“Marlene of the Stars” (Part 8 – A Black Silhouette) WWP – prompt 161 Recursion – A remembrance of things past

It’s cold where she lays. Frozen fever twists her into loosening trembles and scarlet reckonings lie unused by better gods. Sensing hands all around and soft, caring voices, whispers of urgency – they are for her.

Sick, she is weakened by unforeseen illness, alertness is vacant unknown to her now, she drifts to charade of her lost sister’s call in gathering gloom sacrosanct in this cellar.

Kingdoms fall vacant in weathering seas as Marlene lies helpless, trying to rise, yet fallen in cloud-covered forgotten moon. Can an eye-flutter chase grasping demons away? – in this gathering madness of lost disarray, her head lies soft pillow in drifting dismay.

“Who is she to us?”

“A path out? – now, perhaps nothing …”

“What do you think, Franz?”

“She is dying.”

Yet the flit of a finger like hummingbird lost, a slight catlike purr from the crumbling garden, a cold caste of misery heralds accord to those paying notice, now all of them here, as breath seems to leave her – but sweet in the air.

She’s the gaggle of the moment, the vanity prize, the embarrassing hair between unshaven thighs, the succulent breasts of sweet maiden prize, replaced by a dwarf who spins bottles on stage on ivory candlesticks. Now all the rage.

A black silhouette.

“Lay upon me my leather with inverted cross,” says Marlene as she rises, arms reaching upward. “I shall not lie here dying without even trying and we shall as one abandon this place.”

And they dress her all in black.

And the stars bring their glow to each of these faces, and still they don’t know what to think or to say.

“There is nothing to say, now just gather yourselves, we shall out in this night and away.”

And thus they do.

A black silhouette with five children behind her abandon this cellar, into the streets of the Ruined City, and into the moonlight of sweet Marlene’s dreams where the doors have no hinges and cannot be closed.

Restless tonight is the Ruined City where the streets pacify feathered silence obscure. Mercy relents to the beating of wings of the birds that will fly here forthwith.

They slip through the street seeking path through the mud, cold now in balance of dripping moonlight; yet away from the crumbling garden, the cat leads silent, purrs finding balance to prowl in the night.

Process notes:
Parts 1 – 8 can be read here: https://wordsandthoughtspjs.wordpress.com/marlene/


10 responses to ““Marlene of the Stars” (Part 8 – A Black Silhouette) WWP – prompt 161 Recursion – A remembrance of things past

  1. This is evolving into quite a surreal epic, pamela. I like the cadence, and the rhyme coming and going–and Marlene seems to become more of a mystery the more we see of her…

  2. very nice….very poetic as well…and a bit of classical romanticism in this one as well…the covering in black…interesting progression this week…that gaggle of the moment paragraph in particular jumped out at me….

  3. Mysterious silhouette dressed in black. Amorphous and dream-like.

  4. Surreal indeed. I love the combination of the real and the surreal in this series, especially this installment. Now we see them escaping, and I’m rooting for them.


  5. It was even worse in a way. It ought to have been more disconcerting. For, pursuing the image of the castaway blundering upon the complications of an unknown scheme of life, it was I, the castaway, who was the savage, the simple innocent child of nature. Those people were obviously more civilized than I was. They had more rites, more ceremonies, more complexity in their sensations, more knowledge of evil, more varied meanings to the subtle phrases of their language. Naturally! I was still so young! And yet I assure you, that just then I lost all sense of inferiority. And why? Of course the carelessness and the ignorance of youth had something to do with that. But there was something else besides. Looking at Doa Rita, her head leaning on her hand, with her dark lashes lowered on the slightly flushed cheek, I felt no longer alone in my youth. That woman of whom I had heard these things I have set down with all the exactness of unfailing memory, that woman was revealed to me young, younger than anybody I had ever seen, as young as myself (and my sensation of my youth was then very acute); revealed with something peculiarly intimate in the conviction, as if she were young exactly in the same way in which I felt myself young; and that therefore no misunderstanding between us was possible and there could be nothing more for us to know about each other. Of course this sensation was momentary, but it was illuminating; it was a light which could not last, but it left no darkness behind. On the contrary, it seemed to have kindled magically somewhere within me a glow of assurance, of unaccountable confidence in myself: a warm, steady, and eager sensation of my individual life beginning for good there, on that spot, in that sense of solidarity, in that seduction.

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