DeificationAnd when the vicar swept in like a windswept day
And said I am the resurrection
I believed her
I believed the archaic power
and the mystery
and the unswerving eye of god.
And I believed in a soul that continues,
and I believed in a watching-over
and a continuance of care
and that you would love my unborn children
and be proud.
And I believed that you were looking down,
your face pressed against invisible glass,
a child looking through a shop window
smiling on those things she cannot have.
I deify you.
Perhaps I am ashamed of this.
ST: Freeze and Thaw
Star Trek Secret Santa for kcscribbler.
Non-slash Kirk and Spock.
December was a dull month. Even on the Starship Enterprise, without the natural cycles of weather or the tilt of the earth creating shorter, darker, colder days, December was still a dull month this year. Perhaps for some of the crew it was to do with being away from home at Christmas. Perhaps for others it was because the ship was coming towards the end of a gruesomely long haul of relentless to-ing and fro-ing across this sector of the galaxy.
For James Kirk pinning down the reason why was not difficult at all. Only a few weeks ago he had lost his wife, and he had lost his unborn child. Perhaps they had been people out of time. Perhaps he had been stranded, amnesiac, on a world that was not his but he had loved Miramanee, and he had known that he was going to love his child, the fascinating blend of his blond, bronzed looks and Miramanee's sleek darkness that he could not picture in his mi
It Is Christmas...It is Christmas.
It is Christmas, and the silence presses on the house like the viscous inside of a snowglobe. It is Christmas, and snowflakes fall like plankton in Arctic waters. It is Christmas, and the graves in the graveyard are still beneath their soft blankets and the birds do not sing, and there are tracks in the snow but no creatures moving.
Inside the house the silence expands like warm air. The fire cracks as flames take hold of yielding wood. The tree is still, unstirred by wind, baubles suspended with the grace of fossils in amber. The lights are fireflies. The lights are the petrified echoes of fireworks, magnesium and copper, strontium, sulphur. The lights are fairies, caught and suspended on a string.
It is Christmas, and it is dark and silent, and the moon hovers, caught by gravity but never quite in our grasp. It is Christmas, and the presents lie beneath the tree, wrapped in their gaudy wrappings, wrapped with love and hope and wrapped with anticipation.
It is Christm