Posts Tagged ‘mystery’

The Mysterious Message From 1636: Lost and Found

In Uncategorized on June 30, 2012 at 1:10 PM

Honestly, I need help from the brilliant classics scholars and antiquarian bibliophiles here on the internet. I admit I am stumped. Utterly incapable of trying to decipher the calligraphy and language on this little item….

I found it in a giant bin of other ephemera at a flea market.

Is it really from 1636?

And what was it written on? (Yikes, I hope it’s NOT human skin!)

Most of all, what does it say?

After studying it until my eyes rolled back into my head, I realized I’m out of my depth and must appeal to the great brains and learned scholars here for help.

Here is the first side:

Smaller Image of Side One

This is provided for readers perusing this post.

Both of these files are very large, and may appear strangely on the blog post. But I realized that without first scanning the item, I was at a disadvantage, hence, I’ve uploaded the full scans here.

By clicking on them individually, you’ll be able to see the full image, zoom in and out, etc… It helps tremendously to allow the perspective to focus on details you otherwise would not see clearly, especially considering the calligraphy.

Click the link below to see the full article:

For the reader for whom I have peaked interest, I advise clicking the image below, to see the full scale.

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Written On The New York City Subway

In Excerpts of Prose, FOR YOUR CONSIDERSTION, poetry, Short Fiction on July 3, 2011 at 12:40 PM

The F Train runs the course of Manhattan into Brooklyn Heights.

Late one evening, on a Wednesday, she steps onto the south bound train to go home. She takes a window seat, alone at the end of the subway car. Biting her lower lip, she opens a book and begins reading. But not for long.

Distracted, she closes it and removes a pen from her purse. Using the beige paper bookmark, she begins to write.

I picked it up long after the train crossed into Brooklyn. It read:

Did you ever consider that maybe what we’ve got isn’t so bad?

Maybe what we have is more than what we’ve had.

And somehow we manage to sleep at night.

(The free flow of thought is like a magnet catching dust. And sense has a lock that’s covered over with a thin layer flaking red rust. My mind is somewhere behind.)

But what I have is so much more than what I have had.

We move,

In and out and up and down, back and forth, underneath some immovable force.

And every once in a while, we pause and stop

Step back

And realize what we’ve got:

A piece of ourselves at peace

I flipped the book mark over and the small, crips letters filled that back as well. I kept reading:

Even though it will never be enough.

Here I am

And holding to who I am

I humbly ask you

Who you are and what made you think

We could take it this far —


Without you I would not be me

Nor you without me, would not be you.

But I humbly ask

IF we have taken this too far

IF in this pause

I must bid you farewell

Remembering this, alone,

Until I am old and undone.

Because what we have is more than what I’ve had

To lose it unexpectedly would be horrorific.

Leave me mad.

The woman on the subway became real.

I did not even know her name.

I paused.

Copyright 2009-2011, by Kimberly Cox, All Rights Reserved

Revision from November 1, 2009

Sunday, 3:43 AM

In Daily Musings, Excerpts of Prose, poetry on February 27, 2011 at 4:03 AM
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What Happened When Reilly Woke Up

In Excerpts of Prose, WHAT HAPPENED WHEN REILLY WOKE UP on November 1, 2010 at 11:13 AM




No One Was Supposed To Notice

She stood watching. Expression blank. Eyes soft. The wheel of thought behind them, turning. Wisps of blonde hair laughing; showing off for the summer sun, dancing in the afternoon breeze; gentle. They were beautiful, whispering inaudibly, “I have a secret.”

And in this, the eyes held the hidden smile of someone silent and in agreement. (Like the woman in that old oil painting. The one everyone recognizes immediately.)

For a moment, she became distracted by a piece of newspaper blowing past her feet. The front page of The Times, pausing for just an instant, pierced her vision with the fraction of a headline,

“…Hundreds Dead In Afternoon Bombing….”

The paper turned over and continued up 6th Avenue, scratching the sidewalk.

The eyes flashed, hardened and became sharply acute. The blank expression opened to reveal only a disruption. She bit her lower lip and sucked it back in, breathing, arching her neck upwards. A posture wired from ballet and modified over time to initiate a kind of physical alignment. She exhaled slowly. Focus. Then inhaled steadily, silent. Inside, conjuring grace and strength. It would soon emanate from her, almost tangible for those who came in close contact. This had become a shield, a defensive stance before engaging in critical action. She assumed it because she did not know what else to do.

The thoughts had resumed their slow turning, reviewing what had happened. What she had missed. What got her trapped in the first place. Do not go insane.

She had left off with the objective reasons behind the recent disappearance of a close ally. Vanished off the radar, there had been no communication. No response to recent requests for status reports or confirmation. In their language, he had chosen radio silence, done only once before and in a volatile predicament. Something had gone wrong. Something had happened.

Several blocks uptown a van turned into traffic. From the second floor office, a fax machine turned on, his vision was failing, but he could see her.

The woman standing vigilant, taught and tall. Long legs made longer by the narrow high heel of black designer shoes. Perfect legs stretching upwards, forever, meeting a slim A-line skirt several inches above the knee. Teasing but ladylike, they disappeared inside. The rest left to imagination. The body underneath the tailored, sliced grey suit.

If there ever was a time in life to be alive, this was hers. Rising in the ranks of the world, a young woman with a brilliant future, surveying the landscape from a hilltop.

He thought this as he watched her.

The van blared its horn in the midtown traffic. Someone wearing a red hat came out of the subway, blinded for a moment by the sun and the glare off of the avenue.

This is what you see with a lazy glance. Look closer.


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