Outskirts Press, INC.

" . . . a deftly woven metaphysical novel that will engage the readers from beginning to end . . . superbly crafted and will be remembered long after it is finished and put back upon the shelf . . . an enduringly popular addition to personal and community library fiction collections." ---Midwest Book Review---

More than a love story . . . a cross-culture/cross-dimension story of flaming desire that spans 200 years through historic Native American time to present day and reveals the effects of unenlightened use of personal subtle energies. The Twin Flames are whipped by self-created currents of emotion, a shared soul, the mind's past life memories, and visitations by sages and daemons from multiple worlds.

This book reveals secrets when the reader tunes into the deeper metaphysical tone which explains psychic cords, lessons from high-frequency beings, a soul retrieval experience, trips through the Akashic Records, a venture into Hell, and an introduction to signs and symptoms of premature awakening of Kundalini energy. For those who think they may be experiencing Kundalini awakening, visit http://www.carolynrprescott.com for a help site reference at the bottom of the Carolyn's Journey page.

The Wind brings the tale of Twin Flames by both whispers and howls to everyone. Only a few can hear him. Stolen Lakota Woman was abducted on the eve of her betrothal to her beloved, Heavy Hair. After four years of silent detachment,The Wind witnesses her suicide. CHAPTER TWELVE-- THE JUMP. I love the moments between daylight and dark when the mountains to the west turn purple and the cliff crags toward the east glow orange while their clefts deepen in shadow. A lone figure standing there and looking up is also washed in orange. Why does the figure begin to climb now? Too late in the day! There’s an easier way . . . a safer way . . . but a longer way . . . for another day perhaps? There is a hurry in his steps and now The Wind is curious. I will focus below on this figure. I know this blanket, years in the making, now wrapped around those shoulders; its bottom rows were woven by child hands, the top rows woven by the long fingers of a young woman. Every thread color chosen with meaning, the pattern unmistakable just as I remember it. The pattern holds the music of dreams for a future love and for children, for wedded bliss. Angels can pluck the stings of this blanket harp that the heavens may sing of love. It is a wedding blanket . . . a wedding blanket kept hidden for four years. And now I know the figure is not a man, it is a woman. The last orange-pink rays are sliding down the west. The mountain’s shadow races upward to cover the glowing blanket with black. The woman stumbles. Hurry. Hurry. The way up is crooked with sharp surprise turns, with uneven ground; the way is confused and now the air is thick with spirits . . . Buffalo Spirits. The woman hesitates. She is going off the path. Don’t do that! It’s dangerous to do that. She pays no attention to The Wind. She is climbing straight up with no path. Now she steps on a corner of her blanket. It is going to trip her! She pulls the blanket free just in time. I’ll blow. I’ll blow on her back and help push her up to the top. At last. At last she is over the cliff edge just as the first stars appear. What is she doing up here in the dark? How is she going to find her way down now? She’ll have to spend the night at this place where there is a lot of spirit noise. Wild animals have been here. Many of them. Now she is tying the wedding blanket onto her body with a rope. How odd! Oh. I recognize that purposeful rope. It’s made of human hair . . . her hair. She cut her hair as mourners do, every summer for four summers on her anniversary of great loss. How many times have I carried her grief songs and bounced them off the cliffs? But it didn’t ease the pain of her internal evisceration where the hollows of her body echo his name again and again off the walls of her rib cage with each beat of her heart. “Heavy Hair. My beloved Heavy Hair. He was to be the father of my children.” Now she steps closer to the edge. The spirit noises are louder now. More stars illuminate and the moon creates lengthening shadows. Dark shadows leak even darker thoughts. Does this same moonlight bounce off his bleached bones still lying in the prairie? Is the jawbone that once formed endearing words now separated from his skull, strewn about and picked over by wild beasts or crushed by unkind hoof? The tongue, the lips that formed those words and wrapped themselves around his courting flute, the eyes that tenderly caressed her body . . . now all dust, entrusted to the arms of The Wind. His music is gone. In its stead The Wind makes an empty monotonous moan. Surely one of the daemons in Hell is named Grief. In that case Earthling beings, both human and nonhuman, will wander through that place from time to time. Modern counselors call Grief “a Process.” Part of the process of Change. But enough of painful thoughts. The arms of Heavy Hair await. They are but one blessed step away. Then it is done. Teetering a moment before taking that one step off the Buffalo Jump, Stolen Lakota Woman calls to herself her biggest change and jumps into the embrace of a different dimension’s reality.