch and the confines of numbers, behind the alarm of her brother's phone that tells his brain he mustn’t rest another second out of fear for another man gaining what his rest aimed to offer, behind the ticking of a clock and the conditioning of a watch to do and to say, to begin your day’s doings and unbecomings, behind the Sun and it’s respectful descent for the day. Ungoverned by this manmade structure, she waits.
By Brianna Garcia 2 years ago in Fiction
A listening
Eye of the aerial, batting it’s pristine awareness on the silver and red corral that lace her fingers. Her hands holding a spirit as old as the red dirt she missed as a child. Her nerve endings and new beginnings wearing a skin as young as the 28th spring. The bones of Poca hear the drops of verity before the canals of her listening could absorb such light. Light is information. Light is energy. Light is what light isn’t too. Trickling down from the blue ceiling, everything inside her becomes still, as the glass on a frozen lake lay placidly, as if there were no such creation of time nor pace, at least when a message is finding its place in her bones, in her wake. As if her blood halts it’s sacred dance and her breath holds sentient space for the unnerving importance of what her Creator might whisper. Spirit has no planner. Spirit defies logic. Spirit knows better than to cap a housing where a ceiling is impermissible.. For the fire we wake to and the lantern we sleep with are the signs of dawn and dusk for only the earthly plane. “Sanity for the mind” claims she. Poca has always detected the space that exists beyond the parameters of time– behind the bell at lunch and the confines of numbers, behind the alarm of her brother's phone that tells his brain he mustn’t rest another second out of fear for another man gaining what his rest aimed to offer, behind the ticking of a clock and the conditioning of a watch to do and to say, to begin your day’s doings and unbecomings, behind the Sun and it’s respectful descent for the day. Ungoverned by this manmade structure, she waits.
By Brianna Garcia 2 years ago in Earth