Author’s note: This is the short prologue to my collection of short stories, provisionally titled Demon Days: Nine Urban Tales
A dark hall. At the far end the slats of a broken louver filter the cobalt blue of city midnight across the wainscoting. Nobody is about, nothing stirs. All the remaining descriptors, the vivid features of the musty hall and dun floorboards, recline on imagination to fill them in.
A Unicorn Called Rachael: Biblical Allegory in Blade Runner 2049: Part I
By: Drake Dunaway
In the livid heat shimmer of the deserts the silhouette of a weary traveler appears before you like a merging orbit of inkblots. This dusty wayfarer hails from far away, venturing this parched and desperate land to flee to his kindred. Behind in Canaan he leaves a dramatic tale that goaded him hither; a slighted brother, a stolen birthright, and a desperate flight as a pauper before the mercies of the frontier. Cue the sheer panoramas of deep deserts, whipping winds, and all the B-reel our minds conjure. That’ll do.
The quaint shtetl of Rosava lay alone in the wide and grassy country of Russia. The sun was tracking toward evening behind the clouds on a drear Friday. The cows lowed as they headed back to the barns. Shabbat preparations were in full swing.
In the barn, two boys and a girl argued about killing a snake they found in the corner of one of the stalls. It was long and black.
A few weeks ago I spent the night saying goodbye to Cooper, our family’s 13-year-old golden retriever. That moment when your privately spiritual father asks you if Torah says anything about animals having souls…
Indirectly it does.
Author’s note: I will be changing character names from familiar likenesses. This snippet is part of Fringe Blue, a writing project that I shelved to become a better reader. It will be drastically revised in time, as I’m in the process of harmonizing it with its sequel “Axis Mundi.” Fringe Blue is Copyright Protected, # TXu001848759 / 2013-03-20. All rights reserved.
Det. Johnny Lasko was still on the same street corner, sublimely unaware of how much time had passed since intoning the Call of Jerusalem. Stone City at ground level gave scant indication of time, as millions of termites beneath a furrowed redwood had no use for a sundial. He thought to check his watch, but wanted to keep the afterglow of such a moment for as long as possible. He relaxed his arms and stood in front of the white booth, patiently waiting his turn.
“The legend of the Wandering Jew.” The Jew flees the cross and spends, this is no legend, all of time wandering, wondering, not daring to consider that he might have been wrong about the man called Yeshua.