alchera #28 / option one

"the beginning and the end," but with a slightly different twist: write a story in which the first fifty and the last fifty words are the same.

maresca cavialli.

darkness. an inconceivable silence. the agglomeration of gentle, swirling hues. corroded edges that seem to sublime away, one image to the next. a soft gurgle pouring forth into a gush of crimson. the rhythm of one's fist against the ground. a sudden clarity of mind that seems so strangely familiar.

ward 42, bed 14, san raffaele hospital. 1923. maresco cavialli is born to a public health officer and a piano teacher, moments after the elderly gent in the adjacent bed takes his last breath.

summer of 1942. maresco cavialli sustains head injuries when an artillery shall explodes several feet away from him. he remains unconcious for a week and several days later, against his wishes, he is redeployed as an inspector at an ammunition dump in sicily.

november 12th 1948. maresco cavialli marries the first-cousin of his long-time sweetheart.

1992. paula cavialli perishes in an aeroplane crash. maresca's three daughters never hear him speak again.

1996. five minutes from now, an aneurysm will rupture within maresco cavialli's skull and he will die of severe cerebral hemorrhaging. he is standing by his grandson's cot, admiring the iridescent mobile suspended over it.

a sudden clarity of mind that seems so strangely familiar. the rhythm of one's fist against the ground. a soft gurgle pouring forth into a gush of crimson. corroded edges that seem to sublime away, one image to the next. the agglomeration of gentle, swirling hues. an inconceivable silence. darkness.