Cretaceous plants spindle their spines through the cornmeal carpet like blind sea stars searching, groping at the mismatched sofas and the tired eleven-year-old girl in the drawing-room, seeking the keys of the piano that roll downstairs like a child’s ball into the street below as windows break to let in the platinum lion, roaring with extraterrestrial fire that licks Janey’s flowered dress in curling-iron patterns. The ceiling is a treasure map fragmented within the glass of a kaleidoscope, where baby angels chant bubonic lullabies while swirling as a single snowflake suspended in the sky, sprinkling powdered sugar on the spiders that creep beneath the coffee table where the artificial roses sit cross-legged, polite while suffocating. There is a sound like the mermaid trapped within the piano has discovered a lyre among the ribs of her dismembered lover and is stroking it, mistaking it perhaps for a cat with its purring and the flash of emerald talons that has escaped from beneath the bathtub. The candles are drowning in midnight tiredness, that numberless hour when the darkness ripples mirthlessly and falls like satin upon the drawing-room, bathing Janey in what are called dreams, but seem to her more like rain from other clouds.
Image credits in order of appearance:
By Daderot (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons
“Rolling-thunder-cloud” by Photo by John Kerstholt.original upload by Solitude – From English Wikipedia. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rolling-thunder-cloud.jpg#/media/File:Rolling-thunder-cloud.jpg