by Deiondre Alexander

Created on: September 11, 2008

The heat of the moment was cold. There was an immediate gripping sense of dread, something akin to alarm, as one small act of fatal clumsiness lost possession of the antique statuette. There was no question as to the uncanny nature that wielded that suspenseful moment, that suspended stretch of awareness outside of time. It was like some alternate reality coexisting with ours out of sight, something you might be able to reach if you traced a circle to its end. And I glimpsed it, trapped in the suspense created by the figurine which had been in itself equally uncanny from the moment my gaze fell.

Like the secretive smile of the Mona Lisa, it had enraptured me. Those stone eyes could see, and to the ghostly music of a shiver down my spine, I felt them see me. I was at once caught in the web of a strange spell, fascinated, drawn to touch the little figure that seemed to emanate some eerie whisper of a pulse from behind its stone crust. And touch it I did, to which my fingers were not disappointed. On the contrary, they were further drawn to lift it from its resting place, to break the tradition of stillness that condemns a statue's life. Who can say what the silent statue would have asked me to do next for my tragic fingers slipped, and that is where I entered the strange reality that began this story.

For this is the story of that moment of suspense, of a life flashing before my eyes but it was not my own. In that moment, I saw into the endangered life of this falling statue, the coexistence of a life that was represented by a strange stone figure in our world. As the lifeless enchantress tumbled through thick air toward the shattering ground, I saw the secrets sheltered behind her mask of stone.

There were glimpses of a busy childhood giggles and bare feet, motherly arms and a big, wide world which progressed quickly to show the making of a strikingly beautiful woman. I saw green fields, happy smiles, sunshine dancing on water, ripples of pristine white fabric as a skirt spun out, round and round. There was something significant in the spinning of that skirt, and focus was stressed on the airy, billowing folds, ever flowing with free movement.

Then there were walls and cages, depths of water meant to drown and close spaces meant to smother. A scattering of tools on a rubble-strewn ground. They were tools for stonework, but a single drop of significant blood shone on the edge of one of the utensils.

The flashes told a scattered story, but then came to a haunting,

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