Cracked fingertips stained with sepia and a bold rouge. Outside gusts a furtive wind, and inside—here’s the bright steel of newly-cast nibs, crusted in iron gall: tools of the unremittent scholar; wayward sons of mercenary locution; chamberlains attending the poet-for-hire—that smiling prince of thieves!—that wizened master inscriber, inseparable from the ululation of his exposition. But now the ink is dry, and the pens petulant over their neglect. Moody as sour clerics for the arrested fulfillment of their work, they await the uncertain promise of the coming alcoholic baptism, and, perhaps, their rebirth: bound up in the ceaseless present; prisoners of some errant distraction.
Some strange tapping—rooks ‘gainst the casement, again?—surely, yes…must be so. Defiant in their importunity, these mad birds, or surely of some morbid provision, to acquit themselves without care for the punitive responses they must unerringly draw…yet where is the wrath of our furried night-watchman, arbiter of feline retribution? Damnable little cad enjoys himself fowl more than felony—birding above even burglary. An odd thing, his silence—antipodal to his scurrilous calling. What greater mischief must he even now have wrought upon the world, to miss such sport?—Brrugh, but that chill.
Listless coal whispering upon the hearth, pennywise with meager cheer…worse still, ah!—bin’s got empty again. Frenzied coals…teased by an unseen draft, clenching tighter their precious heat. And this, as night-by-night our pondrous orb draws further from the life-giving light…ev’ry hour the cowl of evening’s cloak drawing tighter…must make note to pay visit to the chandler, soon. But see now, that’s Aulde Quarter business…perhaps the old cobbler’s made good with that boot, as well…ah! Damned knee in this gelid, frosted study…this cold, biding by each moment. Now which drawer was sorted for liniments…?
Hmn…something hissing in the dumbwaiter.
No, but it’s gone. Thought I heard a voice bend with quaivering care…just then. Bah!—phantoms of dusty memory. One must commend their energies to the task at hand; and here, these pens still biding by the color of their character—yes, must make haste with this missive. Cat and cobbler can wait, both.
Presently, some halting, salt-sweet spume of ichor playing at the nerves…perhaps that last batch of onycha should take lye again, soon. Dreadful stuff—yet such is the delight of the apothecary, as he transmutes the perfumer’s toil to his own dubious ends. Or…perhaps the half-measure cask of whale oil has turned? But it’s only just been replenished. Agh…some estranged mustiness, pulling at thought—focus. The sought-for response is done. Now, a hand poised to quench seal to burning wax—a response sketched in haste, some treacherous pact—but to whom? At at what cost? Something off about that spidery hand…not the script of a sane man, surely…and that oddly-gentle tugging at the corners of mind…is not the symbol blazened against the yellowed parchment here…familiar, somehow? The dispatch had been marked ‘quite urgent’; its courier wan and unfamiliar; parting sorely in the bitter promise of swift return.
Must not tarry, then. Loosely-bound sheaves of the good blotting paper strewn all about the place…must clean these stubborn pen-tips…yet surely faster to just trim quill and be done with it…and here a tattered scrip of the feathery lot, fallen just out of reach. But what’s this? Why, the carved blackwood ogre of a desk seems to have been…moved askance. Freshly-worked scratches upon the floor, here. Some signs of struggle?—Yet who has visited?—Wait…but that sound…ravens gone quiet as stone…never thought even a cat plunged into the abyssal Hells could make such racket. Again it comes!—what else must I endure?
The complaint of ancient timbers bearing new weight! It cannot be. Gods, but I know the smell, now! I had thought myself rid of it, this time. I cannot face him again.
Not now. Not like this.
It cannot be…!
—
Do check back with me for story, cadence, and anything that crosses my consideration—conceptual splatter-painting, in general (guess towels aren’t a bad idea here, either, for that matter). Mostly I just like throwing words at the wall to see if they stick. Not unlike my own secret spaghetti of confabulation…secret’s in the sauce, though, and that almost never seems to stick to the wall. This is just what passes for the poor-man’s weasel business…a shot in the dark. You understand. ;)
What’s that you say…you down to get up? Aw yea, yea? You diggin’ on my turn of phrase, boi? You a literary trash panda, making off with yesterday’s wits to feed your hungry baby brainstorm-kits? (Bb trash pandas are called kits, right? Or is it like “snugglets” or—hey, I rhymed!)
The best part for me is re-reading all this later and snarking at myself, anyway. I still consider it a small miracle any humans would ever care enough to actually read anything I write…‘moi, catch your attention in the labyrinth of today’s cyberpunk-goldfish clickbait feeding frenzy of the mind?’…inconceivable!
Perhaps you’d like access to even more weird of my wordage then, hmmm friendo? Well, color me flattered. If you’re really jonesing pour encore—saynomore—shutthefrontporchdoor—here’s a couple places I’ve already been. Can’t wait to settle down here and unpack my things in earnest.
Yours in spirit,
a sol rosen
