(First line provided by Dylan)
The Stenham house was an ancient locked thing and nothing returned there except for crows.
Crows of winter; black gainst whitescape of snow. Blowing loneliness on wings of storms.
Wraiths waft at eyeless windows; whispering stillness.
House alone stands on firmament; or illusion as sinks in on self; broken ribs of roof and rafters.
Falling, cracking, fissuring . . .
I picked up piece of paper flapping across warped wooden floor boards as wintering winds pushed open half-hung door.
“Strange prosetry,” I thought, tucking scrap into pocket. Stranger still, nary a Stenham inhabited this space; only Ushers ever lived here.
For mlmm First Line Friday # 26.05.17
Dylan’s opening sentence reminded me of the work of two artists from Atlantic Canada: Alex Colville (Nova Scotia) and Christopher Pratt (Newfoundland and Labrador). I hope you enjoy the slideshow.