(Photo Credit: Crispina Kemp)

He was not taken to either reciting hymns or repeating incantations. His Gods resided between millions of pages in the thousands of books possessed by him. Manifesting in the myriad musty smells wafting out of the pages as he turned them over incessantly.  If he possessed a deified list, on top of its pile would sit – blasphemously – Ernest Hemingway, Ryszard Kapuscinsky, Walt Whitman, George Orwell, Feodor Dostoevsky and Aldous Huxley.

But towering above all his revered authors and their sacrosanct works, was an omnipresent and omniscient force. A tidal wave that engulfed him.  His Ash. While her presence was irresistible her absence was inexplicably magnetic. The more she went away from him the more nearer he was drawn to her.

This was the fifth day in a row he had arrived at the crack of dawn to light a candle mouthing a silent wish for her glittering future.

(Word Count: 150)

Written as part of the Crimson’s Creative Challenge #29 More details regarding this challenge may be found HERE.

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