SARAH NGUYEN is an Associate Editor of insolent rudder. She is also the Creative Editor and Utterance forum moderator of Fuzzynet. Sarah scribbles in just about every genre but finds that her niche is in fictional writing.
shades of twilight
A dim light snuck out from under the meager crack of the tavern’s back door, creeping along the broken cobblestone to a long forgotten corner of the alley, illuminating a woman’s frail silhouette.
Hair, the color of straw, hung matted with swept away debris around skeleton kissed shoulders, which poked out from under a tattered shirt so stained its true color was hidden forever.
Rancid gutter water ebbed and flowed over one of her beseeching hands. What water remained served as a water dish to a stray dog. While the other hand lay upon her heart.
Ribbon remains of flower printed cotton cloaked mangled legs resting in a hapless heap beneath her.
Upon her face, sketched beauty was once her Botticelli now; even Picasso couldn’t create beauty from the remaining lines left over from lessons life had failed to erase.
Her eyes were closed, sealed shut from unwanted blows. Rivers of tears streamed dry down her cheeks to cracked lips, once soft and full.
She lay discarded from life just as yesterday’s trash plays ring a round the rosy in the breeze about her.
Was she breathing? I wondered from my safe perch.
Her chest rose and fell, then repeated again.
Good, one less thing to worry about. But why do I care? I mean, do I have to care? I didn’t do this to her. After all, it happens all the time. Why is she different from any other? Do I really want to find out all the gritty horrid details and have to become part of it? Am I part of it now just for looking out my window and seeing her?
Something moves by the trees, distracting my flow of thought. What is it? I wonder.
She isn’t alone.
There is a shadow lurking quietly within the curtain of the trees watching her.
Her attacker? No, they usually leave the scene. Then who is it? I don’t need to know. All I know is that she doesn’t need me she has whomever, whatever is in the shadows.
I turn from the window as the breeze carries someone’s soft words to me.
Looking back, I see the shadow merges into a man.
He leans over her and whispers, “Ma petite, it despairs me to see you left as a feast for the rats and earthly elements. Maybe now, the time you have spoken of has come, and you will accept the offer I give. But until you are well I will take care of you.”
He kisses her on the forehead lifting her into his arms, as if, she is but a feather and carries her off into the night.
The show is over; I turn off the light.
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Copyright © 2003 Sarah Nguyen
