Vapor Resonance

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Every morning the star rising brought with it clouds of pinks and red that streak across the sky and banish the purple clouds to the East.

The blue clouds and the white clouds sit high in the atmosphere and nothing seems to change their stolid nature. It has been a good deal of time since a white cloud graced the presence of the lower skies, the zealots believe we are no longer worthy of the rains which come from white, golden, and blue clouds. I have never seen a golden cloud, and I am like 27 years old at this point.

Orange clouds herald the arrival of the green mists of the Pacific. The Green Mists are a formidable cloud cover so heinous, we close our homes to this deadly weather that suffocates our existence for unpredictable intervals. The trouble with green clouds is this, there is no wind, they do not move off, they reach deep into the vast stretches of land. Green clouds are the only clouds that can actually touch terra. They are fascinating and terrifying. They are feared and avoided by most every person in the world.

Most people are simply cloud and rain readers. We can all see the colors and we know the specific fell of each type of rain. We can judge by the wind what our tomorrow will look like. Our clouds are sacred and absolutely relentless in their cycles.

There are even religions for each of the clouds, we are raised in their shadow and we know each of their names. There are particles in each of the rains. Particles that travel along in the gaseous expanses, bathed in color a natural reaction to density and light. There is undeniable life packed generously in the ineffable opacity of these behemoths of our skies. Over centuries we learned to harness each drop to our benefit, in that same time we have learned to turn deaf ears and blind eyes to our most miraculous foundation of life.

When Luna appears in some of the midnight skies the waters of the world rush and move, hither and thither to the rhythm of the beams of light as they shoot through our purple clouds to the surface. The lunar light charges the purple clouds and lightning cascades from the upper reaches of the clouds. The readers warn of the moonbeams, the readers warn of the purple clouds, readers warn of the lightning and the readers deny our instincts. This the violet cloud, our most revered of clouds and they just discourage the abilities of our people, forcing resonators and readers alike straight into hiding, against our better judgement, against our inherent yearning to be one with our rains, one with our life vapors.

There is a minority of us here, the readers call us resonators. We understand the clouds, we hear their statements as the most loving voice. We are the clouds. Our thoughts, our emotions, our feelings and our natural abilities are that of the clouds. I am the clouds, my name is Amaranthine, my mother says I was born under the varied colors of the cloud. The bright purple of the amaranth cloud that hung over the hospital when I was born told my mother to name me for her presence. While I don't believe her my mother also says golden clouds streaked the underbody of the amaranth cloud.

It is commonly accepted that people like me are extinct in the modern world. Lost in the mix, senses dampened by our society, natural abilities tamped down by the weight of generations. I have found that more often than not fear dictates the people's actions.

I remember when I was small. My mother was guarded and guided by the massive and feared Ashen cloud. She was a resonator who worked with the entire spectrum of clouds. You could say my mother was akin to a shaman of the old faith. She can commune with and speak unto any clouds that cross the skies she finds herself under.

When the space winds blow the aurora of our star at 3 in the morning and streak along the upper skies just beyond the horizon, here the ashen cloud is formed. The darkness and massive weight of the ashen cloud descends upon the sky slowly and methodically. The rains of the ashen cloud are powdered, the accumulation of ashen cloud fall builds along the ground, we collect this rain as soon as it falls. My mother spoke of the weight of the ashen clouds once. She told of ships in the sky barreling through in the spirit of rest and rejuvenation. No one likes the ashen cloud she would say, this one cloud begs for us to reflect on self as we are stilled in place by the rains.

Introspection in practice is difficult, much more so when the introspection literally knocks upon your door, and abruptly halts everyday life.

Like every night, when the clock struck 12 the purple clouds emerged to dance in the warm blushing sky. I felt odd about the blush of the sky at midnight, tonight there were some orange streaks. In that moment my mother flashed through my mind, screaming for help.

The phone rang, Clementine her best friend spoke frantically, she said,

"Your mother was taken just now, she was arrested by the readers, we don't know what is going on. She was very calm and asked me to call you."

There was a click on the line, then a dead signal.