stories with no titles.

Walking over to the bookcase, she placed the third book on its little seat. The construction looked to her, like wooden, swinging chairlift seats, stacked together and bound with metal. That’s why she wanted this rickety thing in her home. She remembered spending a winter – or maybe it was just a few days – sitting by the window of a house surrounded by snow. She must have been very young. They were locked in for what seemed like years, but years filled with an orange, brown and bright white. Warm, chocolatey drinks, games with a hundred pieces and naps on fluffy rugs by the fire. When the door eventually opened, she played in the snow and watched the magical flying people, soaring up the mountain side into the clouds, on seats that looked like sleighs.

Light green, the colour of fresh horizons and the nostalgic tint of before. The colour of the landscape, where everything stretches for hundreds of miles into the distance. It’s a flat land, with only sprigs of grass and tender wooden houses. A whistling sound, like the wind, but more tuneful in its leaps and falls, accompanies the  background, harsher but somehow comforting, twangs of a guitar. A car zooms past full of a man with hope in his future, a bottle of whiskey in his pocket. That’s the dark wood part of this chair.
There is only one item in each of these drawers. Only one. One painting in each drawer. Painted by him, they are only of one woman. The woman he loves. Apart from the first drawer on the bottom left. That shows two people. He’s in that one with her. He hasn’t opened that drawer in 50 years. Despite the time, and his own creaking hands he uses to paint her, she hasn’t aged a jot. To say he loved her would be wrong, he still loves her. He may have been heralded as one of greatest artists of all time, but no one knows his inspiration and no one has seen her, or the love that has both made, and destroyed him. It was 50 years ago. These are just drawers, sitting patiently.

Imperfectly round, like the moment they realised they weren’t invincible and nothing was perfect. She wanted these bottles to have travelled, full and then drained of rum, upon a ship. A ship that sailed the wild seas in the 1700s and nearly overturned more times than a heart can skip a beat. This reminds her of the bubbling, great wonders and unpredictable, wild nature of life. Colour! Dancing! Sunshine! An umbrella rammed with the sensations of SUMMER. An umbrella of youthful wild abandonment. A perfect umbrella for an 80 year-old lady with stories that could fill four chairlift bookcases, with a gap in the middle for the secrets she could never tell. 

Words are the most beautiful gift. Never forget this. She said.


A Winter Fantasy, a past, present and future, a constantly turning world with a cape to run with, a dress to dance in and shoes with an insatiable lust for each succeeding step. Kicked off, the shoes bask in remembering each detail, reliving where they’ve been tonight.


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