Storylet, A Tragedied Novel//Heide & Martinez & Belflower

…Chapter 4…

Baron the sparrow-hawk, his beard a beckoning presence, “there can be no distance for the eye,                                                                                                                                                             it’s swallowing us,” He makes an aside, “Like a window,” and chortles quietly to himself. He knows, before I even read this next statement what I’m going to say, though he doesn’t completely understand the movement of fate within this diaphanous realm.

And there is a mortared silence from

Oyster the intended pure bride of                                                                                                            both.

What he could intend to know

if the Water offered

a solution,

cloudy. Oyster is confused because of his inability to discern Window from Water. Each is clear, though one is boundaried in a way indefinable to him. All the while

Window pale, eats the wave in the corner to bear that stillness of their triangle. Water is tired, who wouldn’t be after running all day. The Baron chortles at this pun though he looks around for its source. Water is tired of being invisible. She believes she is part of the triangle but her challenge lies in her imagination. She is only able to imagine spheres. Within her world there are only round, plump shapes. She is wandering how everyone will adhere though she is holding on with each finger to Oyster and Window. She is still, waiting for Baron to get close enough, in stillness, stillness keeps

Oyster’s flesh a possibility, his surface driven into the Baron’s burning margin

>Interlude, a Song<

In the flower the wave

we wave at the pollen

in the widowe the sheilds

we wear the tight sheilde

O narcissus, beat beat a chest

O be time in boat sway

O cull the wave from its forme

in Water its windowe

in sorrow is current

O belating beneathe

O refraction

my widowe

sung by

Window &

Baron simultaneously. Oyster translates the song into sign language. I apologize but I am unable to translate the sign language. You can visually translate it if you imagine tendrils of meat writhing as they pour from a meat grinder. You may want to sing this to yourself in the style of a Broadway show tune during your imagination.

  “The promise Water will know

before tall grass.”

—Oyster