In the courtroom, Maria received that fateful call, a peculiar interruption during her tranquil retreat to a countryside inn. The caller, a mad scientist of sorts, inquired about medication and embarked on an eccentric discourse. “Don’t attempt to infuse my closet with vinegar; it won’t enhance its aroma,” he warned cryptically. In the festive seasons, Mother would return, armed with her litany, awakening the children to virtuous deeds. Accompanying her was a man with a newly shaved beard, their connection shrouded in mystery, perhaps an old impulse to defy a self once laden with past humiliations.
During my college days, I longed for the return of my belongings – bags, pants, pashminas, coats, and French dresses – relics of Parisian mornings with my former lover, distinct from your father, dear. Memories intertwined with copying a book from the illustrious JW, strolling along Champs-Élysées. There, I encountered the enigmatic G.S., tall and graceful, draped in a trench coat and a flamboyant scarf, outwardly minimalistically masculine yet inherently feminine. Beside her were bearded men, a lady of pristine values who whispered, and a man associated with the Shakespearean company, accompanied by an aide laden with clothes, toiletries, clowns’ footwear, and hidden treats in cotton garments.
As a bird alighted on the leader’s shoulder, an astonishing tale unfolded, evoking a mischievous smile. The day unfolded into madness, following rituals that amounted to nothing, entrenched in beliefs with no tangible action. In the end, their pursuits for fame within their band left them despondent, drowning in negative conversations that either fueled their inspiration on cold nights or underscored their existence in peculiar ways.
-(From a Work of Fiction in progress )
-(Maria’s story, to be continued)
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