Thin flakes of jagged lacquer-edged wood littered the desk like tiny leaves after a strong Autumn wind. Pointed shadows sprawled across neatly stacked sheets of unmarked paper. The pencil mug’s broken handle girded the desk lamp’s spindly base. Beneath the incandescent light, a marigold Lippincott with a freshly sharpened tip glowed above a single translucent page. A smear of gray was found within the paper’s creased corner but its master had vanished without a trace.
A sigh stirred the air, and a fleck of pencil shaving drifted gently as a winter leaf from the desk’s top and into an opened drawer below. Wiry white metal carriages squeezed motionless moss-green envelopes flat, a failed accordion played its last note. One graphite smudged manila tab revealed an index card nestled in its fold. Its title, every letter meticulously placed above the thin red line, “Fibonacci Caramel Sauce“. Strange ingredients and unusual instructions followed each blue stripe. A penciled line crossed the recipe’s final directions, “serves one”, and at the end, the precarious and parenthetical words “portion control” took their place.
Contemplation moved a finger along the index card’s edge as desperation bumped the file drawer closed. The desk lamp flickered off and on like a firefly on a warm summer evening and the broken cup handle slid from its copper resting place. A harsh metallic tone resonated as the drawer – and case – resisted closure.
The extra push slapped a tarnished frame onto the floor like a card from a brassy blackjack dealer. Heartache hit, a ten card broke a jack and deuce hand. The stakes were high and the bet was a beautiful brunette queen.
Uncertainty hit the chair and uneasiness pulled it under the desk. Eyes fixed on a frame, an imaginary love, a distant life. The reflection of a starry sky through a rear window and a heart broke to pieces. A comet’s tail had circled back on itself, the trail of the past, space rocks on reentry.
Weary arms weakened, tired hands fell. As the pencil was pushed from the page, an imprint was uncovered and hope reclaimed. Revealed by the flickering lamplight, words pressed from a missing note. The reminder of the forgotten – November Yankee, Charlie – and the discovery of long ago – Delta Uniform, Mike Bravo, Oscar.
Heavy footfalls along a stream of shallow breath. A drift onto a forested path and into the dusk of consciousness. Curtains rise, a daylight dawns, a dream reprised anew.
Interwoven fingers swayed above concrete steps in the city of a million souls. Hands smelted together in an unbreakable bond, a love stronger than steel, their everlasting architecture touched the sky.
A string of hair fell between the dimples of a smile. Russian green butterfly eyes held the promise of a crystalline communion.
Years ago, lips quivered the answer to an introducing inquiry – “My friends call me Natty“.
The sprightly sound of a thousand years and forever friendships. – “Anastasia!” the name echoed through the caverns of contentious cognizance as reverie lost its grip.
Rzeszowska accosted crisp confectionery cakes but a slice of cheesy babka broke the fast. Fledgling fingers, green in pocket, found the Lippincott thieved the night before and Polska kawe fired its rocket from a sullied morning glories mug.
Bliss had traced these paper streets before the dawn of industry found the waterfront. Fleetly ships of lumbering families from Polish places built their lives on the manslaughter for timber. Wood would give them hart and sole, but a price was paid for food, clothing, and shelter.
Shortly thereafter steel rose concrete structures and Faber formed graphite clouds in the sky. But the orange fire over the East River blanched them dry and so the pencil man moved toward Penn.
At eight past one, the hunger that struck a prisoner of the Sands was suppressed at the hands of the McGuinness barricaded boulevard. A southwest journey on a grand street north of the Broadway Triangle found a Key Food that opened the door for fresh produce to make its profit. – Broccolo for more than a buck? I guess Romanesco wasn’t built in a day!
Salvatore followed the tin man on a yellowed road that led to an emerald city starred with specie. There, coinage afforded charity its legal tender.
Feed America with Fibonacci’s recipe: Caramel sauce commands called from an index card; encode ‘serves one’ to output ‘portion control’ and ‘together we can solve hunger’. The math is easy. – The solution is in the sequence.
A white ribbon tattooed in key-lime text spewed from within the nickel-and-diming money machine. The receipt, the reception, the beast’s albino tongue, the rude revelation from a Coinstar contraption. Remuneration made a baker’s dozen.
At seven before seventeen-hundred, a doubt delivered a destination. The union of a flushing broadway sun and the baked bricks of an abandoned print shop. They say the triumph of spectacle is illiteracy’s contentment. But Blaise never happy with his Pascaline, ditched the calculator to count in solitude and silence.
Serenity served the Frenchman’s triangle, overlaid it at diagonal and revealed the Italian master mathmagician’s secret numbers. Empty sky uncovered, nothing was discovered. Smoke and mirrors so thick. Where’s the trick?
Still, Pharaoh’s founder would have excavated the vast volume of a left justified pyramid if given an opportunity to find one. – Milestones are few and far between.
The evening opens, the scene begins and the Pratt pack enters the stage. A plea for precedence in an industrial age, the ides of winter, nineteen hundred, forty and three.
Liquid crystals blow a bright and bluish glow musing erudition’s quest with a Bing. There was a time not long ago when Dohner donned Ceasar’s crown. Is it true, pray do tell? Was dear Lippincott, his head in the clouds, a brutish beau? Had he loved his king or loved the heir he found?