poetry, art, magazine

Robert Miles
Very Short Story

ONCE things had settled down, and everyone was well fed/watered, I began the story. Within the first few sentences, seats had been filled and floorspace occupied with expectant ears, eager to learn of the news that had caused such a dramatic effect the first time. As I progressed, in the usual manner, the candles on the tables calmed their protest dance and adjusted to the life given to them, resigned to see out their brief existence in peace. If the leaking roof wasn't so and the clocks given a brief break, there would have been complete silence between my words. Eyes widened as the tension,
carefully rehearsed, in my account grew and my second thoughts, brother to those focussing on current matters, but independant in its wanderings, visited yesterdays events. The sparce room, it's pale red carpet and grey(blue) walls, and Maria, as I often found her. She would sit by the window and construct intricate lists in her square sketchbook, written backwards in delicate brown ink, and often closing her eyes for minutes on end, her dreadlocked head leaning back against the wall. I knew better than to disturb her.
Finding it's way back to the happenings on hand I engaged my full concentration on verbal timing of the dramatic twist the story was approaching. So far the reactions had been as expected, cups lay untouched as the large crowd, and double number of eyes, were fixed on the words that familiarly slipped through my lips as new born birds leaving the nest but with no trouble in flying. Of course she wasn't here, I didn't expect her, but had hoped she might show up. The gasps escaped and mingled with the faint haze of smoke inhabiting the top two feet of the room as my story completed it's acrobatics in perfect style, and successfully twisted onto the finishing lap of accounts. I was getting used to this...