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It conjured in mind that awful poem - Tulips. The beauty, brilliant and gnawing, vibrating against an already bruised and devastated Inner. Was I sinking to Plath’s depths? I indeed felt the waters, as I choked slowly on the sickly fulfillment of a dream, now turned against the dreamer.

Outside there danced a creeping rose, sung a bird, moved a neighbour, and a silken web of faerytale lay pasted to the glass. This was life now, a week stretching before me, this screaming, torturous beauty, and just twenty pence credit on a phone that could do everything except put me in touch with a needed companion.

Resting on the edge, feet dangling over the abyss, I swayed minute by minute, from hysteria to silent shock. Where was that needed companion now? Three thousand miles detached. It was of no relevance if his plane, destined for the States, had departed from Heathrow yet or not. He was gone.

Life before his presence was unimaginable. Who had I once conversed with, laughed with, wept and drained the days with? A slow wander through the phone book brought me to no conclusion. The future, temporarily suspended by my imprisonment in this burning room of paradise, was to be a lonely ride.

I was aware I was placing aside the fact of my homelessness, the shame of a journey back to that isle I was forever trying to escape and I hadn't even begun to feel the pain from the fall to square one. But my mind was in too fragile a condition to play among the shattered remains of a life I'd been convinced I was worthy of. For now I would just mourn the love.

In the morning I would float, for the last time, through the ghost-white rooms of the house and stroke, in the garden, the plants I would have tended. I had no doubt I'd shed some tears on my rush to the local station, which required walking the length of the town I'd grown to think my new home. Today, I'd just take comfort in a scent, file the memories. I rested my head to his pillow, and awaited the end of a dream.

The answer to EVERYTHING!!!:- The Cycle.
Spread the word man!


The following comments are for "The Cottage"
by A. Cain

the cottage
beautifully sad.

( Posted by: JonnyT [Member] On: December 3, 2004 )

A House at Dream's End
Your entry, here, strikes me more as flash fiction than short story, A. Cain, primarily because it seems to suit the definition of that other category, formerly called prose poetry, far better -- it has the requisite elements of brevity, the establishment of mood, atmosphere or realization over traditional plot or narrative and it uses a lyrical, nearly poetic style.

Regardless of categorical technicalities (which are all but moot, in reality) I really enjoyed reading this entry. It strikes me that poetic prose suits you very well and that the slightly enlarged form has allowed you to extend your style into something which is lush, haunting, delicate yet inherantly provocative. I'd be intrigued to see more in this vein from your pen.

( Posted by: hazelfaern [Member] On: December 5, 2004 )

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