The Mirror on the Wall
Writing on a topic of your choice is one thing as words flow with your thoughts. But willing your thoughts and words to write on a prompt is an exercise that I feel thrilled to explore. It pushes your bounds of imagination, breaks the glass ceiling of realism, and compels you to paint your own picture with the colour of words.
I'm happy to participate in this Hornby Shire Libraries initiative on Facebook to write on a stimulus they'll provide every Monday. It's not about flexing what one's got, it's about unleashing your love for writing and getting to read a few fine short stories by other writers, appreciate their ideas, ways of expressions, and more. Isn't that enriching besides being an inspiration to write?
Here's the first one of the lot: The Convex Mirror, George Lambert, 1916 on Fb followed by my strands of imagination. You can write one too if the prompt piques your interest!
The Mirror on the Wall I:🪞
Unceremoniously, I felt my entire torso was being wrung and sucked into a wispy night behind the mirror. It took a while before my blue iris contracted and the pupil inside dilated. By then I was horrified to my wit's end; dark shapes were gliding around effortlessly in mediaeval apparels, their ruff flashing and curly brown hair rolling upto their shoulders in ringlets. Some were outlandish with awkward coiffure, their hair shining with generous amount of macassar.
The scene unfurled gradually revealing characters that apparently sprang to life from the very book I was about to refer with Camellia for our essay we were so aversive of; like who reads Shakespeare these days?
I sat there, unheard, unseen, awestruck blended in mediaeval tenebrosity, not unlike Harry Potter in the diary-Horcrux - Tom Riddle's memory.
The heart-rending end of a heartwarming love and agony sort of answered all I had to know to whip up the essay on the atrocious topic: Romantic relationships conflicting with family loyalty and how circumstances of birth can affect one's destiny.
Was it a sort of dream, a reverie, or a dues-ex-machina that I aced the essay competition?
Neither am I the first one to write anything like this, nor will I be the last one in this genre. Yet, like old wine in new bottles, here it is with my own unique panache.
The Mirror on the Wall II:🪞
I was dating her for sometime; her bewitching beauty and beguiling disposition only intrigued me to know her more. Finally the moment was there - she asked me for coffee in her mansion. Could I be late?
Nestled within a copse of dense gum trees, the massive structure of stone, with warm lights flowing like liquid gold from small windows, resembled a turriferous mediaeval chateau 🏰 beneath a gleaming full moon. The sylvan setting seemed to have been suspended in time, as if a horse drawn cart would trundle along the rutted path that parted the swathes of dark overgrown velvety grass of the lawn. A chill in the breeze lent an eerie enchanting air to it.
No sooner had I put a foot on the stony step, the heavy mahogany door creaked to welcome me; chefs and servants scurried around, straight-faced, as if a frozen tableau had suddenly bounced to life.
I looked around to soak in the grandeur, incredulous of the stark contrast to the surroundings it stood in. Whether I was asked to take a seat or I just ensconced myself in a chintz chair, I couldn't remember. But I sat. Otherwise how would I spring to my feet at the sight of her? Fair like sun's warm rays, she floated down a flight of steps in a blood red gown.
'You are an enchantress,' I managed to murmur.
'So I am,' she laughed a piercing laugh.
Time ran like sand though fingers; I was about to take her leave, but she offered me a tour around her mansion. Needless to mention, I wouldn't decline. We wove our fingers in love, or so I thought, and climbed up the carpeted stairs leaving the light and life behind. Rooms after rooms lay in half darkness and dust, awaiting footsteps to bring back life in them. Of them, one stood out. I reached out to push open the overly ornate door, as if someone else was willing me to do it. She tugged at my hand, whispered 'no' into my ears through her warm fragrant breath that compelled me even more.
In my stupor, we entered the room; it was ominously plain having nothing but a large mirror on the wall opposite the door; yet the room was alive with hushed murmurs and tintinnabulations, quintessence of a sophisticated soirée yards away.
'What's that?'
She egged me on to move closer to the mirror and check, her blue eyes sparkling unnaturally, her skin glowing enticingly, and the lips curved in a cruel smile, or was it her lust for my love in this desolate decrepit domicile?
I never moved a muscle, the mirror did the magic. It slurped me up and threw me to the other side. I lurched and scrambled to my feet, whirled around horrified, and groped the mirror in desperation; my palms, I was sure, were visible on the other side like those through window panes obscured by years of dust and grime. There she was, waving at the mirror, her blood-curdling laughter ringing and fading in my head. Blood-curdling, that'd be if any was left for I felt the warmth draining as my body lay motionless on the floor on the other side, spread-eagled.
'Wait, please wait,' I pummelled the glass in vain, but only a throaty groan escaped, like it happened often with petrifying nightmares.
Instinctively I whirled on my heel and there they were - silhouettes of gentlemen of all size and shapes dining and wining in a mirthless space suspended in time for the clock on an invisible wall wasn't ticking. Who was she? What was she? I drowned in the darkness deliberating if she was a witch collecting souls or a brainchild of a computer geek playing around with AI, she being a collection of cogs under that gown, or a savage scientist meddling with physics of quantum consciousness.
Dona, Sydney, Aug'21
Spine-chilling... This is what bonafide nightmares are made of
ReplyDeleteThat's an inspiring compliment!
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