Monday, June 20, 2011

uncertain future

Her black porkpie hat had a thin, scarlet ribbon, and, as she walked, the wind kept blowing back her dark sheeny mane, with wisps finding their way into her into her scarlet mouth, which was painted with the care one takes with fine calligraphy. She saw a small café, headed there with a brisk step and, oblivious to the clamor, sat down at a recently vacated table, her lilaceous eyes glinting like a flame haunted by its demise.

"Café, madam," mouthed the waiter amid the encroaching din of the crowd.
"Yes," and she returned instantly to a sallow stare.

She had left a note on her escritoire. It was penned on a scented floral paper (some wildflower print), and she knew that the fragrance, like that of frangipani, would haunt her into the hollow depths of an indeterminable future.

13 comments:

  1. A brilliant post from the master.

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  2. I wonder what she had written!

    I like the new look for your blog.

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  3. I too wonder what she wrote ... and to whom.
    Dying embers of a romance perhaps?

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  4. Welcome to the family, Prospero!
    We LOVE potato salad!!! :=}

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  5. a beautiful song to sing for a nice future ??
    Wish you a wonderful day Prospero
    bisous

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  6. I like the pic of Angelina used as your banner now. Very nice!

    The dying fire looks like it want to go on forever...

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  7. As usually marvelous post!
    have a nice day:)
    Hugs
    joo

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  8. I read this a few days ago and oh how it resonated. It was overwhelming. A beautifully written and deeply felt expression of how moving out of one phase of life into another is scary, poignant, and does take on the proportion of a death of sorts, even if it is for the best. The accompanying photo is beautiful as well, love the color. It supports the writing perfectly. Love the new look of your blog!

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  9. aaah lilac burning, purple longing

    "Who will write new laws of harmony for us? We no longer need well-tempered pianos. We ourselves are too much dissonance.
    Who will make a purple shout for us? A purple deliverance? We no longer need any still-lives. Our life is loud.
    We don't need poets with good grammar. We lack patience for good grammar. We need those with the hot feeling that's been sobbed hoarse. Who call a tree tree
    and a woman woman and say yes and say no: loud and distinctly and threefold and without a subjunctive.
    For semicolons we have no time and harmonies make us weak and the still-lives overwhelm us: for purple are our skies at night. And the purple gives no time for
    grammar, the purple is shrill and incessant and mad. Above the chimneys, above the roofs: the world: purple."

    from Borchert's Manifesto

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