as Romance is to Kettle
I don’t think there’s really anything to say here; that which leaves nothing said leaves nothing unsaid.
Dedicated to her that leaves so much unsaid.
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as Romance is to Kettle belongs to the following groups:
All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical, Short stories - Spherical Scriptings, The Word Tree and WMGDeep in the woods, ivy crawls through the floorboards. It thrusts its spear-like leaves through the corridors, it bustles like a train through private rooms; an outright attack. An assault which continues quietly for years; the organic rustling of growth a death rattle.
This is an abandoned house. No one has disturbed the thick skin of dust- that flows, silk-like, over the premises- in a good many years. And before you get your hopes up, they aren’t going to; the property will sit, an undisturbed iceberg, for years after our story has finished. Does that make you angry? Or simply upset? Perhaps you have continued unperturbed to this point; commendable.
There was a kettle, unless I already mentioned it. A kettle- incongruous- for every other artefact had been stripped away from the gutted house. A rusted, pathetic kettle that lolled sadly. A kettle whose spout sagged limply to the mossy loam. An unhappy kettle.
A ladybird passed through, that way. Not a refined lady of a ladybird, sadly, but an overlarge brute of a beetle. His polka dot shell was an impenetrable shield, his legs thick and bristling with hair. He paused, in his stride, and stared at the kettle. The kettle stared back; a trapped dragon, a tethered titan.
The beetle tilted his small head this way and that, examining the utensil thoroughly. He strolled first one way, then the other around the indignant kettle. He climbed over its stricken bulk, and found himself back where he had begun. Finally, the irreverent creature made to walk straight up the spout; but he paused. The kettle seemed to shrink away.
The ladybird patted the spout of the kettle with his bristly foot. Maybe, thought the beetle as he went on his way, some people are better off on their own.
Keith Russell
The details are always the important bit. Why do Chinese tea pots spill?
Fyfe
We would all spill, without proper support.
melodious
(I think you are the property, the kettle and the ladybird all to some degree… and the ivy is the hurt and pain… and you feel that loneliness means safety and protection. that thick blanket of piled up dust all over you can’t really protect you, but you like to think that it does… it doesn’t mean that you’re not being watched… and she is not unperturbed by your distance….) you write incredibly! Thank you!