My Dear Fiona - Chapter 29 Telling Tall Tales

Stories

Night falls quickly in Orkney at the end of October, and we drove quietly past the lochs and the stones to reach the Storytelling Centre, braving a bone chilling rain that promised to turn into ice soon.

We advanced through the darkness in silence, lulled by the rhythmic motion of the windshield wipers, like the last two people on earth, who reached the limits of their familiar realm and dared to venture into uncharted territory.

After a while we lost track of time and distance, immersed in an inky darkness whose substance was uniform, unmeasurable, and thicker than molasses, and which closed behind us as we passed through it, like the depths of the sea.

The passing of time is a measure of change, and it does not apply to a medium that stays the same, which shows no sign of differentiation or movement.

In the blackness of that night we were outside of time itself, traveling to another dimension maybe, I couldn’t tell.