Post by curvestone on Nov 22, 2007 12:37:00 GMT -5
An Amber Lamp in Central Park
By Nathan Cook
A thick, gray mist crept through Central Park that night, the one color besides black. I had never entered the park after dusk. The darkness made a labyrinth from an otherwise inviting path. Occasionally, street lamps would appear around turns, but their lights burned dim.
Strolling down the damp cobblestone path, cutting through the hanging fog, I came upon an unfamiliar stretch of walkway in which stood, on the left side when facing it, an amber beacon that tore the fog, drawing me near. Its trunk was a black darker than the night, lean in its construction, bent spikes pointing downward from its sides.
Beneath the amber glow sat a young woman, still as the wind was, studying her newspaper. Her hair was merely a darker shade of the night, blacker than a raven's wing. She wore a slimming pant suite the same color as her illumination. On her head sat wide-rim, beige hat, concealing her eyes. Her lips were a rich, shimmering brown. Under the lamplight, her face was as amber as the light above it but all but her lips were slightly shrouded by a funeral veil. Her bench was wrought iron, golden wood for the seat. On the bench's sides, winged iron beasts cackled maniacally in silence.
As I approached, the air chilled, freezing my blood. Sitting beside her, I witnessed the fog beyond us thicken astoundingly. Everything outside the lamp's immediate presence became indistinguishable behind the gray cloud.
Suddenly, her head shot up from the paper, and I met her eyes at last. Silver, they were, cold in their stare. I turned to flee, but her cold hands clinched my arm, wrenching me back. Frost began settling about my face. Holding me in place, she leaned her lips onto mine. Hers were warm to the touch but ice to the soul. As we kissed, the fog closed in, swallowing the deceiving beacon, gradually snuffing the amber flame, slowly engulfing us, but as the amber faded, so did she.
All went black. I was alone, the mist departing the scene. The iron figures were no longer malevolent in nature; instead, there were no figures at all. Above my head, the amber light flickered in the dark. Hesitantly, I rose and, without revisiting my strange episode, returned cautiously to the shadow, never to return to the park at night.
© Nathan Cook, 2007
By Nathan Cook
A thick, gray mist crept through Central Park that night, the one color besides black. I had never entered the park after dusk. The darkness made a labyrinth from an otherwise inviting path. Occasionally, street lamps would appear around turns, but their lights burned dim.
Strolling down the damp cobblestone path, cutting through the hanging fog, I came upon an unfamiliar stretch of walkway in which stood, on the left side when facing it, an amber beacon that tore the fog, drawing me near. Its trunk was a black darker than the night, lean in its construction, bent spikes pointing downward from its sides.
Beneath the amber glow sat a young woman, still as the wind was, studying her newspaper. Her hair was merely a darker shade of the night, blacker than a raven's wing. She wore a slimming pant suite the same color as her illumination. On her head sat wide-rim, beige hat, concealing her eyes. Her lips were a rich, shimmering brown. Under the lamplight, her face was as amber as the light above it but all but her lips were slightly shrouded by a funeral veil. Her bench was wrought iron, golden wood for the seat. On the bench's sides, winged iron beasts cackled maniacally in silence.
As I approached, the air chilled, freezing my blood. Sitting beside her, I witnessed the fog beyond us thicken astoundingly. Everything outside the lamp's immediate presence became indistinguishable behind the gray cloud.
Suddenly, her head shot up from the paper, and I met her eyes at last. Silver, they were, cold in their stare. I turned to flee, but her cold hands clinched my arm, wrenching me back. Frost began settling about my face. Holding me in place, she leaned her lips onto mine. Hers were warm to the touch but ice to the soul. As we kissed, the fog closed in, swallowing the deceiving beacon, gradually snuffing the amber flame, slowly engulfing us, but as the amber faded, so did she.
All went black. I was alone, the mist departing the scene. The iron figures were no longer malevolent in nature; instead, there were no figures at all. Above my head, the amber light flickered in the dark. Hesitantly, I rose and, without revisiting my strange episode, returned cautiously to the shadow, never to return to the park at night.
© Nathan Cook, 2007
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
