Comments
Loading Dream Comments...
You must be logged in to write a comment - Log In
A woman rises from a candlelit desk beneath a blazing red moon, arms outstretched like wings. Birds hover midair, pages scatter, and fine golden threads coil around her throat and hair. An open book lies before her, surrounded by red flowers and wax flames. The room feels half-library, half-ritual chamber, as if language itself has taken flight and the night is answering her invocation.
Soror Nameless opened the book not to read it, but to be read by it.
The red moon burned in the library window like a punctuation mark no language could contain. Candles trembled on their brass stems. Poppies loosened their petals into the air. The shelves leaned inward, listening.
She lifted her arms, and the wings answered.
This was not metaphor. The grammar had rules.
Every grimoire begins with a subject.
Every invocation requires a verb.
Every summoning must name its object.
But the primordial Ur has no proper noun.
It is the vowel before breath. The consonant before bone. The silence from which syllables crawl, wet and unfinished. Soror Nameless did not speak its name. She rearranged herself into its syntax.
The open book lay before her like a mouth. Black ink waited in neat lines, pretending to be obedient. She exhaled, and the lines loosened. Letters unlatched their spines and took flight as birds. Margins dissolved. Footnotes shed their caution.
She did not command the Ur.
She declined it.
“I,” she began — and the word cracked.
The subject could not hold.
The Ur does not answer to singular pronouns. It swells behind them. It waits in the plural marrow of things. Beneath her skin, beneath the paper, beneath the red moon’s pulse, the first sound pressed outward.
Not thunder. Not whisper.
A vowel without edge.
The room bent toward it. The books inhaled. The candles guttered and leaned, as if grammar itself were a wind. The poppies bled brighter. A black shape stirred in the shadow between shelves, not beast, not god — an unclosed parenthesis.
Soror Nameless closed her eyes and let the sentence finish itself.
She did not ask to be devoured. She asked to be conjugated.
The Ur moved through her throat like molten gold thread, weaving wings where language had been. Flesh remembered older alphabets. Bone remembered the first mark scratched into night.
Outside, the red moon dimmed slightly, as if satisfied.
Inside, the book lay open, but no longer empty.
Its grammar had been corrected.
There was no subject.
There was no object.
Only the verb.
And it was still speaking.
