Read Online In the Forest of Light and Dark by Mark Kasniak - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Kasniak
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was a guarantee that every summer somebody would die after having fallen into the gorge in the state park.”
“Puh- lease,” I said, dismissing her warnings. “I’ve been playing and hanging out in the snake-infested woods and swamps of the Gulf my whole life. You think I’m about to get lost in the woods of New York—Get real.”
“I’m just saying…” Mama then defensively shot back at me, only this time sounding a-little-bit overprotective. “These woods around here have their own personality—they can play tricks on you. There’s a lot of history in this forest is all, and most of it is negative. So, I want you sticking around with me for a while until you get your bearings, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, dismissing her again, to which this time my candor caused my step daddy to interject snapping at me with, “Would you just do what your mama asks? Je-zus .” and then he mumbled something under his breath along the lines of, “Sheesh, the mouth on that girl.”
We then entered the house through the front door—my mama having had the keys mailed to her a couple of weeks earlier—and upon entering I peered up in marvel at the entryway’s vaulted ceiling. I then ducked quickly into the first room to my left, disappearing like a kid on an exploring adventure. It happened that it was the room with the big, bowed-out window that I’d seen from the driveway, and I was correct in that it was a family room of some sort or maybe even a drawing-room because I didn’t see a television anywhere. Standing forlornly tucked away in a corner was a grandfather clock and at the center of the room were two sofas each that faced each other. Having only been separated by a glass coffee table with a wood frame that nestled itself in between them.
Everything in the room looked expensive to me—as if it were all antiques. (But honestly, what did I know? Up to that point in my life any piece of furniture that didn’t have its cushions turned over to hide the cat piss stains on it, I would’ve considered a Rembrandt.)
The room also had pictures hanging all over the walls and resting on the furniture. I took to looking at them while my parents were busy off exploring other parts of the house.
Most of the photos were of people I didn’t recognize, but the one constant in many of them was a woman who I had assumed must have been my Grandmother Lyanna. Though, she didn’t quite look like the woman in the small photograph my mama had kept in her bedroom back in Saraland.
At times when I had thought of my grandmother in my mind’s eye, I couldn’t help but pictured her as a short, frail, old woman with snow-white hair, tired eyes, and wrinkly sagging skin to go along with a hunched back. But I knew that had been never true. The woman in these pictures wasn’t like that at all.
I could also say that most of the photographs weren’t really all that old either; both from the style of film they’d been printed on and by the style of clothing in which the people in them were wearing.
My grandmother—if that’s who the woman in the photos indeed was—had still been a quite youthful looking woman, beautiful even. She had long, raven-black hair, and a well-defined chin. Her eyes were hauntingly bright green like emeralds shimmering on a black canvas, and they gazed out as if filled with knowledge or a wisdom that went deeper than what her age would’ve had you believe. Around her neck she wore a silver pendant that had been unfortunately just too small in any of the photos for me to see clearly. But, her smile was what I liked the most about her, it was what I would’ve had to have called mischievous. Like that of someone who kept a secret that they weren’t about to share with anyone anytime soon. It reminded me a little of the Mona Lisa.
“Oh, there you are.” My mama said, peering in at me from just outside
“Puh- lease,” I said, dismissing her warnings. “I’ve been playing and hanging out in the snake-infested woods and swamps of the Gulf my whole life. You think I’m about to get lost in the woods of New York—Get real.”
“I’m just saying…” Mama then defensively shot back at me, only this time sounding a-little-bit overprotective. “These woods around here have their own personality—they can play tricks on you. There’s a lot of history in this forest is all, and most of it is negative. So, I want you sticking around with me for a while until you get your bearings, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, dismissing her again, to which this time my candor caused my step daddy to interject snapping at me with, “Would you just do what your mama asks? Je-zus .” and then he mumbled something under his breath along the lines of, “Sheesh, the mouth on that girl.”
We then entered the house through the front door—my mama having had the keys mailed to her a couple of weeks earlier—and upon entering I peered up in marvel at the entryway’s vaulted ceiling. I then ducked quickly into the first room to my left, disappearing like a kid on an exploring adventure. It happened that it was the room with the big, bowed-out window that I’d seen from the driveway, and I was correct in that it was a family room of some sort or maybe even a drawing-room because I didn’t see a television anywhere. Standing forlornly tucked away in a corner was a grandfather clock and at the center of the room were two sofas each that faced each other. Having only been separated by a glass coffee table with a wood frame that nestled itself in between them.
Everything in the room looked expensive to me—as if it were all antiques. (But honestly, what did I know? Up to that point in my life any piece of furniture that didn’t have its cushions turned over to hide the cat piss stains on it, I would’ve considered a Rembrandt.)
The room also had pictures hanging all over the walls and resting on the furniture. I took to looking at them while my parents were busy off exploring other parts of the house.
Most of the photos were of people I didn’t recognize, but the one constant in many of them was a woman who I had assumed must have been my Grandmother Lyanna. Though, she didn’t quite look like the woman in the small photograph my mama had kept in her bedroom back in Saraland.
At times when I had thought of my grandmother in my mind’s eye, I couldn’t help but pictured her as a short, frail, old woman with snow-white hair, tired eyes, and wrinkly sagging skin to go along with a hunched back. But I knew that had been never true. The woman in these pictures wasn’t like that at all.
I could also say that most of the photographs weren’t really all that old either; both from the style of film they’d been printed on and by the style of clothing in which the people in them were wearing.
My grandmother—if that’s who the woman in the photos indeed was—had still been a quite youthful looking woman, beautiful even. She had long, raven-black hair, and a well-defined chin. Her eyes were hauntingly bright green like emeralds shimmering on a black canvas, and they gazed out as if filled with knowledge or a wisdom that went deeper than what her age would’ve had you believe. Around her neck she wore a silver pendant that had been unfortunately just too small in any of the photos for me to see clearly. But, her smile was what I liked the most about her, it was what I would’ve had to have called mischievous. Like that of someone who kept a secret that they weren’t about to share with anyone anytime soon. It reminded me a little of the Mona Lisa.
“Oh, there you are.” My mama said, peering in at me from just outside
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