BLACK - DOOR - WOOD - CLASP - KEY - KEYHOLE - SCREWS - WOOD - TIMBER - MORPETH - NORTHUMBERLAND - GRAIN - CHURCH - DARK - RUST - UK por Dirkvdw em Flickr
Ever desireless, one can see the mystery. Ever desiring, one can see the manifestations. These two spring from the same source but differ in name; this appears as darkness. Darkness within darkness. The gate to all mystery. Lao Tzu (c.604 - 531 B.C.)
via pin of Lila’sDream
The Gentleman with the Hat is Furious (a Nouvelle-Squelette).
Introduction: La Poème-Squelette was a Surrealist game in which a poem would be written using “marker words”. I suggested at our writing group last Friday that we give something like it a go, so each of us wrote three words on scraps of paper that were placed within a hat (a beautiful bowler with a red silk lining that in no small way inspired the tale). The first word was drawn (“hat” as luck would have it) and we began to write, using that word as a starting point for our stories. Every 45 seconds a fresh word was drawn, which had to be incorporated into the story as quickly as possible. These marker words are set in bold type below. The joy with this exercise was seeing the variety of stories created in spite of the common thread running through it. This is a slightly more polished version of the story I created during this exercise.
The gentleman with the hat is furious with me for reasons that were easily discerned by all about us, who, sensing imminent conflict, quickly made sure their attentions were directed almost, though not quite entirely, elsewhere. An insurmountable wave of nauseau had overtaken me on the bus and, thinking it a better place than the aisle, I deposited the suddenly emergent contents of my stomach into his bowler - turning it into some vile perversion of a fish bowl, of the sort you would be hard pressed to look pleased to have won at the fair. I was pensive as I looked up from what I had done into the eyes of the man whose hat I had done it into. This was no swanlike descent from grace, as my corruption of alchemy turned something once beautiful golden only with bile and partially digested cornflakes. The man almost perceptibly boils with anger and I wonder what should be done about the hat into which I have misfired so spectacularly.
Tentatively I hand it back to him, hoping he leaves my fragile constitution unpummelled, and together we look down at the soft flakes of yellow corn bouyant within the rank fluid I have gifted him. He looks to think for a moment before reaching the decision that he is, after all, bent on some form of retribution. As if by necromancy, his dead-eyed stare suddenly sparks wickedly to life, and he places the hat firmly upon my head.