Architectured Dreams by Amalie Cantor

November 5, 2014 | By | 2 Replies More


I find comfort in its musky scent.  The ancient rollback writing desk, the one that had sat in my mother’s attic for years, now hides in the sanctuary of mine.  Sunday morning.  I sip on long tepid coffee and breathe in history.

“Destiny dances past wandering eyes . . .”

I miss these stolen moments most.  November’s chill permeates the space.  We never found the money to replace the insulation.  Why should we?  The cold threatens to freeze my fingers, forcing them to dance with wicked glee as they fight to keep warm.  I watch them in their furious scribblings.  I stare, amazed as familiar shapes rise from nothingness with little more than a thought and a flourish.

“in moments born of architectured dreams . . .”

Indigo ink flows from my grandfather’s fountain pen, its smooth lines stark but vivid against rustic papyrus. I wonder now whether he smiles or scorns, whether he still haunts the granddaughter whose ambitions died with him.  Even now I see him hunched over this very desk, his thick mustache sometimes trimmed in edges of ink and pencil lead.  Trembling, I’d approach to present him with my latest fledgling offerings.  “Never complete a first draft in ink,” he’d admonish.  “And shouldn’t you be helping your mother prepare breakfast?”

“whilst dancers pirouette in broken beams . . .”

Early morning’s glow, sunlight diffused through approaching cumulonimbus and antiquated opalescent glass, bathes the creaking attic floor.  Grandfather would hate this dusty sanctuary.  Perhaps that’s why I love it so.  I have more than once driven Carina from the room just as she prepared to muck away the grime.  The bunnies, I remind her, lived here long before we did.

“of dappled sunlight on darkness disguised.”

The cat yowls for his morning feast.  The scampering of freshly trimmed claws on hardwoodfloors below distracts my attention from tragic violet squiggles.  I listen for the familiar lumbering of heavy footsteps.  I grin as a curse echoes in the silence.  She once hated the foul beast, but his feigned disdain proved impatient.  He has begrudgingly made her an unlikely ally.

“Wondering whether the wilderness weeps . . .”

I frown at the words marring the previously pristine page.  The well of my soul once ran black.  My eyes cowered behind lenses, charcoal and opaque.  I danced with the devil, seduced the sirens, and found in that dark depravity the heart of my art.  Where did that darkness go?

“when chaos falls prey to housebroken lies . . .”

Feline whines fall to soprano whispers.  A raised voice pierces the domestic calm.  Selena wakes.  I groan and stretch long hunched limbs.  Thunder rolls in the distance.  I glance to the window.  I cannot tell the time.

“freedom now banished, as innocence sleeps . . .”

She giggles like cool spring water rushing over immutable stone.  I drift in the harmony of beloved voices, similar in timbre if not pitch.  Her mother’s lilting chime holds steady under the child’s melodic rush.

“Shackles now chosen: therein can joy rise.”

Tiny knocks from tinier fingers follow the creak of steps to the attic door.  “Banni!  Are you finished yet?  Mommy’s making pancakes!”  I smirk and wait.  Her patience runs thin.  “Are you alive?  You can’t miss pancakes!  Mommy says she’ll take away the chocolate chips if you don’t come down right now!”

I tuck the parchment and pen away for another day.  Art can wait.  Darkness abandons no one for long.  For now, I shuffle down the stairs, wrap my daughter–by heart if not by blood–in my arms and carry her downstairs.  We join her other mother for breakfast in the beauty of a rainy Sunday morning.

Amalie Cantor began her writing career in 2013 after brief tenures in music education and the hotel and hospitality industries.  She is currently unpublished in traditional mediums, but is a frequent author, contributor, and instructor in various activities through  She writes poetry and fiction dealing primarily with themes of sexuality, identity, and spirituality.  She blogs at Purple Prose and Other Literary Nonsense, and her first novel, Choosing Her Chains, is scheduled for independent publication in early 2015.  When not writing, she spends her days working in higher education administration in Norman, Oklahoma and her evenings with her partner and two feline familiars.

Tags: ,

Category: Delight, Prose, United States of America, When Women Waken Literary Journal

Comments (2)

Trackback URL | Comments RSS Feed

  1. Amalie, I truly enjoy the depth of your writing and your expressive word combinations! I like that you have shared small paragraphs that go into further detail on each of your shorter phrases. Architectured Dreams is a work of art and uniquely yours! You are a gifted poet and I hope to read more of your work!

    • Crystal,

      I am so so glad you liked it! Thank you very much for your kind words (and please forgive my delay in response–it has been quite a bit since I’ve wandered this site).

      I hope you are having an excellent day!


Leave a Reply