Hapless followers,
despite the seeming rudness of double posting in one day, what I have here cannot be avoided. For those of you who didn't help me with the short story segment I conrtived at a much earlier date on this blog, I wave my had at you in a flippant manner. So be it. But with recent brain storming, i have come to the revelation that a continuation is due. Therefore I give you a new segment: Waxing Prosodic. this section will be a serial, heretofore unamed, in episodes. I plan on writing as much as i can, be you on the edge of your seat or bored snotless. no thanks to you, you unhelpful customers.
Once again cheers,
Mithy
Episode 1: Halstead House
In my experience and the experience of those with whom I've had the pleasure of speaking with all these years, it is the nature of notable places to instill in some a set of oblique wonder; and so it was with Halstead House, sitting quietly and bedded down within the glum and greenery of Northern Tisbury. The once-plantation house was rustic, marked with age and set with such experience that those who would visit regarded it well. Decked in light-blue siding and pale gray trim, the house stood alone among sprawling lawns and dense groupings of fir and fringe tree. A wide porch, white-washed and sturdy wrapped itself around the house, a becoming bastion to such apparent firmament. Such a place stood in decrepit majesty, a faded old maid, retired in her prime of life.
I am not an eclectic man by any means. In fact, so much do I loathe New England in midwinter, what with its dark skies, swollen clouds and deep chill that I despaired to go about my way that evening. From the my collegue's house I departed, following the pedestrian trail back to my cottage in Edgartown. It was by this way. I found myself turned around, nearly drowning as the ominous clouds opened up in a torrent; assailed, I dashed madly along the path, heading toward lights I had seen in the brush. Thus was the means in which I first came about Halstead house on the eve of St. Lucia's.
I attempted the warped steps of Halstead, seeking shelter from what I knew must be the second great flood; I rapped upon the door with such celerity as if I were haunted by something oncoming. Within seconds, my call was answered by the releasing of a latch, the twisting of a deadbolt; the door opened, bathing my sodden form in the warm light inside.
"Yes?" said the boy who answered the door with caution. Quite young was he, in fact, within a year or two of eleven and still in short pants.
"I apologize for my intrusion," said I, "But I was on my way home and have lost my way in the storm."
The boy gazed at me, lit from behind, strange shadows traveling over his face. There he stood, His eyes captious, exacting more from me then what I had already provided.
"Please, may I come in?" I am aggrieved to say my words came out in a whimper, so daunted was I by the boy's strangeness. Admittedly, it was my predilection simply to leave. However, with a scowl the child allowed me to enter, holding the door back over the threshold. As I shook myself of the damp, the boy, with brows still furrowed, bade me follow him to the parlor. I complied.
As I had yet to understand my newly sought shelter, as I had yet to fully comprehend my whereabouts (the region, the house, the very hour) I could in no way hold any prior expectation of the place to where I was being led by this fair haired, glowering boy. The sitting room was wide, warm with firelight and rich with the smell of cleaning ammonia and an underlying node of a woman's perfume. I had before me, a niche cut out from the rest of the house, the rest of New England and the world perhaps. There, I was humbled by a sense of glamour, a room once trod by slippered feet and brushed by silken hems. An aura of rapture confronted me as I placed my feet upon the floor, as my eyes played over the heavy drapes alive with the movement of fire-shadows and the slight breeze from an open window. Here, a chaise beside the fire, a pianoforte beside, and shelves of books, leather-bound and brooding; there, a card table and a mantle displaying fresh flowers and the Lady Elgin in a bottle. Oriented, I intuited before me a consciousness of past, the presence of ghastly figures and lithe tinkling of music causing them to sway, causing them to wrap slender fingers around one another, around glasses of champagne and luxurious garment threads. I took in the perception of low mumblings, the fine rumbling of delighted conversation, the warmth of a young woman's flush and the boisterous laughter of her fellow. The air of the room shook off its more modern redolence and claimed the sweet odor of Perique, the sharp pangs of alcohol and the sweat of many finely dressed denizens pressed together in intimacy. Family members, close friends, business associates and lovers gathered in a fete of jubilant decadence, shaken not by the weather or the present foreboding which, in turn, grasped at my heart in a sudden twinge.
My anxiety and the rich, liquid voice of a woman dripped into the room, and I, shaken from my fancy, turned to see the slight figure leaning at the entrance of the parlor. The lady of the house, or so I assumed, gazed at me with the cold solicitude.
"Good sir." Said she, her voice deep and melodic "It seems you are dripping water upon my floor."
Surprised, I looked down at the ends of my duster and saw this was so, evidence of the deluge outside collecting into a large puddle at my feet.
"Forgive me." I cleared my throat as the woman entered, circling me once; then, upon inspection came behind me as a hostess would and removed my coat from me, fine dexterous fingers wrapping daintily about its lapels as it slid off my back. Taking the coat she gestured to the chaise by the fire.
"Please. Do sit."
