All Hallows Costume Ball…
Autumn sits on her tawny throne with a thin beautiful smile, her sister Summer to her left, drowsy and tired from her wild dancing, sister Winter on her right, clearing sleep icicles from her pale, pale blue eyes. Young Spring is abed sleeping as children and babes should at such an hour.
The Great Hall of Seasons’ circle is filled with color, reds, russets, golds, yellows, red-tinged green on Summer’s left, tawny, grey, and black on Winter’s right.
Great flocks of birds weave pirouettes in the Dome of the Night Sky, brushing stars with their wings, eying candle pumpkins aglow, far, far below.
Autumn’s groom, the Reaver, stands at her right shoulder, scythe in hand and a brace of Ravens perched upon the shoulders of his hooded cloak. He watches with hidden eyes the circle of dancers below trying to peer through the thinning veil into his homeland, the Kingdom of Eternal Mystery.
The sky roars and rumbles with thunder, a sustained pounding felt through the earth. The once dark night grew bright as lightning danced with electrifying precision. What was once unseen was now seen; the Harlequin, beautiful and enticing.
These are the Dancers of the Reaver and escorts to the Kingdom of Eternal Mystery. They are dressed in costumes of black and red and white, with faces painted in anonymous expressions of sadness and glee, they bow as deep as the waves of the ocean to the earth; one gentle flowing of bodies.
They dance round and round, their movements unifying, male and female dancing in a hypnotic trance of passion. In their togetherness they are one in body, soul, and mind. Their voices chant: “Master of the Seasons. We are here for the great gathering, All together as One to welcome the Dark. Oh, bless us once more as you have in times past, and allow us the honor of being in your presence.”
The Reaver’s hooded cloak sways slowly toward his tawny-eyed bride with a slight air of questioning, and Autumn stands tall in a whirling cloak of many-colored leaves, leaving her amber and white throne like a milkweed pod bursting, a wave of grass seed freed from her tuft by the angry chill wind. With a chill breath as charcoal as the grey skies of her season, she proclaims: “Dance, Harlequin and Spirit Company, dance the dance of duty, close the cycle and pave the way!”
The Reaver’s eyes glow from deep within his hood a solemn red, and he gestures to Harlequin with a low swing of scythe to commence the harvest.
Harlequin’s eyes blaze alight with an eerie spectral blue-green glow, which now also emanates from the leaping and swirling dancers, who surge forward to seize the night.
All about, the spectral dancers pair up with the old and infirm in their regal costumes, with the young and hale, and with everyone about the floor. Some converse in whispers; Druid and Spirit. The dance goes on and on, costumes and masks and living and glowing dead a whirl with the tempo of the beating wind and thunder. One by one the season’s harvest fall to the floor as if in slumber, only to stand now glowing and dance toward the distant stars above the clouds.
All about wait for the dance to stop; they wonder who will be left to embrace Winter’s time of snow and ice.
Slowly, slowly, the evening winds to fade, the dancers gone off to the cold night stars to teach the newborn souls their flight and dance. Those left at the ball have wandered off one-by-one and two-by-two, homeward bound to sweet Autumnal dreams.
Autumn turns to Winter as Summer drifts off to sleep, and says to her icy sister: “Winter, my chilly dear, call your legions of frost and snow, rally them to the field and dale, to the windows and to castle walls, paint your white sparkling banners upon the world. There will be old souls again to dance for Spring when our lovely child-sister awakens in her turn.”
Winter flies up in a brilliant sparkling flurry into the night sky, shrieking a song of frozen wind and trailing a cloud of ice crystals, straight to her lighted throne above, Aurora Borealis, the seat of Northern Lights. She sends her pale white knight husband Jack Frost and his frozen host out to paint a restful blanket upon the Earth, and slowly the world hushes, stills, and tucks away inside.
Autumn turns to the Reaver, puts her tawny hand in his gray-gloved grip, tosses her fiery mane of maple, elm, and oak locks, and leads her eternal suitor unto the Mystery beyond the veil, in a graceful gait of surrender and joy.
