Black and White By Mike Jacobson
Wear white. Were white. Black gloves hiding skin. Hidden mirrors occluding their splendor. Wear black. We’re black and came back. Millions of colors crowded in.
Cancel! Clouds trailed wispy white while or all the while. Millions of black clouds coming around the mountain when she comes. Clouds backing into spaces. Periodically white clouds intervened.
She wore black that day as did millions. Notoriously absorbing light. Stupendously sudden illuminations struck sparks starting fires. White sparks and black sparks intermingled. Intermixed.
Black fire on white fire, they are said to have written. Primordially, as I see it, the very first act. Black fire on white fire, the letters dancing. White fire, firing on all cylinders, all cones, all shapes and sizes. A dance of solid figures, around an original may pole, a cosmic pole, the cosmos chiaroscuro-like, chiaroscuristically, made by hand.
Handmade, then. Wearing black robes, trailing clouds of dark-skinned glory. She wore white that day, contrasting with her skin. That day, she wrote with white fire on black fire, that was the way she felt. Backfired. Fired.
Writing for the moment, she opined, analogous to living for same. Writing for eternity in a moment, time having neither black nor white coloration. Neither black nor white connotation. She wrote for the ages, wearing black, and for the other ages, wearing white.
Wearing down. Feathery light, feathery light floating all the while, all the while millions of black clouds floating down on them. They being everyone, all of us, all who had yet to be born, forever and ever. Amen, he shouted, joining in, wearing white. Cancel!
Wear black. Funereally, attuned to the somber occasion, the day of the dead, of all those yet to die, forever and ever. They being all of us, though some were not of that opinion. Those who opined less holistically, wore white that day. Cancel! Cancel!
Black fire. Black skin. Hers the most glorious color imaginable. Thus hers the writing that could set all the shapes in motion, for all eternity. World with, and without, end.
Mike Jacobson is a former independent film-maker who has several films in the Film Makers Cooperative catalog. For many years he has been writing prose pieces, some of which may be categorized as fiction, some as very short plays, while others can’t easily be categorized. A short story was published in Unbroken in January. Mike has made his living writing fundraising appeals for a variety of non-profit organizations. He is married, with a daughter and three grandchildren.