Die Writing

The Master’s last

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on September 15, 2011

The wind wandered freely through the house. It looked through the stacks of letters, checked under the table cloths and behind the curtains. The myriad rooms were thick with layers of history.  The night’s shadows dressed these histories and memories with nostalgia, sweet and seductive.

The old Master stood in front of the fireplace, reading over some weathered pages. When the wind made its way through this room – remembered to gently embrace the Master and caress his neck – he smiled, recognizing the autumn’s touch and fragrance.

His student, a young man, sat attentively at a large table, which was adorned with volumes, pages, candles, and various vessels containing wine. He was patient, and studied the old Master with reverie.

Time was passing largely in silence. Only the house and the wind spoke on occasion, exchanging creaks and breaths. The Master interrupted his reading, rubbed in his eyes, and smiled again. He knew the autumn wind wasn’t here to pick at the draperies. It was the very last autumn, and it was bringing with it the final winter.

He sighed and threw the papers into the fire. It lapped them up, jumped up. The student leaped toward the fire, screaming in panic, hands outstretched toward the precious pages, but the old Master restrained him with a mere gesture.

“Youth knows so little of love.” He paused, closed his eyes, and seemed to kiss a memory. “Don’t live through the pages. Don’t remember in portraits.” The papers curled up, burned up in bright flashes. “My memories may have been faded and warped by time, but they are the only thing that feels real now.”

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