The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Poetry of a Pond
by Leila Rousseau
-
When I don't want to write, I read
When I don't care to read, I sleep
When I am not writing and not sleeping, I am listening to the stories
When I am not reading and not sleeping, I am recreating the stories
Yet, when I am not dreaming and not floating, I am not awake.
I am only existing until I write, read or sleep.
-
Never starting a fresh, but moving to breathe the new air.
Never turning for a new leaf, but replacing the stylus
What do I become when I change my habitat? Never settled. Always making my escape.
-
Strides, side by side. In love, together.
One turns back to re-step for a different future.
The other wades through emptiness, and reclaims life in the name of his old love.
So important to smile, and give way to pedestrians.
-
Every pen, every powerful pen.
Every weak pen. Engrave not your name or your destiny, but your past in neat time.
Scribble not your troubles, or your fears, but your cravings and discoveries.
Tiresome is the talk of static, the fatigued and the woe some. Inspiring is the talk of moving reflections in glass, in water and in time.
-
Anything could be a surprise. The shock may kill or devastate.
The innocent may wonder.
The experienced may plan or ignore. The shaken may never thing again.
Everybody could be homeless.
How do I remind myself I am lucky, every breath and every sleep?
-
If there was ever a time to escape, it would be given to me now, as a jet.
Now I am jumped through to a void, a holding yard of distressed but fortunate women.
Heavens, don't open up to this one, let the ocean take care of her.
With her gut, she wail stand to avoid the wave of soft glass, and stand aside the twirling winds that wrap around all those under suspicion.
-
These righteous men travel in the Trojan of love and admiration.
The play cart puled by a mother, later, a carriage heaved along gravel and mud by horses.
Strength carries, weakness breaks.Youthful king, spiteful louse.
A tear in the bosom of the nurturer.
-
This stylus is fine, it tells a truth that pours over questioned days.
Rhetoric has come to virtue, as light has come to vision.
-
A passage short, is a thought mistaken.
A road so long, is a while when taken.
Think so quick and walk so far.
To find the troubles, here they are.
-
I miss my cat. I miss him jumping about.
I miss him annoying me. I miss him being annoyed.
I miss his fluffy cuddles. I miss him running through the house, bringing in a cloud of dirt and dust.
I wished he would walk on my back and get comfortable on the nape of my neck.
I miss lifting him up to show him the sky and the ceiling.
I miss choosing his food.
I miss him being fascinated by his funny tail.
I miss him running frantically, up and down trees.
I miss him waiting for me suspiciously.
I miss him complaining all the time. Meow Roaw.
-
Pondering my whereabouts, I will be asked by many - why did you do that?
I will have to answer, first with denial, then with a smile.
-
Days in Paris are not glamourous.
I am not in action, I am out.
I must stay 'til at least Spring is over.
Meanwhile, I hate Paris before les Printemps.
-
A head full of cliches, is a tower full of junk.
Please, hope it is drained, so a paragraph may start the story.
Give the noise to the public, so the still quiet gaze can rest, and discover a bare night, and fill it with particular people and props.
The reader wants art.
Cliche is not art, nor is it wit.
Wait, until they have cleared the tower.
-
That vision could not be drawn
onto the face of the unborn
Whether he white or he black
he will not know until he go.
Tremblin so as he follow
his brothers into the night
He don't fight
til he use his might.
Step by step his feet meet the beat
Go, go, go, don't see your foe.
-
The Present, a Souvenir of the Past
I'm going to take over the world
after I have taken over your attitude.
I'm going to think like you and talk like you,
after I colour my hair and paint my nails,
I'll look like you.
I'm going to walk down the street
in very high heels, and I'm going to fight off
every barren whistler and chatting gypsy.
I'm going to run my life like you run your business.
Every coffee I drink with myself will be important.
Every piece of ravioli will be counted.
Every step I take will be fast,
and every mouthful of water will be fresh.
I'm going to use you like you use me,
after I take over your attitude.
I'm going to call you like you call me,
and not at all if you put me down.
I'm going to buy you a present,
after I go shopping for myself,
and you can take it as a souvenir of how nice I was.
