Her father always wanted her to date a man, but from a young age, Molly took to Elven love. Beyond the trees, it was their convictions she could get behind. That, and the pointed ears, of course.
Would that her father had told her sooner: people that pretty have something to hide.
Night is the flicker of cigarette ash out the window. Someone whistles in tune as the snow rides the wind down, down. He calls out to the face he thinks he remembers in the muck of a road, but the memory is grit stains and brown ponds, and the taxi drowns the torchlight out.
I have kept myself alive to another setting sun.
Somewhere, you are wondering what colors the burgeoning horizon holds.
He showered her ears with Beethoven. With Bach. With Tchaikovsky. He smothered her in classic beauty.
Yet he never thought to ask about the electric guitar in her bedroom or the steps by which she danced through the world.
Care of Wikimedia Commons. By Barry Goyette from San Luis Obispo, USA.
I sat on the hill and watched the interplay. Young lovers thought the priests couldn’t see them, whispered sweet nothings that followed them into the ground. Hands clasped them together and all the rest fell away. Love was a gesture, no different from the motions I made to keep back the crowd as the others picked through their bones and pieced their story back together.
(Care of New York Daily News)
(Inspired by news of the 14th century skeletons uncovered in England this week by University archaeologists, their hands still clasped across 700+ years. It will be fascinating to see what people can find of the pair, the stories they’ll come up with, even if some will find it a bit morbid.)