Apocryfan 6
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“Apocryphan, Apocryphan, who art thou, Apocryphan?”
The whole town of Bonnyville sat silent in the uncharacteristically crackling electricity of a Winter storm. Jagged yellow streaks crawled along the sea’s furthest horizon like creatures seeking a nightmare to inhabit.
Reflected in the glow, the Blue Indian managed to pocket the hand of playing-cards before getting wet. The eyes glanced up – from their stone sockets – at the War Memorial while recalling only a few weeks before when many old soldiers (some in wheelchairs or motorised buggies) had grouped around its base on Remembrance Day. Remembrance of Things Past. Each proudly sporting a poppy. So red, only dreams could make them that red.
Tonight represented the tail-end of the wreaths that had been laid that earlier gloomy warm day in November, commemorating and celebrating the bravery of the seaside resort’s past inhabitants. One such wreath – with at least a single still vibrant bloom that completed its circle of interwoven growth – crawled towards the Remembrance Gardens to seek its missing roots. Genealogy gone native.
*
Rain drummed heavily on the roof directly above his head. The man stared at the blood-spill on his bedside table. It was not real. It was one of those makeshift mementoes that crinkled in the fingers like a crepe-paper poppy.
He heard his wide-knickered wife in the room below stowing the week’s shopping in the fridge. Then, amid grumbles from unseasonal thunder, he heard her gasp and then slump to the linoleum as the storm reached a level akin to God’s removal men dropping one of His heavier sticks of furniture from Heaven to Hell.
The man decided not to investigate. He started snapping his braces against his chest in a relentless attempt to match the rhythm of his own heart. He swallowed hard. He knew he would feel guilty forever at not feeling guilty at all about not venturing downstairs to help his ailing wife. She would get up soon enough and continue tidying things up. Unless she had broken a hip. Or a chest of drawers.
The old couple’s chalet bungalow was only one mere step from becoming a house, given its potential ability to turn integral eaves-cupboards into separate independent wardrobes. Its whole nineteen-thirties built structure jumped as each thump crumpled on its door from a hand softened by the collapsibility of card-fingers.
CONTINUED HERE: http://weirdmonger.mindsay.com/the_apocryfan_7.mws
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two comments:
Badly need your help. It’s wonderful what we can do if we’re always doing.
I am from Marshall and now teach English, give please true I wrote the following sentence: “Tire wall clock and other gifts or home accents are at current catalog.”
Thank you so much for your future answers ;-). Rayhan.
Rayhan () - 23 04 09 - 13:55
You’re already here-might as well sign the thing! =).
I am from Nauru and also now’m speaking English, give true I wrote the following sentence: “Wall clocks, free shipping on light fixtures.”
Best regards 8), Amador.
Amador () - 25 04 09 - 06:11
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