Because I'm going to take over the world,
after I have taken over your attitude,
and you won't get to know me when I do.
-
Baby bump, we go on holidays
Find our paradise in the sun
Don't look at him, he's writing stories
He'll take one of yours and tell me.
Baby bump, we stay here in the shade
Why we brown in Summer?
Don't open your eyes, they see the world
And the world will be on holidays.
-
Isn't it traversing cold steps on a wintery day?
The day you say no to an addiction
Ridding your body of this enslavement
comb your disgusting hair, an effort you think is progression.
The night you turn off your phone to stop the calls to your dead soul
Ridding your head of the entrapment
Make your bed, a chore you wouldn't ever have had to do.
If you didn't choose to go out in this weather.
-
Hurrying to the counter, before you go missing.
Not a person on this earth will believe you are alive if you have not checked in.
-
My Love as a Cloud over Paris
Distance of clouds, how long until they meet again.
To us they are forms of the same mass, the same purpose, the same life.
If they whisper close does it mean they will never part,
or will they long for the words repeated, all around the world.
Some formations are broken, by jets and a hurricane,
Some live fast, with the wind and in the desert
Some live slow, in the valleys and with the snow.
Some rise again, as the mist over icy grasses,
Some fall forever after a storm in Paris.
-
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Introduction to the Sullen Wake to Flowers
The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Be humble to knowledge, as it will always be greater and more fierce than ego and explanation.
5 Short Stories, read in chronological order:
1. Rendez-vous a Nice
2. Now He is in Naples
3. Snow House
4. Soft Spring Shadows
5. Petals in a Hurricane
This collection of short stories stalks people waking to the world, to natural life and human nature as they see it. They listen, and they decide and fail. The sullen wake to flowers is a funeral, a safe home, a brighter day, a weaker pulse. The characters are the carriers of strange anecdotes, testing the realities of passion and humanity. Like a shot heard in the woods, they run and they fear, they wonder about the lives they lead and would they change? If only they would not escape.
The grasp of a stylus is tight when one's soul is flowing onto paper. I loved writing these stories as I loved reading them back. Nothing invigorates my heart more than my own creation, and my best so far has been my writing. I would like to share my passion with the readers of the future, and with those closest to me in life, and in life forgotten.
Leila
Be humble to knowledge, as it will always be greater and more fierce than ego and explanation.
5 Short Stories, read in chronological order:
1. Rendez-vous a Nice
2. Now He is in Naples
3. Snow House
4. Soft Spring Shadows
5. Petals in a Hurricane
This collection of short stories stalks people waking to the world, to natural life and human nature as they see it. They listen, and they decide and fail. The sullen wake to flowers is a funeral, a safe home, a brighter day, a weaker pulse. The characters are the carriers of strange anecdotes, testing the realities of passion and humanity. Like a shot heard in the woods, they run and they fear, they wonder about the lives they lead and would they change? If only they would not escape.
The grasp of a stylus is tight when one's soul is flowing onto paper. I loved writing these stories as I loved reading them back. Nothing invigorates my heart more than my own creation, and my best so far has been my writing. I would like to share my passion with the readers of the future, and with those closest to me in life, and in life forgotten.
Leila
Thursday, July 10, 2008
1. Rendez-vous a Nice
The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Rendez-vous a Nice
by Leila Rousseau
-
Yearn none, for servitude is the work of love. Sacrifice of freedom is the spirit in which this toil grinds. Yearn for a slave, and the heart will bleed ice, red thick and cool, gradually flowing clear devoid of passion. The slave only knows lust as anger, fury, entrapment without escape. Resentment. The master ignites lust.
Tauris guided the thick mist by tracking his rough hands among the Autumn leaves, the ones that refused to fall. He plucked a dark green leathery piece, squashed it between his fingers and held the fines near his definite nose. Walking away, the branch recluded to its position. The memories of which this ghastly vintage scent reminded him, were those of running, old jewellery, beautiful eyes and short explanations.
