14 SHADES OF GRAY
SLIP SHADE CHANDELIER. SLIP SHADE
Slip shade chandelier. Fast shutter speed photo
Slip Shade Chandelier
Vilma lays in bed and looks at the clock that stopped some years ago. 5:42. She cannot recall if it stopped in the morning or the evening. It has been the same time for two years. She swears that today she will remember to take the clock to the repairman Daniel Bau. The shades are drawn, but sunlight brilliantly glows around the corners of the windows. Vilma hears some of her guests rummaging around in the kitchen. She dresses, ties her favorite scarf about her neck, and emerges from the bedroom. She sees two Dutchmen standing on the kitchen table. One is trying to capture a rat trapped in the chandelier. The other is cautiously holding the frame of the first man. Another guest, Hermann, exits the bathroom, sees the Dutchmen and bellows, “Get your filthy feet off the table! I am about to take my toast.” Vilma slips into the bathroom. Being on the western side of the building, the light in the bathroom is a cool blue. It feels more like dusk than dawn she thinks. The window is cracked open ten centimeters, as it always is. Somehow this small gray room remains chilly, even in summer. Two cats are fighting in the courtyard below. In the bathroom upstairs, Charles is tending to a sick fern, making tsk tsk noises with his tongue.
Assam in the Maze
Assam waited with his back against the door, giving his eyes time to adjust. After so long walking through the dim passages, the light inside was almost blinding.
It did not help that most everything in the room was painted an eye-twisting riot of pink. It made him think of the mint-flavored chalky medicine his father would bring him, of nausea and unsettled nights with a sick stomach.
There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the bare bulbs shaded with cones of red and pink tissue paper. A few of these makeshift shades had slipped askew and were slowly turning brown against the bulbs. Long strands of beads hung from each branch of the light at different lengths, giving it an unstable, cockeyed look — like more or less everything else in the room.
(From "Assam & Darjeeling" by T.M. Camp)
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