Open House
Wretched wardrobes, derived from walnut and beech--no
children disappearing into them, not today, but in ten years' time, twelve, oh,
the solidification of the quantum theory of developmental archaic chaos! The
doors bore strange motifs, red lacquer lotus blossoms, ebony roots in a
swirling tangle, a giveaway to the disgraced mathematician. We set the dolls
inside, cornhusk and acorn and slightly damp dog tongue. Said the words. Lit
the flame. And stepped back, shutting the doors to all three.
The open house would begin in a moment. A steal, this place,
at one-forty. And fully furnished, of course.
I looked back and realised I´ve stopped commenting too. I didn´t do it on purpose, I just feel incredibly slow. Like the last few months have been about other things than the written word and my brain has gone all syrupy and that´s that. Not much to do about it. T´s writing, can you imagine! The world´s all upside down. He´s writing porn, though =)
ReplyDeleteNothing is done on purpose. We are blades of grass, bent by morning mist. When we rise again we forget what the night told us.
DeleteBut as for this porn that T's writing, well, good for him. If he adopts a fandom, too, I'm in.
This is gorgeous, just brilliant, Ms B
ReplyDeleteThank you, Miss A! And thanks to OneWord, which often sparks a nice little tale.
Delete