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Favourite 3 Writers:

Rose Tremain, Angela Carter, William Trevor







Notes Entries 100 Books

18:47, 6 Jan 2015
It crawled from some pit, slithering across the room, an old discarded beauty, now without arms, it's torso lumped noisily on the floorboards. Why have I been left here, without colour, with an absence of light? Why have they left me, driven me away and left me to die in this place?

Pleasure attained, was my modus operandi, my way of life. To lie on a grecian daybed, with some beauty brushing my hair, until the copper strands shone like burnished metal. Fed on pommegantes, moist figs and spoon-fed fattened duck's livers with soufflé-light mascarpone filled eclairs, sugary-light, like the lemony wintry sun that streamed through the window.

The child had been born soon after. She was a beauty. Holding her close, I could smell her newness, her skin smelled of blackberries and buttermilk, like late Summer and I loved her.

All I remember before this - is a disintegration into colour, I disintegrated, everything melted, my own matter and substance stayed with me, but everything melted under my touch. Objects slid from my grasp and dissolved into the air, colours ran amok, and with shivery hiss, adder-like, slid though the tiny gaps in the floor.

There is a memory flash - he sits at the table, legs crossed, holding a manuscript. He is crumpled looking with a top hat wedged firmly unto his ears. Long hands with a bejewelled finger, a cut garnet, which glitters when he turns each page. What did he want? She felt unwell.

If she could hold this coal long enough, clamp it between both hands, feel its intractable hardness press into the cups of her palms, could she with an alchemical thought turn it into diamonds. Shower her child with the glittering hard rain of diamonds, fill their shared boudoir with pure carbon, pure love, maybe then they could both live.

The days were long now and all the nights were filled with horrors, great gaping maws of dread. Smells of death filled her and she faded to a crystalline shade. Sparse. Her hair hung in limp hanks from her little skull and her hands folded over the blanket which held the perfect little skeleton of her dead love. She sang. 'Shush my baby, don't you cry, papa is gonna buy you a diamond ring'.

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