| Transparent (To Alicia) |
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| Fractured Story Telling | |||
| Written by Francis Scudellari | |||
| Monday, 02 February 2009 11:48 | |||
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Her life, on a spindle, slowly spins out, into a delicate threading; knowing if not caring hands weave-in odd patterns to make a broader cloth. They bleach it, bony white. They stretch it, transparent. They dab it, fine-dust it with mixed pigment palette-- butterfly-wing powders as bright-hue camouflage. Over measured, hungry days, rude visitors come. They bump, up against her. They feel, to fill a lack. They smudge her covering tints, continue on, smugly clapping fat hands to rid themselves of rubbed-off bits; Her color haphazard, pilfered now, then carried off on indiff'rent breeze— whorled wisp, smoky sparkling. In sunset's cutting hour, Atropos' polished blades casting an orange light, she senses herself fade to too pale shade, the years of so many touches leaving a lone, small speck— a bluish smear. She waits, still so unsure whether to fear the next visit or hope to meet that fate, who puts the colors back?
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