Open Waters


Fiction & Short Stories / Monday, November 6th, 2017

 

She stood unaccompanied in the room of hushed conversations and snide laughter. And that is what made her stand out to him more than any other woman or man there, her aloneness. The more he looked, the more he felt the weight of her presence, the more he was reminded: … just like the statue set in the public park, benevolent and misplaced, she is no longer in the image of God, left to the mercy of the wind and the rain, and the will of time to deform her. Stone, too, melts and withers. The rust oozes from her porous core, the rain having found its way to her iron spine. The marble smoothness of her hands, her breasts, her visage all worn down by the rain softy falling and gently resting on its favorite spots. Grooves left behind like pockmarks. They stroll past her in the park, accustomed to her foreseen presence, comforted by it. No one cares to look, there is no need. Everything has already been said about her, there is nothing left to feel. She is newly ancient. The conversations traveling along the room’s velvety walls all belonged to her once. The stagnant water in the basin that surrounds her is filled with rot and decay. A rich green blanket of algae feeds off the sun’s generous light and the vermin off its greenness. Under the somber waters hide the few corroding coins left behind. (Symbiotic turns parasitic at a point.) The fresh rain once dripped new life from her stone breasts. Now it has taken a metallic taste and a poisonous hue that can never go away… He brought the glass of wine to his lips and paused, then smiled a hopeful smile. In this he saw a chance for her to escape, unnoticed. He approached her with an invitation to join him on walk in the park.

Criticism is an act of love. Share your thoughts with me below.

 

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