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  #6241  
Old Yesterday, 10:14 AM
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And Grace emerged from the fishmonger's bearing a fresh halibut wrapped in brown paper. "Hang on Flea", she said, releasing the fish with all the hurried rips and rustles of Christmas morning before testing its swing like a tennis racquet - and then using it to slap Flea's face resoundingly with that rapid left to right wrist movement of a billboard painter. A wicked grin now - offering no apology for metering out her violent slapstick reprimand. "Half your age", she said, hand on hip, "you've no business pinning the wings of youth in your trophy case", she told him with theatrical harshness, "false eyelashes don't sit well with false teeth on the nightstand". And Grace thought of David Bowie in 'The Hunger' - that sickening scene where he pulls the tiny dagger on a chain from his shirt-front and cuts the throat of the fresh-faced child playing her violin - sacrificing her youth just to delay a few years of his own accelerated vampire ageing. "No, don't think of it as ignoring each other then", Grace said, "but more testament to your mercy that you spared her" - the two of them stopping now to admire a Robin - shining, currant eyes fixed on them in fascination - almost tame in its tandem hops along the fence beside them - before taking flight to join its own kind in the treetops.

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Old Today, 03:37 AM
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The morning found Grace stupefied. Nature, in all her magnificent defiance, was throwing an artist's tantrum outside of her window...furiously erasing her green foliage with a turpentine-soaked rag until her canvas bled...and streaked...and mingled to an earthy brown smear. Leaves torn from the trees with all the rage of a lover packing a suitcase to leave - her russet-red fury whipped into leaf cyclones that spun and danced out her agitation. Hot, angry tears splattering the landscape now as her boots stomped their way across the sky - flashes of white rage pulsing along the raised vein at her temple - barging her way through the trees so they swung like saloon doors in her wake. And Grace could hear the poet's Welsh lilt in her head..."no time to turn at Beauty's glance, and watch her feet, how they can dance..." and her mind projected the scene from 'American Beauty'..the young man captivated as the plastic bag pirouetted its poignant solo against the chorus of Autumn leaves...Grace losing time as the sound of the wind in the trees rushed in and out like waves crashing on the shoreline..her mind switched off as she laid her head on her arm and gave in to a fundamental sentience that made her dissolve and find peace. "I see beauty too," she whispered.
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