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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Supernatural · #1876305
Crossroads '29th. Drifting into the storm.

I wonder, if you ever have seen him: standing on the balcony, playing the wires of sky to the gathering storm. When the wind grows strong and you hear trees brooming the ground, he would often come opening arms to the weathery ball. From below you might think that this weirdo’s rehearsing a part for some theatre play or directing, as well, the orchestra inside his brain-pit, but for me he was more like a mage, turning air into bucket-shot waves that would straddle you gusty and wet in a blink of a quiver. If you look pretty high, raising gaze to a dozen or more. There his podium is – barely fenced, so that heavens would ever be welcome to sway and to spray and to mot their benevolent brilliance of euph’mistic blobs and allegoric puffs – to which is he deeply attached as to mother or friend, or just life. I can’t say if I’ve seen him anywhere but storm, if you ask me. He, himself, could’ve been conjured by one at some while.

He was truly the actor of gales – the weaver of storms. After warmish embrace – as he dashed on the balcony – he would go French kissing the nightily view of a city entrusted to snore. Then, to hovering echoes of audience – intangible, yet all ears, in the blinded chamber of breath – he would bow to balcony’s brim, almost near to impression of fall, but – when sighs sling from terrified throats – he’d master the strain unbending his back as unbending the arch – for the show.

The suspense pours in. There he waves and he sways and he – weaves the storm-wires, sweeping softly the telegraph lines, crossing down from the roof right before the mage place, so that after the clapping is faded you could blues to the music he makes. There are swishes of forks to wiping of dishes, clanking shells, swinging coins, a saw’s tears, shaking tissues: cling-clang-clou, clong-kishh-eh, wishh-eh-hooh – clinking shears... thus the issue of sound – for the issue of spirit. And he, weaving these wiry spells, as if piping the storm, would be seen to have spellbound the city – up with element of wind.

Would be seen in performing his salty alliance with squalls on the wing of the rickety flèche...

Tonight it is the stormy night again, and I remember him – directing leeward regions. One day he bended much too far, dragged by his own spell above the brim. Though, you might not believe me – never fell. Still I hear the music he plays, and sometimes in a storm, if you pry with a bit dreamy eye, there under the arch may discover his magic arms flapping...

Whoever you are – you are the element you would be. If not lived.
Last storm he drew breathe to draw wind.
On the 29th day of the moon...

© Copyright 2012 Villard L. Cord (ardorugus at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1876305