Think What's Spoken

Through perseverance alone have I reached my potential? What was once considered repugnant and wretched in the gaze of weary eyes has sunk deep into my subconscious, like a malignant disease, festering, rotting, just below the surface. Twas a dark and malevolent time, when the sky, the land, rigged shores, apple trees, spring showers, and morning mist met where the moon stood still. Shrouds of gray clouds stormed about the midnight hour, inquiring on the aspects of time. Being as naïve as once been. Had stumbled upon a finding most devastating. Twas a unique phenomenon, for a mere child, whom never truly grasped reality out from underneath his lucid imagination, to encounter witnessing the unwilling demise of all that was loved?

     I am an artist, and avenging the wrath of those I hold dearest, is my canvas. In a time before the slightest concept of such was embraced. I had sat by the cold, rain-shredded windowsill, dreaded night. I had watched the stars gliding, acrobatics beyond our comprehension, dancing, through the heavens, as nature intended. The fireplace had kept our drenched garments in good taste, and the cauldron which bared half cooked meat, had been nestled just underneath a shell of broiled bubbles my heart thirsts for such festivities once more.

“Mother, by which means must I partake in such fancy?” I had turned with such enthusiasm, expecting my reply to be most satisfying.  Mother, her apron draped upon her torso in such fashion, rocking in the wooden crescent to the melody of crackling firewood, began a smile most significant which had arose upon her blooming completion.

“My dearest, by all means good, you must partake in such fancy.” I remember my mother’s eyes. So sore from aging, yet so full of life and ambition, it was then that I had assimilated myself to a familiar melody. Für Elise. This harmonic symphony had always put my mind at ease; I would imagine the clouds to conform so elaborate, finding myself lost in the magnificent labyrinth of Florence, the midday sun bidding a grand welcoming upon my now intrigued prestige, but once honest, once beautiful, as such antics of tranquility. I would hope myself, to once again portray.

Wavering breeze lashed the windowsill. Friction, a quarreling display of heat and sizzle. Crisp flakes wander, withdrawn giddily, commencing the fireplace. Asperity, timber descending into the crescents of charcoaled ash. Smoldering aroma, oh how profound the gantry (a beautiful young woman) flaunted a platter of flaccid poultry! A whizzing, fuliginous, essence enticed me as it swiveled about my brow.  A simple inquiry, displaced in my subconscious, nudged its way into view as my thoughts scattered, before I was fully awake the words spew from my lips with astoundingly un-accurate uncertainty.

“What’s for dinner?” The woman had appeased my questioning by a quick ruffle of her frills. A stern yet distinct look of interest arose from her ever-complacent and banal face.

“Chicken” This was more then enough to satisfy my growingly extraordinary desire for food, my hunger had been eating away, nip to tarry, at every given moment. Yet, my mouth continued to speak the opposing to make light of my current disposition.

“That’s it?” And on that given note, I have found myself a very fond poultry conforming itself to fit the size of my head, oh the brilliance of seeing life perceived through the inward workings of a very finely cooked chicken. Indeed I was quite baffled that such an incident had taken place and upon my standing, I had felt a neat arrangement of crumbs around the floor where I have now made an affirmative comfort in greeting. The questions spun about my mind as I lay in an unorthodox fashion, sprawled out on this beautiful mahogany floor. Will I ever again have the will to stand? Then it occurred to me. I will act as if I am dead, then perhaps she will stop kicking and from that day forth, never again will I underestimate the power of one’s cookery.

Fin