Losing her tasted of licorice. The same sickly taste of anise and madness that spilled from an absinthe bottle. After she disappeared, my glass of absinthe was spiced with regret and my reflection, incoherently sobbing.
Now I paint grief; all my canvases are licorice black. She loved it so, the paper bags of sweets I gave her when she sat for me.
This morning, the gendarme fished her from the Seine. Her handbag was heavy with licorice sticks like bloated black worms. Among the tangled mess, a note for me. It read only: Your love burned too hot to bear.
Last Edit: May 31, 2021 11:31:19 GMT -6 by RAVENEYE
I whistled while walking among the bones and skeletal remains of Ashcroft, tossing the empty bag of black licorice on the ground, the wind turned it into a plastic tumble weed. A racecourse sign for the dog sled races was partially covered in sand and some broken glass. I swear I heard faint cheering. Few buildings remained standing. Fortunately, my inheritance was in great shape. I opened the Gyst Associates lock, then the door and cast my eyes around the foyer, its opulence and craftsmanship awed me. A chandelier still hanging. The signs of weather and time had their sway.
Last Edit: May 31, 2021 20:57:22 GMT -6 by pelwrath: corrected spelling of prompt word