Old Woman in the Park (Stardust) (English Edition) [Kindle-editie] beoordelingen het boek quotes

A Romantic Fantasy/Sci/Fi Short StoryEXCERPT: "It's on Christmas Eve that I remember her most, Greta, a fragile old woman with silver hair and brows, and skin like delicately wrinkled chiffon. I can still see her seated on the park bench, her thin figure prim and natty in a gray-fitted coat and old-fashioned pumps. I can hear the warbly coo of the pigeons cluttering about her as she fed them bits of bread and peanuts from a small paper bag. The sly squirrel sprinting down his tree in short sporadic leaps, his small eyes, two dark beads, and pointed ears, sensitive to the slightest fluttering of a branch, also was allowed to partake of the meal. I was ten at the time and prone to believe what the other children said about her, that she was a strange one, because when she smiled at us in a tender sort of knowing way, she had the power to make us feel all soft and cozy inside. I had heard the adults talking about her. They said she was a bit touched, because whenever the evening sky was clear and the stars were out, she would sit by the window and stare at those stars, for hours on end, with the silliest look splayed across her old face. As a young woman, she had almost married -- old Mr. Spritz, young Mr. Spritz in those days; he ran the local grocery store. But then she met this other man, the one she claimed came from a distant world. 'Course the older folks knew she meant some foreign port, but the young folks, they swore she had told them he hailed from the stars. It was the day before Christmas, I remember that afternoon as though I were again a young child in a pea jacket, pleated skirt and galoshes. It had snowed the night before. The old woman sat on the park bench, shelling peanuts from the paper bag in her lap, her dainty fingers grooved and polished with age, the gray of her wool coat blending with the silver of her hair. I was a young girl with a lively curiosity, so I determined to ask for myself her version of the story. I drew near to the old woman. The smile with which she greeted me was -- graceful. She invited me to sit beside her and asked if I would like to help her feed the birds. "What's your name, child?" she asked, placing some peanuts that needed shelling on my lap. A chestnut strand had blown across my brow. She lifted a fragile hand and pushed it aside. Tiny shreds of peanut shell clung to the crinkled skin on her fingers and bits of shell were wedged into the thin white borders of her hardened fingernails. I was not aware that my mouth hung open. "Are you afraid of me?" she asked. She did not sound old. Her voice was steady and strong. She smiled again and I was taken back by the luminosity of that smile, by the paleness of her lips and the whiteness of her teeth showing between. There were wrinkles about her nose and at the corners of her mouth. But the ravishing beauty that must have been hers in youth, lingered about her face like the scent of perfume that has lost its potency, yet lingers on pleasantly. "Are you ready for Christmas?" she asked. Then with the dotage of old age, before I could answer, "I'm going to tell you a story," she said, "It's what you came to hear, isn't it?" I nodded, too mesmerized to answer....