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| Ohara Koson creative commons |
Cherry blossom scattered as the wind blew petals onto Natascha and the soft carpet under her feet. She was almost dancing from room to open room filled with yet more dusty, light pink Sakura. Turning the corner, the blossom disappeared as she stepped onto a blackened oak tree covered in soot. She looked back to the blossom, but she only saw gathering mist. Nothing lasts forever.
There was a damp in the air that could only be felt in big north western cities like London or Berlin. The steel factories pumped out steam into the already foggy air. An untuned piano accompanied an a German cabaret singer. Just in Natascha`s sight she saw a glass bell jar and inside, there was a slight, frail man and a round woman contorting to the atonal sound. The man with a wrinkled face and narrowed eyes, was wearing a faded red and white cravat. His suit was smart, yet so worn that the colour was as brown as a licorice root and smattered with barely visible holes. He was shorter than the woman who almost filled a third of the glass bell jar which her enormity. Her velvet dress was as faded as the medieval tapestries and finished at the hems with yellowing Victorian lace. As Natascha watched them dance inside their glass bell jar, she thought how they strangely, out of discord found harmony. These miniature figurines mesmerised her and the more they saw her drawn in, the more alive they became.
There was a damp in the air that could only be felt in big north western cities like London or Berlin. The steel factories pumped out steam into the already foggy air. An untuned piano accompanied an a German cabaret singer. Just in Natascha`s sight she saw a glass bell jar and inside, there was a slight, frail man and a round woman contorting to the atonal sound. The man with a wrinkled face and narrowed eyes, was wearing a faded red and white cravat. His suit was smart, yet so worn that the colour was as brown as a licorice root and smattered with barely visible holes. He was shorter than the woman who almost filled a third of the glass bell jar which her enormity. Her velvet dress was as faded as the medieval tapestries and finished at the hems with yellowing Victorian lace. As Natascha watched them dance inside their glass bell jar, she thought how they strangely, out of discord found harmony. These miniature figurines mesmerised her and the more they saw her drawn in, the more alive they became.
The grinding of the heavy machinery from the steel factory jolted her attention back up to the foggy smog bellowing pollution out into the already harmed atmosphere. A shrill whistle rang in her ears and a face with dark piercing eyes, yelled "Work! TIME!" Natascha looked over to the huge brass clock that began to tick so loud that it echoed in and through her very being, until she suddenly fell into a time chamber, shrinking as the the clock face grew bigger and yet the inner workings that she was now trapped within, were thousands of tiny miniature clockwork operations ticking incessantly away at her as she fell further into the depths of the time chamber desperately trying to hold onto one of the constantly moving arms. The tyranny of time, she thought, how would she ever escape this?
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| Daria Song (c) |
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