haste
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- May 21, 2000
- Messages
- 7,641
I have memories of my lonely old grandmother and the rather sad and lonely final years of her life, in a little darkened room on the island of Crete..... its what I fear most, dying alone.
At one end of the room a fireplace, a flame burning brightly and illuminating the room in which it resides. A dark room with a long past, tales trapped within its fading white washed walls. The light from the fire flickers and dances around the room, covering it in different shades, the barely furnished room creating its own shadows.
In the middle of the room, a small table of a nondescript fashion lightly covered with newspaper clippings. The majority old and yellowed, but a bookmark to the time they reflect. A little further back, a wooden chair and a lonely figure, covered in black and expressionless. She stares at the flames, caught in their dance.
Outside the wind howls and bangs against the flimsy door that seems to be hurriedly put together from odd planks of wood. Its oversized latch adds a metallic layer to the thudding. The front yard is home to three enormous trees, all leafless and taking on the appearance of something lifeless. It was winter and she couldn’t remember is they had discarded their leaves for the winter period or whether they were in fact dead. It was something of non-importance and so she didn’t ponder, shifting her attention back to the fire.
She did however ponder her existence, her existence in this particular place – nothing seemed familiar but somehow offered her comfort. Leaning forward, she runs her frail marbled hand along the clippings on the table. She had read them, but they made no sense and yet she watched over them as if they were to reveal their secret.
Thy sky roared its terrible fury as the dark sky is exposed by dazzling bolts of lightening. The tree’s seemed to come to life as they swayed and cast shadows upon the floor. She stared at them for a moment, she should be scared, but she was not. Again she looks up and focuses her attention on the fire, which had now eased to glowing coals. It would die out soon if not fed, she thought. She looked around the room but seen nothing to feed it with. Had she started the fire to begin with?
Her attention shifts to how she got in the room; the room that she noticed led to nowhere else. What kind of house has but a singular room? Looking up, she notices there is no ceiling, but just the roof that seemed to be constructed from bamboo sticks tied together, all blackened by soot.
Shifting her attention back to the now almost smoldering fire she felt sad, as if her existence had depended on it. As she had desperately tried to piece her own existence together, she now searched frantically with her eyes for something to salvage the fire. In a moment’s desperation she rises and grabs the withered chair, with all her might she flings it across the room and into the fireplace. It expels what very little energy she has and she comes crashing to the floor on her knees. The fire breathes its last breath… and then darkness… and then silence.
At one end of the room a fireplace, a flame burning brightly and illuminating the room in which it resides. A dark room with a long past, tales trapped within its fading white washed walls. The light from the fire flickers and dances around the room, covering it in different shades, the barely furnished room creating its own shadows.
In the middle of the room, a small table of a nondescript fashion lightly covered with newspaper clippings. The majority old and yellowed, but a bookmark to the time they reflect. A little further back, a wooden chair and a lonely figure, covered in black and expressionless. She stares at the flames, caught in their dance.
Outside the wind howls and bangs against the flimsy door that seems to be hurriedly put together from odd planks of wood. Its oversized latch adds a metallic layer to the thudding. The front yard is home to three enormous trees, all leafless and taking on the appearance of something lifeless. It was winter and she couldn’t remember is they had discarded their leaves for the winter period or whether they were in fact dead. It was something of non-importance and so she didn’t ponder, shifting her attention back to the fire.
She did however ponder her existence, her existence in this particular place – nothing seemed familiar but somehow offered her comfort. Leaning forward, she runs her frail marbled hand along the clippings on the table. She had read them, but they made no sense and yet she watched over them as if they were to reveal their secret.
Thy sky roared its terrible fury as the dark sky is exposed by dazzling bolts of lightening. The tree’s seemed to come to life as they swayed and cast shadows upon the floor. She stared at them for a moment, she should be scared, but she was not. Again she looks up and focuses her attention on the fire, which had now eased to glowing coals. It would die out soon if not fed, she thought. She looked around the room but seen nothing to feed it with. Had she started the fire to begin with?
Her attention shifts to how she got in the room; the room that she noticed led to nowhere else. What kind of house has but a singular room? Looking up, she notices there is no ceiling, but just the roof that seemed to be constructed from bamboo sticks tied together, all blackened by soot.
Shifting her attention back to the now almost smoldering fire she felt sad, as if her existence had depended on it. As she had desperately tried to piece her own existence together, she now searched frantically with her eyes for something to salvage the fire. In a moment’s desperation she rises and grabs the withered chair, with all her might she flings it across the room and into the fireplace. It expels what very little energy she has and she comes crashing to the floor on her knees. The fire breathes its last breath… and then darkness… and then silence.
