six lines #14.

I was going to post this yesterday, on the very special day of Ellen Frances' birth, but my computer started freaking out as soon as I returned from an afternoon meeting. So, in the wake of-- hopefully-- both my laptop's convalescence and Ellen's continued excitement/celebration for being alive, I'm happy to post this six-line scene.

I don't know Ellen too too well, but when I met her I felt like it wasn't the first time, for whatever reason, though I've never figured out where or how our past paths would have crossed. But, I was thrilled when I heard that she was thinking about sending in a six-line scene, not only because she is a lady and I've been looking for scenes written by women, but also because I like her brain, and her work, and I suspect that she's one of the most honest people I've met. Honesty ain't easy, so when I see it, I am always inspired and I know others are, too.

Beyond even this, Ellen is an avid supporter of great creative work, a magnet for awesome people and a fierce floating wonder of productivity and gorgeousness. Plus she has a sweet Wikipedia entry.

FOOD TASTES BETTER WHEN THE CEILING IS TIN: IM INTO AMBIANCE
by Ellen Frances

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The wall paper browning, like flowers in the vase which had sat for what Odile would describe as 'a hundred years'.

Dimly lit curtains lightly blow the dusty yellow glow of further down in Chelsea.

Svet follows her creaking shadows through a long narrow hallway.

The pads of her feet gently press, leaving a trail of small watery pods in which trey krem would live happily.

Having reached the darkest point, Odile extends her arm up. She tugs on the light pull without fumbling.

Svet realizes the wonder of a brain which can memorize the vacuum.

Thomas Edison is alive.

Odille slides back into her shallow bath; white tee shirt clinging to her hips. She moves to the edge, lops her arms over the side and watches them hang. Lightly swinging. They come to rest on a pack of Reds, from which she maneuvers one lonesome fag.

Light?

She looks up at Svet, now sitting in an old wooden chair near the tub.

I was made to watch you wallow in shallow waters, sit in old chairs, hold fire...

As if an empty echo of a drip prompts him, he reaches over to her... flame erect.

Odile props the cigarette between her lips and inches toward the flame. Svet thrusts it at her face.

She grabs his hand forcefully putting the flame to her cigarette, she inhales and then releases her grip on his hand. She looks out the window exhaling, eventually reverting back to watching arms dangle.

I know what you are thinking, 'why is he still here' - well, ill tell you: I'm here for the ambiance.

The ambiance?

The misery, the mania...

Odile looks up

The moon

- END -