Brett Rants

Salt

They use it for pentagrams, you know.

White door, fading paint, brick wall, purple crystals, which I assume to be salt, to melt snow, that is not yet present

Salt on the sill.

There's a story there.

I know it.

Too bad I can't recall what it is.

The sill, with salt sprinkled about, I like the chipping paint, it is a very comforting image, the view was, as I was walking by, worthy of a photograph

Of course, that's probably the story:

the story of why there is no story...

a blurry image...

my mind a blank...

call it a receptacle ready to be filled.

Close up of the crystaline salt-like substance, which caught my eye becuase it was purplish

It flavours the meat, you know...

the salt.

It readies the body...

the beast of burden...

sacrificial animal...

call it an Avatar...

and as you do...

forget everything you know.

White chipped paint background, bluish, dark, paint smeared on door, like a oriental glyph, though I question whether it is real, it is from a different doorway than the previous, I believe this was a smaller side door, the crystals less dramatic, if even present, but this image stands on its own, from the image, there is no way to tell this is a door, and if it was, I believe I would image in to be more like a tilt up garage door or large swing barn door, but I believe it was just a door... leading... inside, most likely

So, maybe I've forgotten...

what it was...

that at one time I knew.

After all...

in this wee little pinky...

with this wee little hand...


All I have forgotten.


A smear on the door.


So, perhaps...

suffice to say...

for me...

that way is barred forever.


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© copyright 2017 Brett Paufler

Fiction: the lot of it.
Not to be taken seriously.

If, indeed,
there is anything,
to be taken seriously.

Brett@Paufler.net