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It was early in the morning and Felagiere was exhausted, it was as if the brightness of the dawn had dried the air and replaced it's droplets with the slow dissatisfaction of Artists' imperfections.

He had spent the night toiling aside a Mahogany desk, an heirloom his father had bestowed upon him when he so uncharacteristically provided the family with the gift of his passing. That is to say, he was a dry old man with little imagination whose desk had been used for meagre calculations of better men's money.

Yes, Felagiere (as you have likely guessed) was a youth embroidered with the spell of a woman. Her silken streams guiding in and out of his bosom, tight with the idealism of one pregnant with ideas of youth.

Though all the work, he had such twaddle to show. A slip of paper, so desolate and alone when framed by the swath of near-purple wood (which looked so rambunctious in comparison) read only a couple of words. Though each Felagiere had torn through his soul to grasp at and walked through a sea of hooks to grip his pen.

The envelope it was to be put in was neatly folded beside a slow-dripping candle of quality wax. It illuminated the inside of the bunker, the invalids mew, to reveal sparse furnishings which were also of quality and a portrait of a dour looking man promenading a sour looking woman on his arm. They hung above a single window which may have had it's drapes bolted together and cauterized shut, for they never were to move in the space of years. This sentiment matched that of the dour and sour looking couple, as they had likely closed themselves to everything far before the unfortunate artist impressed their faces in canvas.

"Mother! Father!"

Felagiere cried with abandon and passion

"Tell me," He cried

"Where is it, that she keeps my heart? What bed of roses or sheet of nails does she cushion it upon? For either way, it hurts and burns as if it is being gripped by demons, touched with a portal to that place where everything hurts."

Sobbing, Felagiere flung himself over the strong mahogany desk, though with enough care not to draw a tear too close to the paper with those sacred ruins imprinted upon.

"Oh, the first time I have felt this love and I had to spoil it by pouring my time into such stupid things!"

Though it was a portrait which gazed upon him, if one had viewed the scene from off they could have sworn there was a tint of confusion to their eye. To a man of good standing, hard work and a small bank account, these things were very hard to consider.

The envelope, with his hand clumsily splayed above it in the way a new-born fawn might try to stand, bore these words.

"To whom it may concern, if perhaps I might concern you."

Very avant-garde of the gentleman.

She had stolen his eyes away in the park, while birds sung and people crept by with the slow crawl of watchers. With concern only for the titillation of the senses and mind and little concern for what the reality of what they were seeing was. This indeed was the case for Felagiere as he skipped about in the sunshine stupidly and dazed. Gazing this way and that with an insatiable appetite for the good things about. It had been, you see, the first stroll Felagiere had for ages. He was a sensitive boy and a ridiculous teen and now somewhat of an oddity as a young man, his family had kept him fairly hidden away at social gatherings, tucked toward this aunt or that while his Father shook hands with another potential business deal which would never go his way. No girls eyed Felagiere, nobodies eyes ribboned about his body with the way his own entwined the harbor that day. Twirling about innocently and noticing the clouds and bridges and architecture, the hearts and minds which breathed the city to life had Felagieres thanks every day. As they were who gave him windows to stare out of and in, and buttresses of magnitude to awe him. They bore the gargoyles whose twisted malformed scars reflected Ferlagieres own and took the sky down to the Earth, so they might colour the bricks of those great houses the perfect shade of white.

It was then, that the awkward boy with little reason for going outside (except to admire the arches about) was surprised to hear a voice twitter in his ear like a fabulous dove. So shocked, was he, that he bumbled about and practically screamed, staring at her with those open, innocent and vulnerable eyes that a woman might pity or even love in a sort of a way. She took a sharp intake of breath, in part to exhale her next words and in part with surprise in regards to his wayward reaction. "Excuse me if I ask sir, however I forestay my modesty as the curiosity I have for art begs consideration. Would you know, and I ask this with little hope of comeuppance-"

She said, stumbling upon her words, the way his eyes bulged upon her bosom and face unnerved her and caused her lips to pucker around their words and her nipples to tighten under the attention of the doting misfit.

"- perhaps, would you know the name of the man who made that bridge? Or perhaps, even a story of it?"

