The Final Chapter.

[MANICHAEAN]

Perhaps today was the last hurrah of an Indian Summer?

The rear patio sliding doors were open and a light caressing breeze imperceptible moved the drapes. The birds had been fed and the plants watered; whilst in the firmament above a few drawn out cirrus permeated what was a clear, sunny blue sky. One of Beethoven's less strident numbers played in the background and two Jack Daniels with coke had been appreciatively imbibed.

So this was retirement? Port after stormy seas in many lands.

Any hurt, deception or betrayal no longer existed. It had been purged from his makeup years ago. The essentials of existence, ( hopefully in a comforting state) were now the only criteria and mantra for whatever time was left.

I forget which author it was who said that whenever a story seemed to flag, introduce a line somewhat akin, "Then into the room entered a man holding a gun!!" Great when you have an ability to devise, where the hell is this story going? But not on this juncture, or this occasion.

[Danik 2016]

What about "Then into the room entered a man bearing a delicious Indian dinner for two"

[tailor STATELY]

Anton Chekhov.

A final chapter from a book full of experiences... contentment well earned. :)

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor[/b][/font]

[MANICHAEAN]

I can sense you now have the inspiration for a new best seller Danik. ��

[Danik 2016]

I wonder if you are going on with the story or if it's finished.

[MANICHAEAN]

D'ont tempt me !!!! My curry takeaway has just arrived.

[MANICHAEAN]

D'ont tempt me !!!! My curry takeaway has just arrived.

[Danik 2016]

rofl:.....

[MANICHAEAN]

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Women's eyes were delicately lowered and remained hooded; almost as an adverse reflex for displaying interest or emotion. The leashed bird of prey on the falconers raised arm awaiting both the command and the release.Slender ivory fingers cool to the touch, the fragile whiteness of an Oriental profile, the desirable but gently unobtainable East.
"One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day,
And like a hawk from coven sprung,
She stole my heart away."

[MANICHAEAN]

Oh dear. Gremlins.

[MANICHAEAN]

Was it really the Final Chapter?

Wednesday night was rough when he awoke. He could not put his finger on it exactly, just deep unease.

He pulled the sheets, damp from sustained sweating tighter around his upper torso. Minutes later and rolling over to the other side of the bed, the crisp freshness of linen unslept in, gave a temporary reprise. The window overlooking the rear yard of the hotel was open and a Rome predawn awakening was as yet some hours off.

Outside in the Via Guilia one of the less fortunate bedded down on the cold uncompromising steps of the adjacent Santa Maria del Suffragio.

The Christ was inside behind heavy metal studded doors, whilst humanity lay by the front door.

A feline passed on its regular nocturnal hunt, giving but a cursory glance, through unfeeling eyes at mortal existence.

Inside and located on the first floor of the Indigo Hotel, the occupant was still uneasy. Words inside his head became sentences, then were adapted. All the strings of the last few days were being remorselessly drawn into thoughts that would not succumb to sleep; the purity of being alone in Rome among crowds, solitary in thought; devotions in church side chapels, unable to communicate coherently to those encountered.

The story he so wanted, the journey he so wrestled for was there, suffused like cold travertine frescoes, incapable of articulation.

Perchance to revive an experience, beyond the barren plateau of the intangible.

The initial objective had been to offer prayers for three girls he knew with cancer symptoms. If all roads lead to Rome; per se, benediction and cure a possibility?

But as he had progressed for three days, from church to church sustaining supplications on the behalf of others, he became increasingly aware of his own frailty in this final stage of existence.

Transient glimpses of a dehumanised crucified Christ in side alters evoked deep wells of emotion. Then, at the church of St Maria del Popolo, the works of Raphael, Cacaravaggio, Carracci, Pinturicchio & Bernini broke the seal of his self control; and his initial aims, became but minor tributaries of an internal river he had until now been unaware of.

Light rain besmirched the dust on building facades into tear shaped streaks; whilst dark cobblestones in narrow thoroughfares exuded a reflective shine of the moons' intermittent break through grey dull clouds.

Two streets along, from the west of where he lay, the Tiber gently flowed in its centuries old path, to meet its fulfilling and unalterable embrace with the sea.

[Danik 2016]

Sad but so poetic, Mani!

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks my friend. I'm thinking of using "The Final Chapter" as a kind of evolving patchwork of writing, as the real final chapter will inevitably be composing whilst receiving the last rites !! Haha.

[tailor STATELY]

Enjoyed #9 & #11 especially: "A feline passed on its regular nocturnal hunt, giving but a cursory glance, through unfeeling eyes at mortal existence." Rome seems such an anachronism, perhaps a museum interrupted by daily life.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor

[MANICHAEAN]

"Rome seems such an anachronism, perhaps a museum interrupted by daily life."

Perchance tailor STATELY the other way around.

Rome, for those who do not live there, the surroundings impose themselves quite strongly. But for the native inhabitants, that Italian exuberance always seems to shine through.

In England for the last few days we awake to damp fogs and no breeze. I wonder on the mood of those Roman soldiers that were stationed here so long ago, away from the initial sunshine of their childhoods in Italy.

[Danik 2016]

I never went to Rome, but in photos and movies the city looks impressive.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter Whatever. THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR.

First thing Monday morning he was down at the local funeral parlour. The warm sunshine seemed at odds with his intentions of arranging plans for after his demise.

He entered the establishment, albeit with the aid of his stick. The receptionist was still setting up her computer.

"I've come to arrange my funeral " he told her. Strange thing to say, perhaps used only once in a lifetime, unless you believe in reincarnation.

She smiled in a mournful manner. Perhaps the expression went with the job?

" I will get the Manager, Mr Curruther's for you sir. Please take a seat."

The said gentleman appeared from the office at the rear and after formal introductory courtesies ushered me in.

Tall, sallow skin, black suit, black tie,black shoes and a white shirt with what appeared to be an uncomfortable starched collar. Sombre, respectful in demeanour, about fifty, with long jowls and apparent dentures.

I thought to myself, " I bet he's a real bundle of laughs on his night out."

Suitably seated in an office painted in neutral colours, he proceeded his spiel on funeral services offered; mainly burials. I humoured him, for as explained earlier, that was the last thing I wanted.

He waxed on about how their funerals were environmentally friendly. I could not help but reflect on how George Bernard Shaw on the occasion of Queen Victoria's funeral had written a letter to "The Times" newspaper recommending a cardboard degradable coffin, lowered into a suitable hole and covered with quicklime.

"What do you have in mind sir?" he asked eventually.

"Well I suppose a State Funeral is out of the question?" I retorted

"No sir," ( still remarkably under control), " but I am sure we can arrange something a little less extravagant. Though of course there is the question of cost."

I'm afraid the devil in me kicked in.

"Money is not a problem." Was that a gleam in his eye I discerned?

" I was thinking of six black plumed horses drawing a coffin with my remains and led by a chief mourner in a black top hat proceeding from Hertfordshire to London where I was born. Subject to traffic, it would pass many memories of where I grew up: West Ham Football Club, the Hand and Flower pub in Hammersmith, then eventually down the Mall to Westminster Abbey where I want to be buried next to Nelson."

His brow wrinkled perceptably and I thought "I've beaten the bugger."

Perhaps he thought I was a lunatic or had been drinking.

[Danik 2016]

Best piece of black comedy I've read in days. "Six black plumeted horses..."

[tailor STATELY]

Lol... your protagonist has a mean streak in him :)

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor