The morning is starting with a primordial panorama. Warm fog hangs low, stuffing the valleys with cottony pillows. Scattered about, rocky outcrops of the higher peaks protrude from under the blanket of vapors, rendering the likeness of a Jurassic sea dotted with barren islands. Perched above the scene on the third highest peak, from my stone and mortar home, I sip my coffee while imagining an assortment of prehistoric creatures that hide within the etheric white shroud. Fog is rare in this arid climate. In a short time, the rising sun will blow his hot breath to vanquish these vagabond vapors. I will fantasize about the hidden depths until the last wisp of it rises to ride the wind.
“What is it Lakota?” I ask my snarling dog and good friend, as his hackles rise on his back.
He growls as he begins to move forward with hesitant steps. Calling Lakota back; I stroke his head to remind him that a tyrannosaurs-rex could swallow him whole. My four-legged friend is not amused, or distracted from his vigilance. We have been best of friends for many years and I trust his instincts over my own. I make ready the double-barrel shotgun that lies across my lap. He appears emboldened by my posture, letting out a threatening bark. To get a visitor up here is as rare as the fog. The few people who come this way know to announce themselves before they come into range of my scattergun. Lakota and I hunt for game on a regular basis. He knows to stay close and quiet. When marauders venture too near, his stance and demeanor are more aggressive. Whatever hides in the fog is more of a curiosity to him than a threat.
The sun is rising fast from behind me to dissipate this misty veil. An eagle’s shrill voice calls from on high and echoes through the valley, as I remain peering into the ghostly vapors at the ready for anything. Or so I thought. The emerging image sends a startled shiver through my body and Lakota sits at my side with a perplexed whimper. Before me stands young Emily. She passed away three seasons ago, when she was forty-three. Yet she is here, young and vibrant. She smiles at me. My heart flutters and my pulse quickens as it did on the first day we met, all those years ago. The fog is fading fast and so is my Emily. She blows me a kiss as she vanishes.
Lakota runs to where she was standing and attempts to locate her scent. He returns with a disappointed sadness, reflecting my own. He goes back to the spot, casting back and forth in disbelief.
I know I have a fertile imagination. I might believe, in this case, it applies to Emily’s apparition. Nonetheless, Lakota saw her too.
© Valormore De Plume
Self educated, Valormore De Plume began writing in 2012. He entered the literary world in 2013 with his first published poem in an anthology. Since that time, through placing consistently in the top ranks of www.writerscafe.org writing competitions, Valormore’s fertile imagination continues to enthrall his followers with a wide variety of compelling short stories and his visionary poetry. Valormore’s second poetic anthology submission in 2016 to Creative Talents Unleashed was accepted and will be out at the end of June.
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