Spirit of the Rose

Silent, sad-eyed cobwebs sway in slow, spiralling waves, shrouding a secret buried away since the beginning of time. An eerie stillness fills the musty room. A stillness that seems to have hidden itself away in this room centuries ago.

A candle flickers, an almost invisible wisp of smoke curls up. The silent swaying cobwebs throw hazy shadows on a box placed on a table in the room. The box is opened and slender fingers pick out a red rose lying inside. The thorns on the rose prick the finger and blood drips off onto a few silver coins lying inside the box. It’s as if a spirit lying inside the box is clinging onto the thorn and the rose.

The sound of a single, solitary guitar string, breaks the silence. An unseen soul seems to have found an ancient guitar. The strumming seems to chase invisible dancers around the dead dance floor. A restless spirit seems to float by, skimming the ripples that hover at the edges of my mind.

Without warning, the ripple rips outwards, blowing away the cobwebs, shattering the glass in the room, surging onward in a great majestic wave. A red ribbon is yanked open; thick, gypsy curls tumble free and cascade down, red heels tap out a wild rhythm to the accompanying castanets that seem to have gone berserk. The spirit sweeps across the floor, a swirling whirlwind spiralling around the grand hall. The stillness is now shattered wiping out the years of silence. The room is filled with the frenzied strumming and the urgent clacking of the red heels.

And then as suddenly as it had begun, the sounds disappear. The silence and the stillness settle in once again, the night shifts over my boots, the gypsy curls and the red heels fade to black.