Pictures, conversations and food were remembered, as he stepped over peat of fallen debris. Tauris tilted his head so his black irises could have been seized by the sun, but his eyes remained healthy, starring just right of the piercing flame. A leaf dishelved itself from the Poplar. Winding down the atmosphere, dancing and turning in the light, then to drop, drop, drop in the cool shade, it made its final decision in the clouds of the undergrowth, that it would join the others in sacrifice.
Freedom was had, for those short moments as Tauris witnessed, were the life that leaf lusted for. All Spring, and all Summer. Months went by, winds, birds, sunshine all tempted the leaf. Tauris saw this but he did not feel the breeze as it swept the leaves devoted to ecological cycle, into a rearrangement.
--
Tauris was a proud boy. He sorted his belongings into shelves and a wardrobe. Books of nature and ice-cream history were organised by size, on the small shelf. His grandfather’s compass was wrapped next to the soldier of the war. Tauris was not unlike the figurine. His features softer and plumper than those of the brazen tin face. The figurine had purpose, fulfilment of duty, sacrifice at birth, and looked like it was made meticulously by an artist. The metal craftsman was not as careful as the father. Its pedestal as its homage to the history of the war, to the stories, the lives, the ghosts, the zombies of the war, to the values that were stated before and reminded during, but not proven during or after the war.
The father was careful, thoughtful and wise in planning and creating Tauris. It was care that made his cheeks olive and his cheekbones high and proud. Proud like a soldier, prone like a soldier to early sacrifice. Not sacrifice to the war, but sacrifice to the country, to the people, for the love born and raised. The soldier, a figurine, all alike, exact, the sacrifice a duty. The life, from entry to exit, risks the sacrifice of a man, a boy, a father. The duty of love changes, dissects and removes, replaces, but it returns to the values that were stated before. The memories remind of the values that were not proven during the sacrifice for love.
--
Though not a scholar, he trod with colleagues and discussed wisdom, thought among these fellows of brute amicable and humane faculty. Hearts would lead the morals and binding duties. Hearts would find the truth of all rationality, for explanation would only be cause of the unkind, the untrue and the heartbroken. These would surely find mend with whole hearts and smiles a more.
--
But when this life be won with joy and friends, he says, and a love so dear, where is the conflict and the torture that had our strength tested? Upon a screaming oath or a testimony of will, none that stand in vain, but in honour of a love, that, if unable to withstand tangible fate, withstands time and change and weather. Here, await, as servitude be the test. Only does the scorn of tides, bulls in a maelstrom menagerie and a thousand lives relived to correct the fate, awaken thyn sensibility, that is love not be rewarded with a passionate kiss or a medal of duty, that this sentence be so long that he reads himself a fool? For this time, these wasted years and love, oh hapless love, be a duty borne to him, not chosen by him. For this time, a country is proud. For this time, he is a number, chosen to fight and die, holding his bayonet with his grey dirty palm and his beautiful head high, shielded only by the integers surrounding him, and his cloak. For this time, for this last time, he is alive as one of many, one of a nation, one of a legendary wave. Cruel in an instant of real time, commemorated in the eternity of history.
--
The letters were not reluctant, they were written so quickly. Every word streaming from his heart to his head, right across to his busy hand, looking up only occasionally for air or a laugh. Days worth of news, must be told and short anecdotes must be shared. The grip of his stylus, though an artful hold, was eager.
Tauris' moon face glowed like a lunar eclipse. Though there was a breeze coming up from the stairs, the room was warm as the sun fell for the equator. The page swept prose of a butterfly flittering heart, and he sighed at his inability to contain it. He looked embarrassed when his mother brought him green tea and orange cakes, as if she had read everything upon entry to the room. Her round shoulders led the way and working arms placed the tray onto the volumes being researched by the future ice-creamer. She consoled Tauris with her hands, kneeding into his tense back. “Dinner will be soon, I thought you could use an afternoon snack. Are you still writing to her?” “Thank you Mamma, I was famished. I'm just letting Alienor know about my studies.”
