Under the Shaman’s Sun


The pencil lead was sharpened to optimise the cracking and crumbling on impact with the paper. She could not write. Those sounds had not been uttered yet.  The motion of her hand across the page expressed a need. Some documents are indiscernable when the parchment is weary and worn . Some sounds are so sacred not even the silent desert has heard them, nor the mountain peaks, nor the deep dark oceans.

Do you think men are really from Mars?  He’d asked in his ‘this will catch you out way.’  No, she had replied, much further away than that.  He had smiled wryly inside.  He’d never heard this explanation before on the planetary configuration and congugation of man and woman. He remembered one woman, Babs was her name, a student of astrology, had revelled in an over dinner monlogue about the virtues and astral qualities of Mars entering Venus. 

She drew those inaudible sounds on that paper with the cracking lead that had rounded and softened to her touch. She heard the desert’s silence and saw the deepest ocean blackness behind her eyes. An internal deaf and  blindness muted those sacred sounds. Yet her body swayed and swirled like that day in the desert.  That day in the overpowering heat.  He said he’d cool her down with his nonchalant indifference, but he had lied. It was too late she had already drunk from his mirage and the heat had burned them both under the fire of the Shaman’s sun.

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