Ayeen by Gary Boyd — American Fantastic

Ayeen is bred, resting canted head, against the polished leather of a button tufted chair. Bow and brace, ceremoniously placed, posing for some transient vignette. She grasps the figurehead lying prone upon the chair, embracing firmly the progenitor of a supine pilgrim. She takes frantic glances between pursed lips and barred eyes. Fissures fixate on a gemstone adorning a bust upon the mantle in the mirror, crystal clear, enduringly committed to a kaolin medium. Cimmerian locks have been keyed, the ivory skin freed of bondage to lavish accoutrement. Scattered on the floor are the remains of the day. With eyes sealed, she feels the heat eminating from a nearby register, ducts connecting that source of mild warmth to a furnace fuming below. With agitated perspective she glimpses an elongated Jacquard tapestry hung on a far wall, then focuses on an old world globe resting upon the plush Oriental rug. The mahogany frame enshrines the stained and timeworn plaster of warm muted colors, enveloping the crystal sphere. Again sealed, a new world forms within, a microcosm conceived of her own internal alchemy. The furnace fuming below dispatched by an open window. The freshest buds of flowers cut make their way to antique China vases.

Ayeen is wed, resting canted head, against the polished leather of a button tufted chair. Bow and brace, ceremoniously placed, posing for some transient vignette. Sweat beads upon his furrowed brow. The windows stand wide with no breeze, no eddy, no gust of wind to portend. His eyelids flicker allowing an obfuscated glimpse of a familiar milieu, a brume enshrouding a sparse awareness of torch and tinct. The veil lifts in the precarious clarity of Ayeen's nuptials. The gilded ceiling gives way to ornately carved arabesque molding. Golden ivy embossed wallpaper creeps down the walls behind the tenebrous mahogany of the baseboards. The Oriental rug circumscribes the furniture of the parlor in a fine burgundy with cream underfoot. A fringe of gray woolen fingers reach extra-territorially towards the convergence of stage and screen. Through the grandiose egress Ayeen sees the marble floor stained with impurities. resting at the foot of the crimson spiral staircase. The banister's polished brass end caps glean the light emanating from the imposing crystal tear drop chandelier. The brilliance reflects into the dimly lit parlour causing shadows to retreat and dusty corners to come into focus.

Ayeen is read, resting canted head, against the polished leather of a button tufted chair. Bow and brace, ceremoniously placed, posing for some transient vignette. Portholes are now closed to sweltering moments gone, the vignette resides upon a shelf in the parlor library. On a shelf below, dry flowers crumble in an antique China vase. The bookcase masquerades as a wall, seam to seam, board to beam. Roman pillars snake between each segment, the crown and foot each unique in design. There are volumes of antiquity adjoining contemporary masterpieces all covered in a thick layer of dust. Works of madness face quixotic quarantine of fire and brimstone, but once read are never forgotten. Save the withered remains of the excommunicated, the leaves of all remain in alabaster, their husks lustering in the autumnal splendor of reds and browns bound. Every word, on every page, of every book, on every shelf, a knowledge of wealth, read, or taken as such in anycase.

Ayeen is dead, resting canted head, against the polished leather of a button tufted chair. Bow and brace, ceremoniously placed, posing for some transient vignette. Through the window he spots the carriage of a suitor, who was spoken of by a Delphic spinster. Ayeen spotted her sending messages down from her window, her anachronistic melodies to be carried on, only long after her flesh had gone. The heavy knocker hits the door, resounding through the house in haunting echoes. The petite and hurried footsteps of a servant girl rush to greet the house guest. The door is opened. It is after he hears the thud that Ayeen bars the door to his parlor. The scraping of a cane upon the marble floor of the vestibule causes him much consternation. A slight tapping at the door, gentle and patient. There is no longer anyone to tend the furnace and the snow piles up blocking the light from the window. Ayeen opens the door and sees the gentleman waiting. The waxen figure of Ayeen now rests, his feet upon a tufted ottoman, an afterthought less faded than the chair itself. The chair converted into his bed and final resting place. A lifetime lived upon a button tufted chair, and it has taken a lifetime to know this parlor.