The opening of a series of interlinked stories.
A living room quiet except for the buzz of many TV`s
chronicling the rise and fall of governments, disaster and joy, the lives of
the God famous forgotten like Ozymandias in death.
Still except for the silent rhythmic exhale of
breath throughout the house. A woman
late twenties, crepe full length Victorian dress embroidered with roses lay on her back, arm
draped down the side of a couch, hand tapping as if playing a piano in the
still air.
On the chair by the drawn curtained window a roman
soldier, sword at the ready across his chest, helmet as pillow. His legs and
bare arms covered in barely healed scars.
A boy of maybe ten, in damp dirty clothes, face never washed, a crude
carving of a soldier archer with bow but no arrows held tight in his hand, lay
sprawled on the other couch opposite the lady.
In the centre of the room an empty rocking chair
with the impression in its base as if someone had just stood up and left the
room.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed a date: 3rd….March…1848. At the third
chime a click of a door opening in the hallway and the woman on the couch
opened her eyes. She yawned and rubbed
the sleep away from her eyes and sat up slowly. The corset under the dress pinched her sides, a sudden pain
in her stomach. She breathed out slowly till
the pain was gone. Her neck
cracked, her shoulders ached, she stretched her legs out in front of his, as
the living room door opened.
Footstep impressions on the lush carpet, then the
rocking chair groaned under a weight, and began to rock back and forth.
`Sit by my feet. ` Said a voice an echo of the
woman`s own.
The woman struggled to her feet and with difficulty manoeuvred
her bell shaped skirt and layers of petticoats.
She managed and sat at the feet of the rocking chair.
` Tell me how you died. ` Said the voice.
Lucy began….
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