Once again Wallie the Imp and I have made a desperate plunge. We have attempted, not for the first time, to complete a “story” in two hundred words, give or take ten, for last week’s “Flash! Friday” prompt. The requisite location is theatre and the photo prompt is a nineteenth-century daguerrotype. And of course, my Imp of the Perverse was immediately set to write something (anything) relating to Edgar Allan Poe’s own affection for and relation to, theatre. His mother, Elizabeth Poe, was an actress of remarkable ability (his father’s talent is occasionally disputed), and it is little wonder that in his own early years he expressed an interest in his parents’ profession.
It’s one of those days. A phone call (or none). A letter. A cloud over the tree. Wallie the Imp and I are not our usual cheerful selves. And as usual, when no spoken word can work out the knots in a melancholy mood, the written word sometimes comes through just right. It’s time for contemplation, an apocalypse, a woman not of this world and a man who very much is. It’s time for a little low music.
Happy Easter from Wallie’s Wentletrap! It being Easter, Wallie, my Friend, and I have been mulling much over the spiritual nature of this odd old world we live in. And since we can’t seem to avoid mixing a little strangeness into our philosophizing, I’ll share with you the result of a preoccupation with Christianity, sci-fi, and a fascinating course in modern literature.