Sp/l-it
1.
The rain quietly rests on the window sill, watching the scene unfold before it’s crystalline eyes. A silent film with two figures, man and woman, sitting on the edge of a bed. Lips moving, bodies shifting, jerks and jolts as irreversible lighting strikes their hearts. A moment, now space expands. An otherworldly pressure blanketing the bedroom, pausing just above their tears. Two becomes one faster than droplets sliding down the stained window.
2.
She walks into the bedroom, her feet crumbling under the weight of calcified guilt. Crawling out of clothes that smelled of regretful cigarettes and old books. Standing above a rotted coffin, buried under soiled sheets; a resurrected corpse now occupies this space, the same bed where they used to lay. Unaware, she’s created a Frankenstein of her former lover, made with pieces of men who want nothing but to feel warmth. How deftly mad was she, to bring him to her sacred garden and attempt to place a lost soul in this new body? And this man, this monster would never leave now. No, she had given him life, who was he to turn away from that?
3.
He stepped out of the rented taxi, neck scented with cologne and a touch of starch. A finely shaven beard, chiseled from ear to chin. He a was a man, and ready to do what men do, and indulge themselves. Listening was a bore, and whisky always made his lips run loose. He approached the crowded bar, scanning over the bottles like a falcon above the forest; but no prey appeared. Reaching into his black denim, he unveiled a leather wallet containing enough money for him to face his fears, or so he believed…
The Nuclear Cottage 