4 minutes 45 seconds| Originally a tribute to the painter Balthus, and I see no reason to renege at this late stage.
Time stamp when created: 10/08/09. The slow build to the final restatement of the theme is one of the best things I have done.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 40| After an accident at the tower, where Eva and Lowell intended an assignation, the injured homesteader returns home alone, and finds the box on the table; he has little confessed memory of it:
The entrance door was blocked with additional reinforcement, as ineffectual as the plan impressed itself on his mind, leaving him to stray into the bathroom, where another light was enlisted. His hand graced the smooth stile, and detected a smudge of blood where something wet had been slung over the door.
He tried to follow this line of thought back into the living room, up to the fireplace mantel where his shelf of snow globes illumined in the particle glow of a curtain. Someone had stepped just out of reach, and more blood grazed flocking and strung popcorn of the sorriest of his holiday trees.
“I did not choose this sleep,” he mumbled aloud to the room. “I did not choose you.”
No sooner had the full sun appeared on his windowsill than a cloud reclaimed it. A half hour of twilight was added back, and Lowell, seeking to alleviate his escalating distress, seized the easing contrasts in the bedding to throw his etiolated body over them.
He claimed no special vigil over the box in front of him, however—nor over its unsettling questions. Each time he blinked at it, the duration his eyes were shut lengthened, and by the third or fourth blink he might have been dreaming them open.
The box had overturned; its lid now lay in the floor; the lamplight found nothing inside.
Noise was heard from the far corner of the house, but from the sharp, close crack of timber, it emanated from floorboards and not clapboards fending off a resurgent wind.
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