Prayers for the Soul of a Virgin Comet: Prayers for the Soul, #3

By Sailor Stone

The most beautiful actress in the world has been dropped and crushed. 

 

At the age of thirteen, she won an academy award and was acclaimed worldwide. She was also raped. 

 

Today, as a young woman, she is devastated, she is sad, and she is lonely. She is also a virgin. 

 

Every night she stands at the end of her dock looking up to the stars, hoping for, and dreaming of, the chance to start her life again. But the nightmare that lies anchored in her past weighs heavy on her heart, so she sighs and turns for the walk back to her empty plantation home.
Then one night there appears on the horizon a new light in the sky, a comet. And it has purpose—a cosmic mission—and this tragic and beautiful young lady is forced to make a life-changing decision. And after years away from the camera, she dares to take on another movie role and finds herself confronted once again with the actor that she's always loved and the director that all but destroyed her.

You can instantly download and read this breathtaking story now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystica Holdings LLC
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519992659

Sailor Stone

Sailor Stone lives in the southern United States on the Atlantic coast where he stays busy writing novels and short stories in many genres, including Magical Realism, Coming of Age, Christian Literary, and Thrillers. His stories often feature protagonists that are trying to find their way in a cold and uncaring world, and where many times they get a slight - sometimes helpful, sometimes painful - nudge toward the truth from the supernatural.  Besides writing, he enjoys playing sports, photography, and studying the arts, philosophy, and religion. He likes discovering great books written by great authors, tasting new beers and wines, playing tennis, sitting in the back of a darkened nightclub and listening to a jazz trio take a long ride, being out on the open water in a boat, and worshiping quietly in the back of a church.  He considers the enjoyment of all the above to be multiplied exponentially by the accompaniment of his family and friends. For more about Sailor and his books go to www.sailorstone.com.

Book preview

Prayers for the Soul of a Virgin Comet

PRAYERS FOR THE SOUL OF A VIRGIN COMET

SAILOR STONE

MYSTICA HOLDINGS LLC

Copyright © 2016 by Mystica Holdings LLC and the author

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Prayers for the Soul of a Virgin Comet

PRAYERS FOR THE SOUL OF A VIRGIN COMET

We begin this story looking down from space—from the view of an approaching comet—a virgin comet—that has never, in its ancient history, been touched and ignited by a close encounter with the sun.

In order for this comet to see what is happening on the porch of the old southern plantation home that lies perched on the edge of a massive saltwater estuary, and, if it wants to discern the scared young woman, standing in all her beauty, her petrified glory, from out in such a high and far away cosmic position—the comet will have to zoom in with a telescopic focus. But it’s essential to our story that it get to work looking for her now and perform the lighted-mission that it was sent to do.

There is a van, a package delivery van, driving down a long, dry, dirt road—dust tailing behind it—kind of like a comet. Not far ahead of it is the old plantation home, and behind this home lies the coastal marshes of South Carolina with the live oaks growing along its edges, draped in Spanish moss, just like in all the southern movies, and speaking of movies, that is what this story is about. It’s about being seen again, about communication with other humans, and then hopefully—it is about touch and love and all that good stuff. It’s about that pleasant feeling that a movie-goer has as she leaves the theater, wishing she could feel like this, this transcendent high, all of the days of her life.

But it is also about the dark, the lonely, the vacant nights of having no one, no one at all, and it’s about the bleak finality of the longest sigh and the quiet prayer for help that surges out from the heart with its exhalation. And it’s about how empty the black expanses of space look between the stars to a beautiful young woman standing solitaire on a dock, surrounded by marsh grass and saltwater, with nothing else to do but look up in quiet, desperate hope.

But then we get back to the comet—and it’s amazing just how cold and icy something can be, but this comet has purpose, it has mission written all over its snowy face, and we need to see what it sees—we need to go there—to where it is now looking as it searches for its cosmological raison d’être.

When the courier stepped from his van to deliver the letter he was taken aback by the sight of her. But she was used to it. All men, and more than a few women, had this reaction when they saw her for the first time in true life—in live time 3-D—and not on a TV or a movie screen where beauty, as good as the technology now was, still somehow came off as flattened and not so real.

He stood before her on her front porch and stuttered about what a fine day it was and how pretty her house looked with the live oaks in the front yard and how he loved the view she had of the saltwater marshes as they spread to the far horizon behind her home. He said he enjoyed her in the movies when he was a kid growing up and he said something about them both being the same age, twenty-four. His cheeks burned red and his pupils were dilated as he looked at her and spoke. She doubted he even knew what he was saying, and later, when he told his friends who he’d met, she figured he would have to make up what they spoke about because all he was really doing was drinking her in with his eyes. And in this way—where the mere sight of her was sufficient to the task—she’d have one more fan from a career she’d given up some years before. It seemed the less she was in front of the camera the more curious the world became about her and she wished it wasn’t like that.

She used the pen he handed her to sign for the letter and she then opened the envelope, removed the letter, and wrote a little note to the courier on the back of the envelope and autographed it for him without him even asking.

There was a reason she did this and when she handed him the note, she said, Please, for this nice note, and I know it isn’t much, but please, don’t ever tell anyone where I live. Then she added, I would think that is against your ethics as a deliveryman as it stands anyway.

He assured her he would never do that and then he backed down her steps while taking her in with all his visual might and he hopped into his delivery van and, with one more look to her on her porch, he smiled at her and shut his door and turned the steering wheel to his van and headed back down her long drive.

And as he drove through her open gate, the gate she’d opened electronically a few moments earlier so he could enter, she listened to the fading sound of his engine as he pulled away, driving up the coquina road, the dust rising behind him, and when he disappeared from view she heard the crickets as they came back online in the evening light and she took a deep breath, stepped inside her front door, and closed it.

We need to remember this electric gate and what it stands for as—a moment later—it creaked shut and there was no sound anywhere on the small plantation but for the continuance of the summer crickets as they reeck-reecked toward the infinity of the orange and blue sky above.

Over the coming days she thought about the letter, what it requested, and though she was certain (and this was a certainty that came from within the deep marrow of her bones) that she didn’t want to do what was requested of her—and in fact, she was afraid to do it after not having been in front of a camera for so long—she knew, for the continuance of her and her invalid father’s lifestyle, that she had to do it.

There was no choice. As beautiful as she was—as famous as she’d been—she needed the trees and the marshes of her plantation home to be there as a buffer and keep her from being noticed by the molestous world around her.

And so a few days later, as the sun rose and the tides in the salt marshes lowered, and her father’s nurse, Flo, came to be with him, she picked up the phone and made the call. She was hoping to just get the answering machine since it was so early, but she didn’t, and when the young woman answered, (she had a pretty name, a name Kimelie herself wondered as to how the girl spelled it—with an I or a Y?) she told her who she was, Kimelie Panerkin, and that she would be on set for the read-throughs on the date requested and that she would take the acting role offered in the letter.

The young woman said that was great and she added that she would be her personal assistant during the entire shoot and when Kimelie asked, the young woman said she spelled it with a Y.

Then Kimelie said, I thought it was with a Y before I even asked. Then she added, more as a question than a statement, I’ve been out of the business for a few years but I keep up and I have never heard of the executive producer for this movie.

And the young woman said that the producer had owned this production company for many years but that he preferred to stay out of the limelight and away from the filming, but since this movie idea was given to him by a friend he wanted to see it through to its final fruition—so he would be present