Um...so who better than you to share this with?
I rewrote this thing (am now, and will be rewriting this things many many times)
any comments or hopes or imaginings or criticisms...would be great help...
the first two times i shared this those drafts were bad, and this one, still is pretty rough... but it's a lot better thanks to three of you...specifically, who took the time to read and help me figure out WHAT and HOW I am trying to say...
it's a romance adventure super-hero resurrection story in graphic play format...so it's uncharted territory...and I'm figuring it out as i go...
It is nearing dawn along the Bavarian-Tyrolean border in Schwangau Germany.
Inside St Coloman's Sanctuary in the Tannheim Mountains beneath Säuling peak a lone man sits in the hollow exhaustion of his own resurrection.
The placard on the sanctuary tells the tale of its namesake saint…a lone stranger in a time of war. A pilgrim with a foreign look and tongue on his way to the holy land. Mistaken for a spy because of his strange appearance – he was tortured, and hanged. He was made a saint by the local people out of remorse for the deed and because of his endurance under torture and the many miracles reported upon his death.
Kurt Wagner was born here and from infancy orphaned. He lived a life before this on a quest for belonging and died in the midst of that journey on a crest of abundant hope. That very faith refused to perish even in death and by that faith he was restored. Here, in Bavaria, where he was born; Kurt has been reborn. A miracle, in truth, but Kurt Wagner has always been…a miracle.
"It is written; Death came because of what a man did. Rising from the dead also comes because of what a man did...I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead', and behold I am alive..ja..alive...' His recitation isn't convincing…
Steadily through the lit pane of a stained glass window, a single raw beam of sunlight shafts through a cracked seam in the design to consecrate a surrounding darkness. In this beam of living light - a man's thoughts whirl, a waltz of glinting mote-laden reverie – in which memories, dreams and futures all gently swirl their whispers – unsettled and separate, they dance their continuous dance.
He is a man of contradictions. A furry blue homo-superior born with extraordinary gifts and impossible burdens. He is beautiful, a lithe figure of angelic grace in motion, but he the looks a demon. With prehensile tail, fangs and elfish ears; with the acrobat's slight curve of spine, yellow shinning eyes – and the marks: three fingers per hand and three-toes per foot. It's a natural fact, there is nobody – there has never a man like Kurt. He is an orphan in a world that does not adopt strangeness. He is a teleporter in a world that holds near only that which it can contain. He is a man who died and has just recently returned from the timelessness of limbo to live again…
"ja…I am the living one…' he rubs his hands, he sighs…"ja..." the sun gleams like a drawn sword, "Now it is dawn…"
BAMF! (the sound of mid-air inhaling itself echoes in the Church)
BAMF! (and is exhaled below in a purple and black burst of fireless aurora)
"Hail Mary, full of grace,our Lord is with thee,blessed art thou among women,and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Mary, mother of God,pray for us sinners, now, and in the hour of our death...(he pauses, lift his head to the light) and in the dawn of resurrection"
The ray's light is infused in violet smoke billowing upward through its steady fall
He raises his head and smiles...He leaps from his knees into the air as the room explodes in the full colored-spectrum cascading from the stained-glass windows. His body exudes effortless motion as he bounds from pew to wall to rafter...twirls and holds himself steady in a handstanding pirouette...His gaze falls to the upside-down door that is just beginning to open into the great room...the light outside, itself seeming to enter on its own accord...
Kurt releases and whirls wide-armed into the open air. BAMF! He vanishes, where he was, hanging in the room, there is only a dissipating cloud of fresh violet brimstone. Into the empty hall walks a diminutive cleaning lady. The light filling behind her.
"My, my, my...that's no way for a house of God to smell! Rank, as a tavern. Stale frankincense, myrrh and copal –as sulfurous as Beelzebub's breath."**
She takes a deep inhalation of the brimstone-laden air and props a bucket against the open door. For a moment she is taken by the vision of amethyst wisps of smoke as they swirl by through the entrance. She holds her exhalation…sensing for a presence…she is…like the her Bavarian ancestry…both superstitious and romantic…but she is also on the clock…and already has one hand on her Cross pendant…the other on her mop…safe in the surety of what she knows…kept by the devote repetition of her days. She exhales…"next to Godliness…" she sighs, plunges her mop and begins scrubbing the floor with gusto...
**translated from German
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