1713 Maplewood Drive
Tick… Tock... Tick… Tock...
Was the ominous sound, a distinct and audible pulse of the Grandfather clock towering behind her and peering over her shoulders in the dim shadows of the room. Its grandeur, an overbearing presence rich and alive with history looming up against her tiny frame. She stood only 5 feet and 1 inch, she was petite in structure yet skillfully agile in form. Angie was the surviving antagonist in this lifeless, living-room. A barren space devoid of satisfaction except for the crack, crack, crackling sounds of the fireplace flaming alive, buried deep in the core of an old brick faced, open-mouthed furnace with chips in the cherry wood mantle. A grand house of fire that was once touched with rich, red and brown tones that has since faded in spirit. Now, black soot leaves its burnt markings splattered across the belly of faded bricks with only peeks of white innocence behind the bars of a rusted black grate, the punishment of such insolence. A viscous cycle of transformation into a black hole of pure darkness like a gaping pit in your stomach or even worse, like the open mouth to hell.
Angie sacrificed yet another log into the fire and without a thought, she tossed the well-seasoned red oak inside this circle of heat activating vibrant flames that grew now with lustful excitement. A feeling seduced by its heat, she stood still with brooding eyes watching the log burn through the hot fire slowly, patiently waiting for its signature screams. She got hit in the face with a thick and distinct yet indescribable odor and just underneath the scent, ascended the red oaks anguish. She heard traces of smoky voices behind her, faint hisses and crackles quietly shrieking in and out of darkness. Sheer shades of pure black draped alongside her body and rose up the cream-colored walls with flickers of shadows, casting flashes of amber light that lit and extinguished rapidly, onto the empty walls standing tall behind her. This phantom muse artfully conducting its opus in fast paced, even bombarding tempos and other times, simply moving slow and sensual.
For a brief moment, she felt warm and entranced burrowed deep inside her loneliness. She watched the fire shadows fight out their dramatic tale and she thought, was this a sign from the divine or a gathering of menacing apparitions casting their spells, debating against the others position, just before fading in and out of existence in this soulless room?
MORE TO COME
©J. Circosta
Was the ominous sound, a distinct and audible pulse of the Grandfather clock towering behind her and peering over her shoulders in the dim shadows of the room. Its grandeur, an overbearing presence rich and alive with history looming up against her tiny frame. She stood only 5 feet and 1 inch, she was petite in structure yet skillfully agile in form. Angie was the surviving antagonist in this lifeless, living-room. A barren space devoid of satisfaction except for the crack, crack, crackling sounds of the fireplace flaming alive, buried deep in the core of an old brick faced, open-mouthed furnace with chips in the cherry wood mantle. A grand house of fire that was once touched with rich, red and brown tones that has since faded in spirit. Now, black soot leaves its burnt markings splattered across the belly of faded bricks with only peeks of white innocence behind the bars of a rusted black grate, the punishment of such insolence. A viscous cycle of transformation into a black hole of pure darkness like a gaping pit in your stomach or even worse, like the open mouth to hell.
Angie sacrificed yet another log into the fire and without a thought, she tossed the well-seasoned red oak inside this circle of heat activating vibrant flames that grew now with lustful excitement. A feeling seduced by its heat, she stood still with brooding eyes watching the log burn through the hot fire slowly, patiently waiting for its signature screams. She got hit in the face with a thick and distinct yet indescribable odor and just underneath the scent, ascended the red oaks anguish. She heard traces of smoky voices behind her, faint hisses and crackles quietly shrieking in and out of darkness. Sheer shades of pure black draped alongside her body and rose up the cream-colored walls with flickers of shadows, casting flashes of amber light that lit and extinguished rapidly, onto the empty walls standing tall behind her. This phantom muse artfully conducting its opus in fast paced, even bombarding tempos and other times, simply moving slow and sensual.
For a brief moment, she felt warm and entranced burrowed deep inside her loneliness. She watched the fire shadows fight out their dramatic tale and she thought, was this a sign from the divine or a gathering of menacing apparitions casting their spells, debating against the others position, just before fading in and out of existence in this soulless room?
MORE TO COME
©J. Circosta