Prysm

Story and Music by John K. Graham

After almost a hundred years, Dorthy's spirit remained intact. Although she could trace every memory of her short life there at the old Meade Hotel, there were things impossible for her to admit to herself because in fact so much had happened so fast, that some things simply could not be justified. Chief of these injustices was her untimely death at age thirteen. Standing on a dare by the rockwash stream used by miners to silt the last of the gold from the mountain's edge, she imagined herself for a moment one speck of gold, shimmering just below the surface.

And then everything became blurry—all the plans her mom had made for Dorthy and her sisters, all the hopes of finally going to San Francisco and living amidst all that big-city excitement. Dorthy looked for her friend as she stepped from the water, but somehow time had passed and she felt herself walking as if in a dream. When finally she reached her friend, it was apparent something had gone oddly wrong. Dorthy strove to comfort her, only to feel her own touch somehow less connected—as if her small hands were mere wisps of a faint Montana breeze.

And so, time passed, on and on. Dorthy watched as her family left her behind, her feelings welling up inside her unable to speak, as if speaking now could make any difference, and ashamed she'd brought herself to an odd imprisonment of light and pain. It would be difficult to amuse herself alone, but there was always the night, and besides the wind spoke to her now in ways it hadn't before. Occasionally a visitor, especially a child, would find its way near her, and she tried hard to say hello and to be friendly near the old hotel. Yet it was never easy being misunderstood, and so each time she became more and more recluse and withdrawn, revealing herself as the morning and evening light allowed. Her short life played out over and over again in patterns, and at times she found herself reliving the shrieks of childish abandon which for others merely amounted to a sudden sharp breeze, and the briefest waft of lilac and sparkles out of the corner of the eye.

Dorthy's prison was light in all the subtle colors previously unseen, and her own prismatic existence plays softly against the angular beams of morning and near-dusk which now form her substance.