Tauris was borrowing the books from his grandfather Giovanni, who would be 74 in August. Giovanni bookmarked the chapter referring to crushing chocolate and dried mint. Giovanni would test Tauris on the preliminary stages of roasting cocoa, when to stack the Isabella Mint into rack sin the roasting room, so the oil would pierce the crispy capsules, like a kiss felt on the cheek and to the heart. Alienor's kisses were all he could think about. “Your soul is as lively as Isabella Mint, your lips are fluttering inside me, inside my cocoa shell.”
His velvety cocoa shell, the nose that rubbed Alienor's, the mouth aching for seduction, the leg fit for holding, the velvetty velvetty neck. As she mumbled the words she read, Alienor traced her fingers around the pages, and across the lines. Every pause, the tears wiped with a 'kerchief, the memories saluted with miserable sips of green tea.
Several albatross waved from the Aegean sky. “I cannot bear the bright cheerful days. I am not in a state near elation, I find myself in despair. Desparaged, until my heart meets my love eternal.” Alienor drew the curtains, ignoring the warnings of breakfast and the insistence of seeing sunshine.
Tauris had written to her, knowing that his dream was alive, not knowing why she could not come to the farm. He would get as far as the Cote d'Azur, and if she would help him source the berries; they could return to Sicily by a large merchant yacht before the end of Summer.
- - -
The whistling of an afternoon gust woke Alienor. She was tangled in arms, legs, lengths of hair, and she reached for the bed covers piled on the floor at the foot of the bed. She was imagining a journey by train and bus, and ship to Sicily. She was shouting to the driver to hurry, describing the urgency in careful syllables. Every exclamation was deserving. This was not because the old man was deaf, it was partly because it was so noisy near the windows and the shuddering tracks, and mostly because she wanted to force the locomotive forward with the love she so vehemently described. Push it faster with the antlers of Tauris.
- - -
Olympia helped her back up to the bed by grabbing Alienor's shoulder. They listened to each other breathing. "You were throwing your arms about, screaming 'Ha le lu jah, j'il aime, he kissed me once, il m'adore, he'll do it again'". "I don't recall." Alienor was deep in thought, pictures of her arpiscodia vapourised all possibility for external consideration. Screetching train wheels, the rapid contraption increasing speed, with every memory of the mouth, the firm hands, the eye lashes, the verse and the lack of words to describe the bond.
Olympia stroked Alienor's thigh, contemplating entry to the distracted mind. Olympia was not one to dream. Her cropped white tufts of hair eulogised her lost empathy, and, rather than seeming a blank canvas, she was none other than an oil- and waterproof paint brush. Tired of decorating and creating, tired of misinterpreting turquoise's calm and earthy vibrancy as love and devotion, exhausted from waving about, seeing and being every colour and shade, and terrified of drowning. The stylus has her purpose, though she could never hold colour. Melancholy was less demanding, so she appeared content. Because she was somewhat fond of this simple state of mind, she was a constant infuriation to Alienor. Intellect would pass nowhere in the bounds of humanity, subjectivity or vitality. Instead, Olympia found stead in caution, abhorrance and disinterest. Alienor, on the other hand, was passionate, gullible and curious.
Olympia tried everything on for size; high boots, short skirts, hats, lacy lingerie, purple lipstick, and big earrings. Nothing ever looked quite right for her shape or face. She even pretended to be gullible and passionate. Curiosity never got the better of her, because she had seen every artwork, every artist, every lover, generous, guilty and strange, all tiresome to Mademoiselle Olympia. She was the muse of curiosity, but not ever long enough to be a well studied subject. Alienor often mocked Olympia for her self proclaimed skill or strength, "My heart beats for Monet, every lilly is a thousand kisses for me and you. You must enjoy the kisses," Alienor would harp to an empty space on a wall imagining Les Nuages were there for them both to see. Servitude was Olympia's response every time, "Servitude, sacrifice for an ideal, a stupid love bought one day with a rose, sold the next to a flower stall. Beautiful, pungent smells offend my nose, remind me of holding stems of thorn. Those dark green leaves too affected me, growing in artificial sunlight."
The absence of resolve. The endless pursuit of the last tide, the completely cleansed water supply, the final trade. The irritation of rush, busy people, distracted people. Olympia was relaxed, took her time to fold Alienor's ear with her tongue and whispered her plans for the evening. Alienor's lips caught Olympia unawares, snapping out of oceanic scenes into a concentrated puffy press. Eyes open, sleepy, clear eyes. Round eyes, closing together like butterfly wings.
