Creative Response to the Colonel

What you have heard is rumor. I didn't see a thing. The Bride never left her Vanity. Her mother sat at her side, draping pearls, he father, nursed a cigar in the walkway of the Church. Cream linens adorned the pews, anchored by wired ribbons gripping pink tulips and baby's breath. The sun spilled rainbow shapes through stained glass windows, the likeness of the Virgin distorted as she fell to the leather shoes of the Groom. The Old Women retired to the balconies above with ornate hand fans and whispers. The Minister rotated the Bible in his palms. The Groom and his Brother argued mutedly at the altar. When one would challenge, the candles stilled, when the other contended, the candles danced. The Brother pulled a pocket notebook from the Groom's jacked and dropped it to the tile. Fuck you the Groom said. A handkerchief had fallen too, and spilled a lock of hair, tied pristinely with a scrap of lavender ribbon. But not just one lock. Two, three, four locks. Lavender ribbon for the chestnut brunette, yellow for the jet black, royal blue for the golden blond, kelly green for the locks of deep amber. The brother dropped his foot onto the locks of hair. Something for your vows, no? he said. Some of the hairs on the floor struggled under the weight, slithering to escape. Some of the hairs bore into the Church floor.