It's Still Life

At an Intersection Named After an English King and a Saint
Six Sentence Story: Part 16 Smoke in the Mirrors

Last week ended with: But I know how we can get Pierre to cut the cord for us.

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“Let’s do dinner out, Pierre, at Six Sentence Café & Bistro, my treat,” I say, “I’m exhausted by the day.”

And so, we arrive shattered with bits of late hours on us, our shoulders wanting to be hung on a coat stand, and I cannot hide what’s hidden … Connor; he keeps his steps within my shadow … and as we approach SSC&B, the Gatekeeper steps from cover of night,

“Welcome back, Brigid, Pierre,” Nick looks through and past me, and says, “Your shadow has taken a detour, Brigid,” … I smile, having lost the joy of surprise decades ago … I lower my voice, “That’s Connor, he’s with me.”

Nick gives a chin-up nod toward the entrance door and says, “Aye,” his voice hums like black-matte armour, and it is as I’ve often thought – some people have blank skin, and they carry their own ink … but perception is as imprecise as memory, which Connor proves as

his hand grasps mine, our fingers entwine, just a few seconds, and then … nothing … gone … but I hear his voice encircle my ear, “Lips have their own way of forgetting, but hands never do.”

Pierre and I take our usual table, we’re hermitting away but have a view of the door, the stage, our backs to the wall, our table has a white candle in a smoke-darkened jam jar … half melted half burnt, half this but not quite that … it’s twiggy wick blackened and bent over like a crone’s long finger, and the flame flickers, oversized, sooty and smoking, and the air is unstable and acrid.

Pierre glares at the flame’s disobedience, and I say “It’s the wick … it’s too long … it needs trimming by more than half,” and I give him a pair of nail scissors from my handbag to trim the flaming wick, while Connor chants over and over in a whisper, “This cord is now destroyed for all time and in all dimensions … I return this cosmic cord to sender.”

Pierre clears his throat and coughs … Connor slowly materialises, his anger falling in flurries of ash around him.

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Previous Instalments – Part 1: The Pull Back   Part 2: The Measure of Her    Part 2: The Gatekeeper’s Response  Part 3: The Colour of Walls   Part 4: Tectonic Shifts  Part 5: Out of the Frying Pan  Part 6: How to Break Eggs Part 7: A Moon River  Part 8: Starlight Shines on the Roof  Part 9: Before When  Part: 9.1 Flower Power Part 10: To Trace a Curl   Part 11: I Walk With Ghosts Part 12: Behind Every Lining Is a Cloud Part 13: A Constellation of Coloured Paper Part 14: Behind the Eye of a Needle  Part 15: To Bleed the Sky  Part 16: Smoke in the Mirrors

To access all of the instalments on one page, please use this link

Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story, include the word “hermit”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.