Christopher Francisco’s Secret Plot

Christopher Francisco was a renaissance man, like the fashion of cloth he wore, like the name he bore. Christopher was a renaissance man. He made his way through the day in way that made no impressions on the simple play he had thought about life, and its journey through the steps he laid. He found what he wanted in a gentle way, the things needed to complete his day. A life well-lived was what he would say was essential to end what he started to say.

He spoke of a better life for the common man as he laid down his dinner sword and began to plan. The music in his mind swooned of baroque tightly wound, spilling out from centuries bound. The smell of the beast that was slain when found, wafted upwards till his nostrils it found. The meal shared with another was planned. She with her robes of fair had a voice of wondrous sound. Her presence was essential to the portrait that was painted. Her intentions were something newly invented. With light from the candle did she speak, and with unbridled interest did he meet.

The plan as it were was cast in sand, the foundation needed was the new plan. He could not, would not attempt alone. The two were needed to complete what was to be sewn. And like a historical novel with surprise and awe, they stitched a plot that should fool all. They snickered, they laughed with red wine on their lips. They created an ending that they thought would fit.

The point, the victim, the woman they had selected, was circling through their split lips. Her life, her purpose, her pose was restricted. The focus essentially was what they had bet. Her life, her purpose must be seen in strong light, if this plot was to work, if it was to end right. So, they dove deep, into each strand of singular light, to ensure that, for sure, there were no mistakes in sight.

Days and weeks did finally pass. And the plan, the plot was finally at hand. They rose to the day to set out for what must, to access, to digest the preordained quest. And with swift hands, feet that could thrust. They arrived on time to await what must. And like the clock tick, the chimes of our times, the appointed alluring woman in her prime, had arrived as expected and inspected the line. She had arrived as directed by the email line. A table, some chairs and he and she waiting sublime. The smiles on their faces could not be declined.

For you see my dear reader, the plot I have inscribed here was nothing more than a surprise birthday dinner for some great love of mine.

“Happy birthday dear wife. I hope you have many and I hope I am in time.”

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