Emiety – Short, pop story.

All felt like a shackle. She pushed and pulled, attacked and retreated: The fetters that attached her to life frayed; what she hated solidified, the chain’s locks tightening, un-tethering her soul and passions from the everyday stroll. Perhaps Emily sowed colours and ideas that simply would not match.

The tiring effects of the light, radiating from the pretentious chandeliers that hung at every opportunity and space the ceiling presented, matched Emily’s senile movements. “Hi, sir, would you like anything to drink,” she said, contriving a smile incongruous to anxiety vibrating inside… “No, thank you,” replied the sullen face, his now loose skin imprinting a permanent ‘sulk’ for his temperament. Though she knew it was an affront to her, even though it was not. “Ahh, why am I met with such reactions.” Her hand’s skin fraying unremittingly with every bleach soaked scoop of the dark brown tables. In fact, Emily’s hands were wrapped in cloth most of the day; her limbs functioned as a mop. She hastened to lay the scooped dirt on the cleaners, emancipating herself from the responsibility, a benefit that emanated resentment among co-workers. The skilfully sustained room temperature pierced with every swing of the kitchen door; a rush of heat with each shimmer of the saute chef and jarring temperatures accompanying the impressive work of the kitchen porters: Fluctuating temperatures intensify as the distance with door narrowed. Fellow waiters shifted from table to table, replacing each empty glass and answering all in-considerate demands of customers, smiles seldom abandoning their faces. The door swung on more time, the air crashing into her face, strangling, metamorphosing into a harness, enslaving her… Heads move to and fro on the other-side of the door’s circular window, etched with dark-green lines, forming tiny boxes…

A motley mixture of faces – some sad, most manic – almost converged into one: A diamond-shaped face, with angelic curves – reality and loss of it crashed into each-other… Sporadic bursts of lustre images and colours battered every thought and pierced every attempted interaction with reality it converged with – incessantly moving towards being a constant. A shudder passed through her body, shaking her limbs to near-numbsness as she pushed open the kitchen door… not her mind detached, her body moved without her consent… The image of a beautiful angel, a creature with glowing, ever-changing colours maintained a static imprint in her mind… She wanted to smile, her heart aching; but her mouth did smile – not with her free will – without her consent. The apex of her mouth enjoyed the image as much as the heart. She did not want this to abandon her, though anxiety culminated, her body flushing with the Siberian cold and the North African deserts’ heat wave…

To be continued…


One thought on “Emiety – Short, pop story.

  1. This line reminds me of my life epiphany I had when I was 19: “Perhaps Emily sowed colours and ideas that simply would not match.”

    But…would not match what?

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