Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
On a clear,
Moonlit twelfth night,
The members’ knocker
Sounds upon the door
Of Nocturna.
Daniel Hargraves answers.
Standing before him
Is a tall woman
Of Scandinavian appearance.
She smiles.
Nods.
“Hello, Daniel.”
For just a moment,
The formidable doorman
Seems to forget
That he is formidable.
“Ah…
Ms Winterbloom.
Do come in.”
Hargraves beams.
Far more warmly
Than his customary
Professional greeting
Might ordinarily allow.
Just two days after
Returning to work
From vacation,
I’m already
Depressed.
Stressed.
Restless.
Hopeless.
I don’t believe
It’s all the job.
I think
It’s the knowing,
That once again,
I must dance
In this masquerade.
That I have to
Keep up the façade.
Smile.
Work.
Earn a living.
Pay the bills.
Pay for our home.
Keep everything
Moving.
Or die trying.
I no longer
Have the energy
To fight.
I’m strapped
To life’s conveyor belt,
Carried forward
Whether I wish
To go or not.
Like a lamb,
Quietly approaching
The slaughter.
When the moment
Feels right,
Allow life
To unfurl before you.
Life can be good,
If you give it
The chance to be.
Jasper Cricklebone
Is an infrequent visitor to Nocturna.
He has been a member
For longer than anyone
Cares to remember.
He visits the city rarely.
When he does,
He seeks the sanctuary
Of the club.
It is said that Jasper resides
In the nearby mountains,
In a crooked stone house
Somewhere above
The last reliable road,
Where the clouds come down
To knock upon his windows,
And crows gather
On his chimney pots
To exchange the morning news.
As I lay sleeping,
My mind winds back.
To people and faces forgotten,
Creating impossible moments,
With joyous,
Or confusing,
Outcomes.
Why am I shown
These images of deceit?
What purpose do they have,
Other to leave me,
Awake,
Wondering,
And melancholy.
As active members of the Curio Club,
The Crumb Sisters
Are no strangers
To Nocturna‘s private study rooms.
Situated
Upon the first floor,
Beyond the grand
Mahogany staircase,
The rooms are concealed
Behind doors that rarely appear
To be doors at all.
The entrance
To the Entomology Study Room
Is hidden behind an enormous,
Gilt-framed painting
Of Mother Nature,
Her serene figure surrounded
By a magnificent cloud
Of insects and butterflies.
As the evening rain settles in,
Inside the Nocturna Club,
It was warm and dry.
Open fires roar,
And lamps illuminate both
Members and ornaments alike,
With a golden glow.
Marcel Carreau loves such evenings,
When he can look out
Across the club knowing,
That everything as it should,
And all are content.
It was at this moment
That his meditation
was interrupted,
By the soft voice
of the Still-Room Attendant,
Mabel Cobble.
The elaborate golden calligraphy
Upon the glossy black business card
Read,
Horace Ashcombe
Apothecary and Collector
of Forgotten Remedies.
“Do you find it satisfactory?”
Malcolm Coldbottom
Enquired.
Horace smiled,
Turning the card
Slowly between his fingers,
Allowing the warm Nocturna lamplight
To dance
Across the embossed
Gold lettering.
“Magnificent, Malcolm.
Quite magnificent.”
At midnight,
Upon the twelfth night
Of December,
The old oak doors
Of Nocturna
Opened quietly,
And Belladonna Moreau
Stepped inside.
Few members
Ever addressed her
By her given name.
To everyone
She was simply,
“Ding Dong.”
I shall not slip,
I will not be pressured,
Or pushed,
Back into that blackened void
Where I was once lost.
However,
If I must go,
If there is simply no alternative,
I will carry a torch,
So that you may see me waving.