I know of a man, who keeps a tub of corks upon his dresser. This man collects these corks from the various places in the earth from which he has had a drink.
The corks are a treasure trove to him, a memory of better times. A hope for the future, thiss tub of corks represent something meaning ful to him, something alive, as he smiles behind eyes that have known too much pain, he dreams of Paris.
Slipping between the cracks of reality and fiction, occasionally, a cork will have a story inside it, from which he pulls a little scroll and then a faerie from her perch upon the corner dresser, and lets her recite it in dark, forgotten tongues that when hit the ear resound in the soul, causing a sudden shudder as like when an unexpected thunderclap sounds nearby.
Pulling a cork from that tub on this particular day, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a contraption of spectacles and a small microphone. He thusly surrendered the microphone and scroll to a passing dream, and asked her presence in reciting aloud an old tale of drunken revelry.
Slowly i began to feel electric current in the air around my fingers and fresh grass seemed to grow underneath my feet as i heard the tale, the room grew dark, the room dampened with the smell of sea side love on Eire’s shores.
Falling stones cascaded their sounds in my ears as the dream read aloud this tale from within the bottle’s cork. It seems that many people hide their secrets in forgotten bottles of once good drink. The tub is not now full nor ever has it been, but whenever a new one is added, there comes with it a new story, another tale of love or longing, a party or the impasse of loneliness.
Tonight, as the passing dream has granted us her presence she conjures up memories, and in doing so sends a bitter chill down my spine, the liqueur cabinet seeming haunted in her presence. She reminds us of sailor’s deaths and the sinking feeling returns to the pit of my stomach. She shines like light, but fills the room softly, as a mist.
She grabs a pair of scissors with her wispy hands and dashes them against a mirror, pleading with the scroll within her hands, but she must read on. The broken mirror falls to the floor and a wine cork rolls from the dresser to greet it in its newly made grave upon the floor. A story rolls from it and touches the broken mirror.
My hand is full of sand in her presence as she continues her tale, and the mirror pools together upon the floor, liquid and restored, it touches the place it once rested, returning to its original shape at the beck and call of a siren who passing near the window, wept at the tale being read in our study. At her tears the mirror began to mend itself into the form it once had, and sitting here once again restored, we find lies in the reflection, as sinking ships come into view and we watch sailors going down.
The siren sang to the dreamer’s recitation, and shifting sands began to fall from these weary tired hands, that upon entering the world of the man who collects the corks, dreams of no opera, forever more.