Twenty-three quarters

She now lives in a small, lonely cottage at a prairie’s edge, encompassed by a single tree with a single apple shadowing a a single pond. Melancholy and acrimony are shooed away from her mind of apathy and ennui. Today, as most days, her silvery hair matches the memories she has of her career in film. The stills and rolling clips of her young figure in black and white screens in all its angelic glory. She’d remember her golden hair of golder days, diamond necklaces whose importance nor fondness of, she never comprehended. She’d remember the way life was a movie and she always knew her lines. She’d remember how life presented itself in fur coats and manager advice, free drinks at the bar and contracts to be signed. Her fingers knitted away as her memories did the same, linking events with places and names with faces. She pondered, whatever happened to them? As she exhaled her memory of all that used to be, the last thread in her kit was woven into a silky, feathery manner into a dress, which looked more like a scarecrows half-knitted robe than a dress but it had a certain appeal. Her sickness did not allow her to finish her work. The sickly hands of an elderly woman were eluded by the dress as it was clutched and taken away by the wind. Manipulated by the breezy seasonal thief, the dress would follow the path of intertwining with the evanescence of the dandelions, dancing with them in the wind. The ivory, threadbare dress and its silky straws of snowy faults and pasty florets would flow into the bowl of the surrounding fields, tagging kindling-to-be and blades of wet grass with each zephyr: a kairos. The chimney puffed about as the pendulum struck at the passing quarter. Twenty-third of the day. At the crystal-clear water in the pond which reflected the viridescent of the tree overlooking it. And today, more and more with each passing day, a shadowed sphere of edible velvet was hanging upon it. The apple was being tickled by the gusts of wind to the extent of it engaging in a pendulum swing in perfect sync with the clock at the cottage. But as the quarter lay still and not a minute go by, the apple was clutched by gravity falling into the shallow water below. It made no sound and barely a ripple. As it spun upon it’s back like a roll of film, its tip touched the dirt below as if being pulled down. Half of it remained above water, seemingly afloat. All an illusion as it sunk in the dirt and time began to eat away its color. It eventually rotted away, robbed of its velvet soul as the wind chilled its shadowed surface. Meanwhile, an ephemera of an angered gust of wind grasped the robe and it flied around the prairie. It made a full cycle but it came to an end as the wind calmed down and the dress kissed the water. It enveloped the apple, burying it away from the world. The pond, now barely visible, seemed like a puddle of deaf dirt and water of apathy. The wind ceased and all went still. The chimney puffed away until the logs blackened and disappeared as the pendulum struck again. Twenty-four. Again, twenty-five. Again, twenty-six. Again, twenty-seven. Again

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