04-27-2021, 07:40 AM
[align=center][div style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 8pt; max-width: 65%; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]The meagre peace of sleep fell away with the ghost of sweetness gently playing against their lips. Few, and far between, the nights that receded and left even a modicum of what had transpired against closed lids, one such replaced by golden illumination. Old the memory, ragged edges soft beneath age, a pleasant reminder of days long past. Debris and ruined abodes that which occupied the field of their vision, fleeting disappointment bitter against their tongue.
Gone it too in time that feels too short, a moment bisected, carved down to bare bones, and yet infinite, an eternity condensed into fragmented second, the darkness of closed lids prolonged into the unknown. Pieces coming together, mind turning fine threads over, wound about one another. Known the method, beaten and burnt kettle kept from open flames, the desired result, smooth and creamy, sweetened with overripe fruit plucked from high branches and a mere taste of honey. To plan such an endeavour a great deal more simple than enacting it.
Whittled away the hours in pursuit that bore unfavourable results, meagre the supplies that had escaped the torrential mudslide, replacement proven a difficulty when few deemed the ice laced fragment of land worthy of business. Such not to discredit those who traversed the outskirts and hawked their wares, staunch in the face of evident hazard. One of them the key in their desire, rather small the bag they bore, enough at the least.
Locating the correct receptacle given to an easier time, old the firepit pot hung from. Had been they privy to prior contents may well alone left it, the knowledge not theirs, nor seeking it a thought that passed the threshold of their mind, simply viewed as suitable equipment. Ash and coal a fine enough base, low the heat of new fire, pleasant the soft crackle and occasional pop as the sticks collapsed, tongues of flame encasing each new addition. Eyes turned, observed the contents beginning a slow boil. Submerged the ratio of oats they had acquired, stray few floating to the surface as the surface of the water began to break, bubbles rising in a quickly increasing volume.
Pleasure drew the gentle curl of a smile against dark lips, left only now to wait. Issue was there within stirring the mixture, wooden spoon propped along rim, that to be handled when the time for it arose.
Gone it too in time that feels too short, a moment bisected, carved down to bare bones, and yet infinite, an eternity condensed into fragmented second, the darkness of closed lids prolonged into the unknown. Pieces coming together, mind turning fine threads over, wound about one another. Known the method, beaten and burnt kettle kept from open flames, the desired result, smooth and creamy, sweetened with overripe fruit plucked from high branches and a mere taste of honey. To plan such an endeavour a great deal more simple than enacting it.
Whittled away the hours in pursuit that bore unfavourable results, meagre the supplies that had escaped the torrential mudslide, replacement proven a difficulty when few deemed the ice laced fragment of land worthy of business. Such not to discredit those who traversed the outskirts and hawked their wares, staunch in the face of evident hazard. One of them the key in their desire, rather small the bag they bore, enough at the least.
Locating the correct receptacle given to an easier time, old the firepit pot hung from. Had been they privy to prior contents may well alone left it, the knowledge not theirs, nor seeking it a thought that passed the threshold of their mind, simply viewed as suitable equipment. Ash and coal a fine enough base, low the heat of new fire, pleasant the soft crackle and occasional pop as the sticks collapsed, tongues of flame encasing each new addition. Eyes turned, observed the contents beginning a slow boil. Submerged the ratio of oats they had acquired, stray few floating to the surface as the surface of the water began to break, bubbles rising in a quickly increasing volume.
Pleasure drew the gentle curl of a smile against dark lips, left only now to wait. Issue was there within stirring the mixture, wooden spoon propped along rim, that to be handled when the time for it arose.