Eyes open, kohl circle for wider eyes, baby blue cream for eyes so bright. Looking up, Chanel mascara painted. Cream blush, rouge plump cheeks. Clean teeth, coffee stained, flossed teeth. Mouth pursed, lip brush, pretty lips. Cruel words, cruel world, jacket to protect. Skirt to sex. Bend over, "Alienor, watch me." Olympia rubs the shiny gold on her head with gluey gels and she sparkles in the misfit boots and lazy packed handbag. "Bye!" "Love, love, stars won't fall on you tonight" "Cheerie-Oh!" Open door, slam door to shut.
Bright empty streets, white walls, green trimmings, sandy walkway, scratchy under heels. Bright sunny hair, pale flesh tones, purple jacket, new soles, noisy stamps the pavement. Nearer a stranger, sooner a lover. Making eyes with weak bodies, making love without a heart. Amoreux pas. Mon amore, retournez a moi! Je ne suis pas ton amoree, mais aujourd'hui pour l'heure. Exchanging like a trade, but conversation distracted. Confusion of a lifeless soul by discussion. Simple words created hope for love. Parlez-pas toi. She could never be innocent to trades.
- - -
Tauris lay still, memorising the formula and timing for the Isabella Cocoa unity. He measured and moved the beans and the leaves with precision in his mind. Pouring the crushed particles into the gelato mixture. Wading the paddle through the creamy thickness. Grandpere Giovanni will ask him questions in the morning, teach him more. Giovanni sees the affinity Tauris has with the process. Despite his chapped fingers, Tauris feels the love between Isabella and the chocolate, he feels the motion that moves the ingredients together. With his gorgeous nose, the warm, fresh aroma dances and caresses. Sweet touch, sweet touch in the early morning. Waking beside sweet Alienor.
- - -
Olympia was sensitive to laughter, whether a nervous giggle or a rumbling round belly. Response to humour was her weakness. No better way to feel her soul than to be amused by a funny happening. Alienor and Olympia laughed a lot. The stories of all Olympia's men worked quite a catastrophe on Olympia, and she enjoyed entertaining her friend with extravagant recollections of luxury and of these less than well-behaved men. "Inheritance creates such a boring conversation, Alienor. Even dancing, oysters and saffron rice cannot excite me, if there is no wealth of knowledge." The blonde scooped thick crema from her coffee to taste it's strength on her tongue. "I have been seeing a solicitor, so very deep but no time to spare."
Alienor smoothed her thick cotton dress before the breeze had even a chance. "Do you think we should start meditating?" holding her long brown locks with her other hand. Olympia offered her a crumpet with butter and honey. Alienor nodded her head, finally reaching for the bread after the wind wandered astray. Olympia framed her answer with the little corners she was waving about, using the unchewn toast. "Meditation is all well and good, Alienor, if you want to think so deeply into what you have done, and what you will do. There is a focus one aims for in this exercise, this very spiritual practice. But," as she bit into a dry section and thought about how she'd swallow it - with some coffee, "if I were to sit for hours, my soul surely would be awoken and permit itself existence. It would line the inside of my flesh with a pulsing realisation that I have not considered it, my soul, for so many years. Then it grows thicker, holding onto the flesh outside. I turn blue after my soul does not allow oxygen to pass my skin or blood. Breathing does no good, because the air cannot be consumed past my lungs. No thoughts would climb around my mind, no memory of sensation, colour or fear. Just an understanding that my soul is awake and I am no longer allowed to be its keeper. The only difference between death and living without a soul is waking and flesh. If I meditate, I will be unable to breathe." Olympia held her chest as her heart palpitated during the course of explanation. Working herself up into a frenzy was rare but often enough to sustain a theatrical presence in the company of strangers, in Alienor's company. "Of course, yoga and stretching are what would lead to meditation, time to think." Olympia pondered again. Then she stopped herself, by treating the waiter to her elegant wave. Soft hands wrote another coffee and a ginger tea. "What if you could talk your soul into giving you a second chance. Recoil your focus, after removing and permitting your past grievances." Alienor was hopeful, spiritful, full full full of suggestions, as she knew her friend was melancholy by the awful density of her skin.
