This One is Best Whispered Outloud Catherine Mitchell-Ross

This One is Best Whispered Outloud

Catherine Mitchell-Ross

Shhh. Quiet. Speak softly, if you must. Listen to the land speaking around you.

Breath deep and slow, open your awareness; to the soft rustle of the leaves, the swaying of the tall grass, the murmuring of the stream, The babble of the brook,

Listen to my whispers, carried by the whistling of the wind.

Listen.

Shape the sounds with your mouth. Su

sur rus.

suuuusssuurrussssss

Feel its calm. Susurrus.

Susurrus.

Our susurrus.

Where It’s At Ms. Marquis

Blocked by the stones of the palace walls, the voices of two girls, heads together, reverberate out to the spectators at the Great Dionysia.

Fratricide. Blood brothers gone in a flash of shining steel. The uncle, the king, the tyrant – the girls – one is brave beyond compare; are we the other?

Silence will lead to one thing – a desert with vultures circling screeching for their next meal – the king alone on his baseless throne. Centuries later, waltzing through the door, a young woman

far removed from the princesses of Thebes, readies her house for the Yuletide. Candles on fire, lighting the way for the longest night of the year.

A forgery for a husband’s life? It seems to be a fair deal. But perhaps the fates are not convinced, as they circle the sitting room dimming the lights and guiding that

crooked man to watch the game of hide and seek. Startled, Nora ushers her children to their place of safety. It is no use. Her walls have begun to crumble. The game is over.

A moment of anagnorisis – she stands astounded. The most wonderful thing did not happen. Those three weird sisters are busy though. They won’t cut the thread just yet.

They envision another life through that exit, and as the door slams behind our heroine, they enchant the air. The string is taut. The reverberations are heard across Europe.

What then of our 15 belles soeurs across the ocean? Has the sound not penetrated those kitchen walls? The laughter, the tears, the odes, the chorus

the cacophony of their pain speaks to a startled crowd. The spot light capturing the truth breaks the silence of the noise. Something will shatter here.

The Shah – another king? This one is in exile. A revolution, seen through the eyes of a child, ensues. Transported to Persia, we spy another thread

Weaving through the pages. The weft is made of words. The warp is confounded by pictures. It all seems so simple, but the shuttle, as it moves in and out, reminds me

that this conflict isn’t finished. Its face reappears in our morning Newspaper. Fast forward to Snowman, who wakes before dawn. On his eastern horizon, there’s a greyish haze,

and the shrieks of the birds sound almost like holiday traffic. That can’t be right. This world is toast. 374 pages and four days later, he sees footprints. Zero-hour, he thinks. Time to go.

Oh, wait. I think I am trying to tell it backwards, to rewind the books, the themes, the characters, the ideas. But, I don’t have time. How inconvenient. How pestilential.

Running back through your class’s history, following the bee-line will that help to create something from the rubble of that tower in far off Babylon? What has fallen apart

can be resurrected – but not to recreate the palace walls that guard against freedom. Those walls have to fall and every thought that delves into the heart of the matter

will release the sun. The aperture is calibrated and light floods through. This yellow warm orb – ah, that’s where it’s at.