A letter arrived; condolences announcing the death of a relative I didn’t know I had, but she (it seems) knew about me, her heir.
In her ancient house, the stale air assaults my senses. Within the only furnished room, a chandelier hangs over a vintage desk. Dust gathers around each glass bauble. Once glittery, it hangs abandoned to spiders in a house left locked down. The desk is littered with half-burned candles, scattered herbs, crystals, oracles, and tarot cards in a spread: the High Priestess, the Ten of Pentacles.
I wrote this post in response to Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt. Eighty-nine words using the word chandelier.
Brewing Coffee, Twisting Words & Breaking Pencils 