​​H E R M E N E U T I C   C H A O S   J O U R N A L

​pamela hill



A Play On Light


Who will believe me, I wondered, when I tell of sun swirls and cloud shifts, those purple shimmers that overwhelmed the interior of my car as I drove to the office Friday morning?  I reached out to grasp the glow radiating, but the shimmers evaded my touch and disappeared. Access was purely impressionistic like a do-lovely photograph or Mona Lisa’s smile, leaving my mind a zigzag.   


​That evening, my husband, Peter and I went to the Goblin Market, an avant garde restaurant with shelves lined with books and naked little goblins. We sat in discomfort watching them and sipping chardonnay.

​Imagined a slight shift in goblin stances. Transfixed on those agonized faces in rows, I was staring, wishing to free them from the pain of pretense or gazes from patrons such as I who stare.

​A faint glimmer of fear stirred within me.

​After dinner, Peter told the maître d' he’d like to purchase a goblin. “My wife is entranced by them,” he said, startling me. I laughed, knowing he was just as entranced.

“Not for sale,” said the maître d'. “But please accept a gift.” He reached to the shelf and selected the ugliest one and offered it to me with a gracious bow. Peter and I travelled home with a goblin on my lap.  

​We arrived to a dead crow in our driveway. Peter found a shovel in the garage, scooped up the crow and slid it into a green plastic bag. I went into the house wondering about its last flight.  Peter came in and washed his hands, said he had to run to the store, just realized he was out of smokes. He wasn’t gone long before I heard sirens. We lived a few blocks from a hospital, not unusual to hear sirens from time to time.  Inharmonic intrusions made me nervous, and Peter always said, “Just a cat up a tree.”  

​The doorbell rang. Police officers stood illuminated in porch lights. The sirens were not for a cat up a tree. Thoughts of Peter disconnected, distorted, a bell tolls for thee, for thee

​I wrapped myself in Peter’s clothes and drank his vodka.  Listening to his recorded voice, my face covered with a towel he’d left in the shower, I became too enervated to move.  Suspended, I hid in cushions. 

​I was still on the couch when those same purple shimmers appeared in my parlor as they had Friday morning in my car. A coming horizon, reflections, a figure, a hand reaching toward me. My arms tingled as feeling returned, and as I stretched out and reached to connect, the image evanesced to air. 

​A purple rain, ineffable and eternal. More than our physical channel, our strain, are shimmers around in sprinkles poised for moments of pain, and with this knowledge we move forward, my ugly goblin and I. 









Pamela Hill attended private college in Northeast Florida where she graduated summa cum laude. She currently lives in Florida where two statuesque beauties in the form of highly intelligent felines illuminate humor with sudden ninja attacks on her computer mouse while she works on her first novel. Pamela’s poetry and prose can be found in Ping Pong, Thrush Poetry Journal, Copperfield Review, Apeiron Reviewand other journals.