It stopped, her sentence, that is. And the air hung with so many spiders eggs with twinkling silk extending above, the eggs were waiting to pop with questions. These questions were written on yellowed pieces of paper that widows had carved from their own husbands souls, their questions of love and loss and what if's? One of them popped, and as the glorious love-light exploded from within angels cried. The question poured into his mind and it needed no answer, he began to speak as real, passionate thought turned and curdled his mind for the first time. Not the analytical blunderings of someone who is told they must be passionate about something (told by someone who hardly cares) and then never realizes the true intentions of passion and never will.

It was for him, and it was beautiful and if he could say it one million times he would - the words "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

As this epiphanic moment passed him by, and the choir of angels let their voices collide into a dull melodic hum. He finished speaking the auto-biographical epitaph of the man who had conquered the city and had built the bridge in his own name.

She was impressed, though to be fair as this event had moved through him he had looked somewhat a mix of a sexually-excited schoolboy and a puppet on strings. Prancing about with foppish gestures towards this way and that as he spoke, spit flying from his mouth and a massive hard-on. It can never be supposed who will receive one of the things.

She had laughed, and giggled and blushed at all the right-times as he was possessed by the will of a Casanova. Saying all the right things and making her forget of his outward appearance and only seeing the light he was spilling outward. It was brilliant.

When she had left, leaving her name and enough clues for him to mail a nice, romantic jaunt to her. He was struck with what could only have happened next, a great fear which a man is in no way capable of dealing of after such a pure moment. The fear that a moment such as the one which passed, will never come again. That he will be left to comb the worlds empty desert with a rake, in hopes of turning it to a zen garden. Though there is a hot wind and a need of a perfection.

So, as his trousers faced upwards and the vaulted ceiling brewed the dissatisfaction of a man in love, the letter was on it's way. Felagiere sat in bed weeping on behalf of his poor stupidity and hoping for a quick razor sharp death to come upon her reading the thing which was all tripe and he hated himself for it. Though, if she perchance were to see, or even guess at the intentions behind the insanity of his love-driven words. Then, well, he perhaps could live just a little longer to see what she might say.

She opened it the following day. The man from the post had brought it straight to her door in hopes of catching a good reaction and maybe a smile, something about the letter hinted at a lovers game and he had caught many interesting looks and smiles in his day by way of post. Caught them before they drifted away on canals of existence.

The door was shut on him, though he caught that smile. That night he went home and kissed his kids.

The letter held the dark roguish purple-red of his seal. A dark thorn on a blossom of a rose, reading dark intentions of wooing women. She felt very much as if she were in a story, some heroine to be taken away to somewhere from something bad and horrid. She quite liked that feeling, so she quickly went to where she hid away her letter opener and cut it with the urgent strength a woman hides for good occasions.

She never really took in what was on the front of the envelope, though this is what it read inside:

"Dear Madame,

You, who beget all I have seen in my path up to now - make me wonder.

I do not know quite what it is, as I am very young to be truthful and that innocence is quite scorned by our society. It is my own personal belief however that we all have some of the such, and it is actually quite exciting to pursue.

With that being said, Madame, you are a beautiful flower to me. And if you would be so kind I would like nothing more than for you to take my arm as I take you upon the bridge which we shared pleasant conversation around.

If you would be so kind, as to give this beggar what he so yearns for. I will none too quick forget.

She took a moment to sit, thought curtly, and went to her cabinet to stare at her eyes and breasts.

They were none to big, though big enough for any man who might be interested in women. That is to say any of them, and her eyes had the shape of almonds and were peppered with flecks of gold. They were little sparkling diamonds and to her they looked like mud. She sniveled in the mirror, felt vulnerable and replied. Hesitantly at first, than curtly again:

Dear Sir,

It is to my mind that we shall appease this matter and I would prefer for any presumptions that are to be made to stay on my half of the post.

My father is a forward thinking man, and he pledged at my birth to have an intelligent daughter of good cadence. She would permit herself a man of her choosing that is none too well to do, a man of her choosing who she alone allows herself judgement upon. Though that is not to say that counsel wouldn't be lended to this girl if she were in need, only that she would be free to the consequences of her decision.

I accept, I will meet you on the bridge at high-noon for a stroll about the park.

She paused for a moment, before perfuming the piece and allowing it to adopt her seal. She wrote the following:

P.S. Do not allow my manner to lead you to presumption. I am quite looking forward to our meeting and am hardly so bold in person.

With that, she alleviated his suffering.

Created: Jul 12, 2012

Tags: poem-poetry-writing-drable-word-thoughts, written word, short story new

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