The candy is gone. Dark is softly closing in at four:thirty in the afternoon. My obsession needs to kiss me, needs to draw out my tongue. The rain has hid the sky, it looks grubby out, the sky painted gray-white by children with dirty hands.
I protest.
Today I can’t really stop hitting Send/Recieve. Hopeless, but there are no greater fools than those who work with children. I want to start work on my costume. Finally an idea that thrills me a little. The sort of thing that’s hovered in my brain since I was little. Ray has my sewing patterns. Hopefully I’ll get them off of him tomorrow. Then I’ll find out what I’ve got to play with.
Donations of fabric, however unlikely, are welcome.
The horses were tired, their brown coats flecked with foam. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? Always flecked with foam in the stories and their hooves have to spark against the cobblestones and the carriage has to clatter. The coachman flanked by lanterns which sway wildly. At the convenient corner, one will smash to the ground, spreading flame. This is our opening scene, the same one we’ve seen many times beofre. The house will catch a litte, then roar up the walls of the house. We won’t see that part directly, but we’ll hear a child crying and see flame through the windows. If we’re lucky, a shot of the smoke will fade to black.
Music sting. A tiny flying cello humming past on graphite wings. I swat for it and miss. It gets me later on my knee. I scratch until it’s a sticky scab, but my leg won’t stop singing. Damn metaphor.