fictional prose: fallen pine and darkened pitch

The fading light of the afternoon left the grey skies streaked by soft white notes illuminated by the streetlights. The burgundy blinds pulled aside were tugged on by her arm as she leaned slightly against the sill. Her hair draped over her face subtly obscuring the view as she strained to stay focused between glancing out the window at the glistening scene and back into her somewhat bare apartment. Reflections in her eyes of the softness outside the window proved enough to keep the balance of her attention to the veil of white slowly overtaking outside.

She lightly placed her finger over the rim of her glass and began to run it ever so slightly along the edge. It sang out in eerie time with the crackle of the record pacing in the background and sent a subtle chill up her spine. With her other hand, she lightly caressed the top of her phone buried deep in her jean pocket and as the feeling passed she then felt distracted moreso by the room behind her than her whimsical thoughts initially drawn by the glints of light at the window.

Forcing herself to turn and face her apartment’s chaos against the desirable draw of tranquility beckoning at the window she slipped the stem of the glass between her fingers and lifted it off the sill and moved back into the room. Glancing over her shoulder several times as she moved slowly across the floor she could not help the draw of perceived perfection. She set the glass down and picked up the trashbag on the floor and began reluctantly stuffing it with torn wrapping paper, littered tinsel and fallen pine needles.

Pulling down all the decorations and putting the apartment back in order was not what she wanted to spend her time doing. Reality was no place for her mind to spend it’s time when the fantasy outside the window was pulling at her soul. She found herself incessantly checking her phone just to see. Even though it would alert her to a new message, it was almost a distrust as it was a nervous habit to recheck, just in case she might miss something of note. So far, however, the most excitement was watching the snow slowly accumulate on the ledge in front of her window.

Each crocheted snowflake she removed and placed delicately in the box tugged at her heart, resurrecting memories of her youth of the family together and how she longed to share that feeling once again. It wasn’t quite the same spending holidays now, especially those post-script days when long cook meals filled the house with wonderful aromas and conversations splattered across the landscape of their lives as the brought things full circle from where the year had ended.

Full circle for her was not back to those days though. Pecking through the previous messages on her phone she re-read and re-read a series of them that caught her attention before. They read as they had each previous time she read them, there was no more insight this time than any previous read, and yet she was still just as enamored by them. As her eyes poured over the backlit text she tried to superimpose some type of emotion to them in the strains of her idealism before the glare of the real world once again gained her eye.

She turned back toward her half decorated tree and saw her reflection in one of the glass balls. Bringing a tear to her eye her ageless face began to show the stress she was putting herself through in the distortion of the rounded ball. It wasn’t easy to

About thedoormouse

I am I. That’s all that i am. my little mousehole in cyberspace of fiction, recipes, sacrasm, op-ed on music, sports, and other notations both grand and tiny: https://thedmouse.wordpress.com/about-thedmouse/
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