Matthew Newton

What the Message was: (part twelve), by Matthew l Newton

From a distance, if you stood just to the right of the second street mailbox staring down the long faded light of Harpers Trench, just below a short old lamp post that perhaps at one time housed a gas lantern you could see the top of what looked like a doorway; well lit yet hidden enough from a curve in the road as not to be so noticable from anywhere else.
As doorways go this one was not much to beyold. Yet as doorways go, this particular one, hinged by golden straps of bright metal, well worn and welcoming; formed from one long peice of wood with swirls of age like the marbling of a fat porter house steak. There on its top, near the cracks seeping into the warmth behind it sunk deep cuts, an old assult perhaps, harbinger of an enemy wishing to enter the mission within. The mission was in.

One such counter, the sign above the door, one that spoke of semmetry, of sympathetic sophmors that soke up sweet companionship for a pick, for a pic, for the prick. From there they hung a message and from there the message read:

“You who come upon this stoop, you who come to hear; You must bend the whistled summons by a thread of fear.”

And continued at the bar:

“You the fellowed storied few, the favors of them all fortuned, to gift, to graff, to grip, to simmer; Come by the water, come near the Winter.”

And again on the stones beneath your feet as you enter:

“Come in though be weary, fraid if you touch, the soul has no longing to stay here too much.”

It was here, in this place by the pier that led a sound to me like summer heat. I coyed and coiled and crawled my way to its porch by my pounding feet. I was like the water they spoke of, slipping along the surfaces of an abandoned street. Here I sat and stared at the door, knocking there twice, yet never once more.

Matthew Newton
DOC #81868

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