In the darkness of the woods on one New Year's Eve, while the merry townspeople occupied the streets lit up by paper lanterns to wait for the century to end, a man was chased to his disappearance as the sound of gunshots could be heard trailing after him from behind. His costly velvet suit that had been neatly ironed for a soirée of the upper echelon, now bloodied and disheveled. He limped slightly as he ventured through the thickness of foliage, a callused palm placed on the lower right side of his abdomen as an attempt to impede the surge of blood from one of the successful bullets, yet it was mostly futile. As he held on for dear life with this quandary, he meandered in seeking refuge while panting heavily and stumbling from an almost crippling affliction. A flickering trail of fireflies from a nearby marsh had helped him finally reach a path free from heavy debris but leaves and twigs that crackle for each step, masking the chirrs of crickets on his end.
A short distance from where he stood was a lone, secluded grave within a space unroofed by the forest canopy, thus making it visible under the pale moonlight. As he carefully approached the site, he noticed the moss-covered headstone of granite, Gothic epitaph corroded and tarnished. What seemed to be most conspicuous for him within the vicinity were the short bushes on ericaceous soils, blooming with clusters of small blue flowers of his familiarity. He gently brushed the petals with his fingertips until he knew. He knew without having to see what was engraved on the undecipherable surface. A teardrop trickled down his cheek, kneeling down and grabbing a fistful of earth, throwing it arbitrarily, and then repeatedly punching the ground below in fury. Ultimately, he wrapped his arms around the headstone and forcefully hit his head on the hard surface until it bled, which ended up having him succumbed to the coldness and the soporific ambiance that surrounds.
After a minute or two passed, he was awoken by the fresh evening zephyr to find himself sitting alone on the quaint balustrades of a balcony. A dream he thought all of that was about, which little by little, he had forgotten, as there was not the slightest of scratch on his torso, his forehead, or his leg. With a deep breath, he straightened the posture of his spine and leaned aback slightly before being interrupted by a calm yet clear voice he had once heard, "Took you long enough."
"But I have always been here," he gave a stoic response, fixing the collar of his suit and asked, "Is there any reason why you searched for me?"
"Well, all the guests have left. The night is still young, and I see no reason to not make it ours. Perchance, would you want a dance with me?"
"A foxtrot won't hurt, and that is for certain." He jests without laughter, but before he could tilt his head to where he heard the voice, a phonograph began playing euphonious jazz that reverberated in the adjacent room to a crescendo. A gradually enlarging silhouette juxtaposed with curtains of white that covered the doorway to the room, eventually drawn to the edges by small hands. That was when a young woman of short stature and wispy frame appeared, clothed in white. Her complexion was fair, and her hair was of dark brown, wavy at shoulder's length. The irises of her eyes gleam a spectrum of jade and teal, iridescent, like the pellucid and pristine coasts of mid-July; they met his, as he subconsciously offered his hand, which she accepted.
They danced and danced, on the balcony floor, spinning around steadily and heedless of the time they spent together with joy. Even when the music stopped playing, they were still as boisterous as ever, cruising like satellites to nowhere certain. She held his hand and recklessly led the way on the asphalt pavements; the next thing he knew, he found himself laying on a field of wildflowers. He titled his head upward, chin pressed on the skin above his clavicle and saw her standing in side view. Whilst humming to a song, wrapped by the digits of her left hand was a thin branch of little flowers in frosty hues of blue, clustered at one end. Each petal she had plucked was blown by the gentle wind; teardrops trickled down her cheek, as she spoke the last few lines of a poem she indited only for him:
YOU ARE READING
XVI. Alabaster
PoetryThe first poetry collection indited and compiled by the author when he was 16. It encompasses experimental and intricate works, including a bonus short story that serves as a sequel to Tiffany.
