❅Snowglobe
The globe that belongs to Will Graham shimmers not with snowflakes but with golden grains of swirling sand. They part like the tides wafting images in and out. If one held it close enough in the palm of one's hand, even the warmth of the Florida keys could be felt as the vibrant landscapes forged out of a sea of turquoise blue. Before his world went up in shards of glass and fiery flames, this ideal vacation spot was where he called home. These days it was merely an evanescent dream, one he often wondered was even real at all.
The visions swoop down into the globe, as if on the very wings of the Great White Heron that inhabits the Sugarloaf Keys. The slivers of land amongst the crystal clear ocean are in the dozens, but what connects the much larger pieces is a strip of stone and concrete, the Overseas Highway. Few cars dot the bridge, suggesting tourism is off season.
A shake of the sand opens up to deeper waters where a sailboat splits the waves, driven by a classic family of three.
Following the little dingy leads to white sandy shores of Lower Sugarloaf Key, where a pack of unfortunate-looking hounds play in the surt, while a young boy wards them off from the hatchlings of seemingly myriads and myriads of Ripley sea turtles.
Another shake opens up to a long dock that leads to the back of a white two-story beach-house. Palms shroud it from every angle giving it a natural cool haven from the bronzing heat of the sun. An old second hand VW is parked out front along with a beat-up GMC pick-up truck. The chipping paint of the house seems freshly painted over without much luck in beating the salty air, but the effort seems satisfying enough.
A boat, in what seems in constant maintenance, is docked inland and sits near the shoreline. Tools are set out on a picnic table next to a glass of lemon-aid that's been long abandoned. Beyond the sweat of the glass in the backdrop is the end of the dock where a young woman and boy are fishing. Neither seem to have a care in the world.
With one more shake the glittering granules darken like the black volcanic sands off Hawaii. The blazing sun sets and the little world held in the palm of one's hand grows dark. No amount of shaking makes the light return. The little house seems divided and its content barren of all warmth.
The sand does not return, but in its stead is what one would gather is appropriate for a snow-globe. Snow. Sleet, wet, unforgiving snow. Out of the bay-side chill of Maryland the image passes through the door of an exquisite terraced townhouse. A stark contrast to the weathered beach-house, this elegant home features baroque and Edwardian furnishings with cherry-wood flooring.
It's a sin to see but a flash of two faceless men staining the glossy finish with blood.
Fractures appear all over the inside of the globe, splintering from the middle and spidering their way outward. The image appears to shatter, but the sphere itself does not break. A hospital for the criminally insane appears and deep within it's loathsome bowels is a dungeon where a lone chair awaits to be sat in, to greet whatever man-eating beast sleeps inside.
But a nudge or tremble of the hands causes a flash of white, revealing a room of a young couple whose walls are screaming with scarlet splatters clawed this-way and that. Every mirror within that very room is cracked beyond salvage.
The shards of glass start to glow by the light of fire and brimstone so scalding hot it blasts the glass apart in a hellborne explosion. If one blinked, they might have missed the figure of what was sworn to be a Great Red Dragon billowing its daunting wings amongst the engulfing flames.
The bright embers trickle down as the snow once did, filling the visage with broken mirrors and blood. A smoke-shrouded figment of a bleeding body, fades into the darkness.
The visions swoop down into the globe, as if on the very wings of the Great White Heron that inhabits the Sugarloaf Keys. The slivers of land amongst the crystal clear ocean are in the dozens, but what connects the much larger pieces is a strip of stone and concrete, the Overseas Highway. Few cars dot the bridge, suggesting tourism is off season.
A shake of the sand opens up to deeper waters where a sailboat splits the waves, driven by a classic family of three.
Following the little dingy leads to white sandy shores of Lower Sugarloaf Key, where a pack of unfortunate-looking hounds play in the surt, while a young boy wards them off from the hatchlings of seemingly myriads and myriads of Ripley sea turtles.
Another shake opens up to a long dock that leads to the back of a white two-story beach-house. Palms shroud it from every angle giving it a natural cool haven from the bronzing heat of the sun. An old second hand VW is parked out front along with a beat-up GMC pick-up truck. The chipping paint of the house seems freshly painted over without much luck in beating the salty air, but the effort seems satisfying enough.
A boat, in what seems in constant maintenance, is docked inland and sits near the shoreline. Tools are set out on a picnic table next to a glass of lemon-aid that's been long abandoned. Beyond the sweat of the glass in the backdrop is the end of the dock where a young woman and boy are fishing. Neither seem to have a care in the world.
With one more shake the glittering granules darken like the black volcanic sands off Hawaii. The blazing sun sets and the little world held in the palm of one's hand grows dark. No amount of shaking makes the light return. The little house seems divided and its content barren of all warmth.
The sand does not return, but in its stead is what one would gather is appropriate for a snow-globe. Snow. Sleet, wet, unforgiving snow. Out of the bay-side chill of Maryland the image passes through the door of an exquisite terraced townhouse. A stark contrast to the weathered beach-house, this elegant home features baroque and Edwardian furnishings with cherry-wood flooring.
It's a sin to see but a flash of two faceless men staining the glossy finish with blood.
Fractures appear all over the inside of the globe, splintering from the middle and spidering their way outward. The image appears to shatter, but the sphere itself does not break. A hospital for the criminally insane appears and deep within it's loathsome bowels is a dungeon where a lone chair awaits to be sat in, to greet whatever man-eating beast sleeps inside.
But a nudge or tremble of the hands causes a flash of white, revealing a room of a young couple whose walls are screaming with scarlet splatters clawed this-way and that. Every mirror within that very room is cracked beyond salvage.
The shards of glass start to glow by the light of fire and brimstone so scalding hot it blasts the glass apart in a hellborne explosion. If one blinked, they might have missed the figure of what was sworn to be a Great Red Dragon billowing its daunting wings amongst the engulfing flames.
The bright embers trickle down as the snow once did, filling the visage with broken mirrors and blood. A smoke-shrouded figment of a bleeding body, fades into the darkness.