© 10/26/2012
By: Daniel A. Stafford and Alexis Williams
A.K.A. AquarianM and Dracula’s Woman
Autumn sits on her tawny throne with a thin beautiful smile, her sister Summer to her left, drowsy and tired from her wild dancing, sister Winter on her right, clearing sleep icicles from her pale, pale blue eyes. Young Spring is abed sleeping as children and babes should at such an hour.
The Great Hall of Seasons’ circle is filled with color, reds, russets, golds, yellows, red-tinged green on Summer’s left, tawny, grey, and black on Winter’s right.
Great flocks of birds weave pirouettes in the Dome of the Night Sky, brushing stars with their wings, eying candle pumpkins aglow, far, far below.
Autumn’s groom, the Reaver, stands at her right shoulder, scythe in hand and a brace of Ravens perched upon the shoulders of his hooded cloak. He watches with hidden eyes the circle of dancers below trying to peer through the thinning veil into his homeland, the Kingdom of Eternal Mystery.
The sky roars and rumbles with thunder, a sustained pounding felt through the earth. The once dark night grew bright as lightning danced with electrifying precision. What was once unseen was now seen; the Harlequin, beautiful and enticing.
These are the Dancers of the Reaver and escorts to the Kingdom of Eternal Mystery. They are dressed in costumes of black and red and white, with faces painted in anonymous expressions of sadness and glee, they bow as deep as the waves of the ocean to the earth; one gentle flowing of bodies.
They dance round and round, their movements unifying, male and female dancing in a hypnotic trance of passion. In their togetherness they are one in body, soul, and mind. Their voices chant: “Master of the Seasons. We are here for the great gathering, All together as One to welcome the Dark. Oh, bless us once more as you have in times past, and allow us the honor of being in your presence.”
The Reaver’s hooded cloak sways slowly toward his tawny-eyed bride with a slight air of questioning, and Autumn stands tall in a whirling cloak of many-colored leaves, leaving her amber and white throne like a milkweed pod bursting, a wave of grass seed freed from her tuft by the angry chill wind. With a chill breath as charcoal as the grey skies of her season, she proclaims: “Dance, Harlequin and Spirit Company, dance the dance of duty, close the cycle and pave the way!”
The Reaver’s eyes glow from deep within his hood a solemn red, and he gestures to Harlequin with a low swing of scythe to commence the harvest.
Harlequin’s eyes blaze alight with an eerie spectral blue-green glow, which now also emanates from the leaping and swirling dancers, who surge forward to seize the night.
All about, the spectral dancers pair up with the old and infirm in their regal costumes, with the young and hale, and with everyone about the floor. Some converse in whispers; Druid and Spirit. The dance goes on and on, costumes and masks and living and glowing dead a whirl with the tempo of the beating wind and thunder. One by one the season’s harvest fall to the floor as if in slumber, only to stand now glowing and dance toward the distant stars above the clouds.
All about wait for the dance to stop; they wonder who will be left to embrace Winter’s time of snow and ice.
Slowly, slowly, the evening winds to fade, the dancers gone off to the cold night stars to teach the newborn souls their flight and dance. Those left at the ball have wandered off one-by-one and two-by-two, homeward bound to sweet Autumnal dreams.
Autumn turns to Winter as Summer drifts off to sleep, and says to her icy sister: “Winter, my chilly dear, call your legions of frost and snow, rally them to the field and dale, to the windows and to castle walls, paint your white sparkling banners upon the world. There will be old souls again to dance for Spring when our lovely child-sister awakens in her turn.”
Winter flies up in a brilliant sparkling flurry into the night sky, shrieking a song of frozen wind and trailing a cloud of ice crystals, straight to her lighted throne above, Aurora Borealis, the seat of Northern Lights. She sends her pale white knight husband Jack Frost and his frozen host out to paint a restful blanket upon the Earth, and slowly the world hushes, stills, and tucks away inside.
Autumn turns to the Reaver, puts her tawny hand in his gray-gloved grip, tosses her fiery mane of maple, elm, and oak locks, and leads her eternal suitor unto the Mystery beyond the veil, in a graceful gait of surrender and joy.
© 10/26/2012
By: Daniel A. Stafford and Alexis Williams
A.K.A. AquarianM and Dracula’s Woman
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