Irene 3

Upon entering the creaking portal he was transposed in an instant from the grim outer passage into a labyrinth of steel and aluminum. Yellowed florescents flickered tragically, illuminating the hall in static autonomy. Mechanical parts, chains and gears littered the ground. Wheels and rims dangled from above creating a claustrophobic atmosphere. Thin aisles marched forward flanked by sentinel frames pledging allegiance to Bianchi, Cervelo, Volagi. With every step newer and more impressive models shown forward, eager to be used and fulfill their maker's designs.

Irene 2

A week before wax pillars would be burning atop frosted delicacy the dilemma of discovering an appropriate offering eluded the young artist. His intent had been pure, good willed, seeking not a lavish gift but rather one of utter genuinity. Thus he had taken to surveying the convocation of petite shoppes along the inner thigh of the bustling harbor town. The delectable aroma of fresh bake pastry mingled unscrupulously with the pungent seaborn breeze as he idled down the cobbled road, but it failed to deter the eager citizens from frequenting the area.

Irene 1

Pantomime, phantom shapes and shadows overlaid with drizzled silver lining the edges of the light. Dancing movement caught shining orbs, reflecting gratification as they observed the persisting display with rapture. Then a great gasp as the alligator was swallowed whole and reborn from its fading shimmer, a rabbit escaping certain carnivorization, retreated suddenly to soft translucence as the overhead fixture illuminated the room, drawing a collective sigh of discontent. Tidings of chocolate mousse, however, quickly subdued the disparaging remarks and scampering footfalls hurried inward towards the dining room.

Irene: Prologue

Crying child, like a lamb on the altar. A single bright light, flicker of a flame. A seedling that sprouted forth in the wrong season, soon to retreat beneath the earth. Newborn yet dying.

Doctor says "There's nothing we can do." Sometimes a little spark doesn't catch fire to the tinder. So sitting with the fawn in her arms, shallow breathing, Mother looks down. Such small hands wrapped around her finger, the last umbilical of life hanging on. Father's grip on her shoulder feels like some far away comfort of familiarity to the homesick. He stares into tiny blue eyes, barely open, fading fast. Father starts to speak, "I am so sorry. Little one.."

Bradbury Heights: V - Father, Mother!

Father Fleischer padded softly afoot the slate stone stairwell of Saint Andrew’s Cathedral, smoothly stepping straightway towards the upper sanctum where Mother Superior Judith Von Engle would surely be sweeping through her morning studies. The bite of the dawn’s gentle patters of rain had swiftly given way to the lustrous sun now bleeding through the slotted windows of the Cathedral stairway, but Father Fleischer did not require the meager light to guide his feet.