- - -
Veiled, the Isabella Mint grew in a crisp climate, the foliage lace-like and graceful. Tauris knelt at the mass and held his arms around the bushes, brushing the scent into the undergrowth and onto his sweater. He was perfumed like the cocoa, wading through the heavy dusk air. An exercise Giovanni taught Tauris the day prior. There was no need to jig about, and most importantly to avoid creating a disturbed atmosphere. Harmony, just turn around when you feel there is harmony. The cloud in his hindsight could be packaged and eaten. That would be practiced early morning until the combination was just right: the mint, the velvetty working flesh and the white morning.
- - -
Caging bliss. She would not wane to his love. This passion was momentary, so lustful, a breath in, not so calming as a breath out. Alienor listened to Olympia's commentary on love. It seemed to her that there would be no protectionm no unconditional love, because Tauris had placed conditions. He placed test of provocation, and the test of other moral pains. It would be youthful, naive of him to test Alienor's love by her physical finds, unless it were measuring the level of love bestowed to each and then to him. She understood well that there must be no communication with Tauris. That was the condition she had placed on herself. Tough it didn't strike points for or agains her, she simply could not speak with him until enough time had passed.
"Tauris has put you on a pedestal, and you are on a golden throne until such day that he stones you off. He was childish to put you there, and he is foolish to believe you will stay elevated. He doesn't realise that it was he who placed you there, that you were not always there. Yes, you were born for rank and for doing great things, but you were not born in the arms of that chair and, if you were, you would never stay. Not for so long as a rest. That lieu bares no comfort for a body that runs, and it certainly doesn't provide shelter. He is stupid to put you where you are to fend for yourself, without spirit or kindness, wearing a robe and dangling your legs. As is you would be amused by such a whimsical honour." Olympia held her gold chain, Alienor imagined the small charm flying into the grass, and Olympia, so frustrated in her spiel, thrusting the rest to follow.
"It will take more than precaution and enlightenment to make him ready for you. Paradox is his state of mind, but he must be clear: if you are more than sweet Alienor, if you are strong, adventurous and seductive, you are more than he can handle." Alienor took her stance, ignoring another word that spilled from Olympia's dry mouth. "He loves me, he needs me to be strong, he knows I am adventuresome and sassy. Why would he write these letters of love and of his life if he would fight for me none if I was in trouble or tormented. He aches to see me again and for me to join him." "Stop there Alienor. He wants you to go to the farm and make milk products and cook his meals and feed your children and he desires never to see your dreams float outside the cottage or your happiness to come from your education. Servitude, he explained, is love. Alienor, servitude is the mentality of those who are slaves, those who are sought as slaves. He condones the actions that please his will. It is his will that he receives your servitude. Life will be a service to love, not amusement or mundane, but disappointment."
- - -
Tauris peeled an orange, thinking about Alienor. Soon he would sail, but he had not heard from her. Was she tired or numb? He longed to give her life, to take her from the lazy coast and hold her, and the berries all the way back to Sicily. "Ciao, Amoree, take me to the land below the sun. Let me kiss your hand and show me where the rivers run," he sang, placing the wedges on a small plate after tearing them from the fruit.
Talk fine, wait for singing. Oh, sweet love from all the body and thyne lungs, a voice exhausted with joy. Bewildered I stand, listening, my ears trembling that I hear your soul, and vision its calling to mine. A labour and sweat, I meet with your beauty only to live for these moments, as if each occasion be the last. An end none so terrible as journey and forgiveness throughout: some of such beauty is delicate and willful, and if this e terror, I beg to be terrified in my last breath. For the light that I see is the warmth that I feel, from every verse and every pause. Day, il a lumieree.
