Timeless

The Masked Ball was being held on the outskirts of the quaint island town of Burano, modestly known as the miniature Venice and for its fine needle lacemaking.

The Ball, was being held in an undisclosed location — a few select were invited. Why and how they were chosen?, was not understood by the locals, they weren’t the cream of high society, in fact, they barely skimmed the pond. What they, the invited, did have in common was the charm that sweltered beneath the ambiance of the blushing sun, percolating — the sun, failed in the comparison. Their charm oozed, from their core, their tendrilled aroma as that of a myst, banked the mysterious twin-flames that was secretly cloaked in their eyes.

The elderly ladies, of the town gathered many a long day in the town-square — by the fountain of some mythological thought — its soul in ruin, there they perched on the edge of tomorrow, where they worked their fine needles, creating such delicate works of art, that rivaled the gossamer silk spun on the looms of the eternal weavers, the arachnids.

Ravenna, to young in years as opposed to the other ladies, had been taught the art of lacemaking, well no one really knows by whom, she either doesn’t remember (for her unknown reason), or she just refuses to reply when asked (the latter most likely, in my estimation).

Ravenna, lowers her lashes over the incandescent locks of flint, sparking to life, floating on the horizon in the lividus abyss of her eyes. Her fingers nimbly fancying her needle, forming loops upon loops of circling strands, the beginnings of a creation, progression of time immemorial — a mask. The mask was commissioned for a young lady of unknown origin, to be worn on the night of the masquerade. Ravenna, knew not the young lady’s name nor where she had appeared from suddenly. She asked, no questions, she knew instinctively not to, the lady not revealing much except explicit instructions of the masks design and where and when it should be delivered — Shrove Tuesday, seven weeks before the beginning’s of Lent.

The other weavers fawned over Ravenna’s expertise, there was something mystically magical about this particular creation, above any of other she created — on long forgotten day’s, delightfully so, she could never remember her previous creations…

Ravenna, clutching her creation, held close to her bosom protectively, made her way through paths unknown to her, through the cobblestones framed by latticework homes, intricatley painted in jeweled tones, sunbaked into treasures as of the mystic sea. Burano their setting, the azure sea their display.

Ravenna, broke through the barriers of time and life, that were held still in the clutches of Carnevale di Venezia. Only during Carnevale was everything and anything permitted, even time took a break from the ever rigorous turning of its meticulous dials.

Ravenna, halts before the melanaze facade of a home, strange she thought, it appeared harsh, almost black against the backdrop of the other homes that stood in a row upon the lane, the home she was instructed to deliver the mask to. She gazes upwards taking in her surrounding, the pulsating umbra of the home, a wispy sheer, aged by the sun flutters on the breeze carried inland from the sea, veiling the shadow of a smile, imperfect in its perfection.

Ravenna, knocks tentatively on door with the heraldry emblazoned doorknob, pushing open the ancient door, she enters…

The Masquerade, held secretly out in the open, began to receive its guests, they dotted the dew mysted landscape of the garden’s in pairs and pieces of a larger picture.

A young lady glides her way on to the receiving line, all those attending stop in whatever it is they were about, bedazzled they stare rudely in awe, she wears nothing, not a stitch or two — upon her nakedness, but a gossamer webbed mask — ethereal she is cloaked by a fleeting aroma — the guests rush in, as fools are wont to do, their charming manners gleaning in the art of deception —they try to bottle her aroma, with theft, imprinting it onto their olfactory nares, the attribute’s of memory.

As they sniff about her, the flints in her eyes, behind the mask blaze, into twin-flames, illusive.

No one, knew who taught her to wear the scent, either she doesn’t remember for her unknown reasons or she just doesn’t reply when asked (I believe it’s the former, it’s my estimation, of course).

She lowers her fluttering lashes over the illusive lividus flames in her eyes, spreading their mystique, lethargically, beneath the hidden veil of the paradox of expression, she laces and graces the guests with her intangible weaved aroma.

To the masked ball she wore undisguised, seduction as her substance, the scent of a woman — Le cœur d’une femme— she is timeless.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. Jan 27, 2020. All Rights Reserved.