- - -
Certainty. Olympia draped her clothes on the chaise longue, and stood by, watching people from the window. She was anonymous, a naked nymph, praised as a deity by her lovers. The caress of her hand on Clemente's shoulder was gracious. She loved him. The shadow on his neck and chest soon spread to his entire skin, as the curtains were drawn and Olympia climbed onto his silken wooly body. She sipped at his ears, and he held her back with his hands. Soon there was love and more deep, sweet kisses, whispers and adoration.
Chorus, a choir of slaves chosen to empower words with song. Divine creation, well being, poor souls, loneliness; all rejoice in freedom and prosperity. Taken light and given day.
Solemn, Alienor was not sad and not happy. But she was contemplating decisions, and not taking for granted and not regretting decisions made. To explore life and its mysteries, people or their enemies must be understood.
Happy Alienor. "Tell me this is not happiness when there is light so purely radiating from every sight and every passage. The leaves are thin in such light, green, glowing." Spring has awoken the girl. Bright, pretty colours. Hair more golden. Thinking of life with beautiful eyes. Les yeux belles. Creation. It has been existing a long time for this moment. It has waited long hours, years for acknowledgement and praise. Cumulative, Alienor's new found love for life and its beings has met the world with superfluous satisfaction.
- - -
Describe the faces, the windows of apartments, the streets, the air and the hair waving in the wind.
Tauris: The faces have smiles, olive skin and deep souls behind the eyes. The windows are scratched, fronted with window boxes and inside the curtains are old, but washed, and respected like grandmothers. The streets are rough, pavement suited to wheels and running children. The air is filled with mellow flowers and freshness. I don't see her hair.
Olympia: The faces are brisk like footsteps on those difficult paths. The air is good. I have seen inside many apartments, and it no longer makes me curious. If I see a cat on a window garden, I will want to go there for feline. The hair doesn't wave unless it is confident against seduction, it keeps walking with a woman taking over the world.
Alienor: The happy faces of working people, faces tell that labour is respectful and families are honourable. The windows are temporary lookouts for unmarried partners, the cigarette escape for lovers, and the windows open to let the air in to gasp, and to watch the people in the streets. The hair is taken by breeze and dances and sits of shoulders with cotton blouses. Streets are filled with air, wind blowing hair around, soulful people. The lustful are sad. Soon, they too will realise life.
- - -
"I have been accused of being rather vague," Olympia stretched her leg, pulling it toward her. She continued like this until she was satisfied of stretchedness. "I concur that, while I don't explain myself in detail, I am descriptive of the idea I am putting forward. A bad habit of mine really." "Well," Alienor suggested, "I think the use of examples, or specifics, is so tedious and too constricting to reason. You understand my unfinished sentences. There is no doubt it sounds frustrating to others, and I feel it in short stares and anticipation, but it simply cannot be helped. I expect my listeners to be able to fill in the blanks." Olympia started questioning why why why, "Why do you love Tauris?"
- - -
Cedric was comfortable in the whicker basket of a chair, the cushion was fluffy enough to ease his posterior muscle pain. Meditating on his wooden toes, the feet scrunched up, showing the boney phlanges, then releasing the tension he rubbed them. His clean feet were so comfortable in Olympia's hands. When she placed one against her face, each toe was kissed. The feet, so neutral, not violent, held in her hands, her world to avoid purpose of a walk. Feet existing alongside a face. Relaxing and enjoying. No discussions, no question of fidelity, no criminal faith, intermittent smiles.
Our paths may cross, but we were not to be together. Our stares may glance, but we were not to be together. Our stares may pass, but we were not to be together, Parallel we glide, but we do not collide. You are not fire and I am not ice. We do not break, we do not melt.
Sensitive palms, the hands reach for golden touch. Walking, taking steps side by side. Tauris clutching her hand, fingers intertwined. Telling her of the plans. Alienor comes to Palermo. No, he has not yet heard from her. Longing, longing for her eyes and her radiant beautiful face and to touch her hair. He will have to search for her in the Cote d'Azur.
- - -
"Olympia, hear me. I woke from dreams. Driving in circles, around bends with Tauris. No love was consumated. Yes, there was passion, but nothing more. I overheard vehicles, screetching and not leaving." Alienor was flustered and feeling perculiar. "Alienor, I too dreamed of voices and Cedrik's return. His friends told me plainly that he is married. I could not greet him with love. I was cold and a bad turn had been made. How can I rid myself of the coward?" Olympia was grieving over the pseudo president of her heard.
Always turbulent, encounters in dusk, in solitude, fury as a run not as revenge. Ever quiet, ever listening for quiet. The soul disturbed so, torn with razors, an accident. He was looking for her heart. Love a while, love a long while. But do not, please do not love for ever. Do not speak of aeons, do not dream of aeons. Find a chance, fellow, to turn away and leave her be. She has love, but she will give it all. She will be tamed to a barren heart, always yearning to fill it. Do not accept this servitude man, leave her be. Let her save tears for the death of a soldier of love.
Olympia looked out at the day. It was gloomy for her, the sunny green days. They had no end as she walked. Walking, with her soul in her handbag, with her key, lipstick and necessities. Walking into apartments, most without cats, most with tasteless interior. Asked to make a sandwich, the fine cutlery spread butter onto broken loaf, and served on serviette. Jorge was strange, all the plates had been smashed and he didn't have time to find more that he liked. So, he made do with patterned paper. Olympia bit into the bread, and drew the partched curtains, but let a little of the yellow in. She hoped her feelings would change toward sunlight, eventually, if she let a little in at a time.
The whispy hair brought his middle age close, and the whisper in his ear realised his relative youth. Jorge turned and grabbed Olympia by the waist and kissed her rose petal pout. He sat her on the window sill, on top of the awful drapery. Olympia, through every dull day and every long hour, occupied his mind like a dove in a bell tower. Loving her now was a continuation of his thoughts. Holding her body was his raison d'etre.
- - -
Tauris was ill from watching the sails swinging over the thick blue peaks. There was nothing that could give him consolation. He was unsure if he'd see his berry-picking angel. The letters were not returned, so she should have received them. or were they dampening in the morning and hardening on the ground of an empty lawn. Taken by passers by and thrown. What was the postal service like in her country? The mooring was near, Cote d'Azur. Sands and yachts, like an island resort. Tauris was sickened from the motions and the long awaited meeting with his love. The wavering over elation and despair.
- - -
Would there ever be a day that wouldn't cast such a sour glaze over Olympia, what would make her glow? Possibility of happiness, true love is the sunshine. No trust in love or the persistence of love means the rays are cosmetic, for vanity, not for the heart or for the soul. Olympia bares all weather for the superficial, and freezes from her shell down to the aeorta beat beating thick, cool blood.
- - -
Tauris was cold, the winds were so strong now. The shore yearned for his footprints, his journey tracked until he reached the footpath. The foot that led swapped to follow. His eyes saw the route, his heart felt the angst. The streets, the locals giving directions. Tall apartments looked like moments of passion. He turned around and the sea looked like an eternity, stretched over pink sunsets, purple sunrise. An eternity of freedom.
Alienor sang, drying her hair, she sand, drying her shoulders, she sang. Holding her legs with the thick towel, she cried. The window, she opened, and stared into the street. No one familiar, no one she would love more than she loved Tauris. Olympia was right, slavery of love. But there was no happiness without servitude. And the servitude was to the love, not to the individual. The love was so strong, his heart, his eyes, his arms were its servants. His letters, his long letters. The love could not be cried away. So much light outside, dried her tears. Warm air. She could not see the people walking on the street.
Olympia took strides on the road. She was wearing stiletto pumps, patent silver. But she was on a dusty road, imagining she was wearing boots to not think about the dirt in her toes. And a large brimmed hat, the sun was strong and unwelcomed by her. Though Spring enjoyed opening flower buds, Olympia enjoyed rain, dark clouds and snow. She wouldn't get this on the southern coast. She should go north, no, further south for Autumn somewhere else in the world. She ate gelati from a cup, remembering Tauris.
Tauris was directed to the flats at the end of the street. Avoiding the lady shaking a mat from the balcony. The sun was strong, the trees would suffer. The geraniums would suffer in the window box. He wanted to water the small coral shrubs. Closer he was, the purpose grew stronger. He needed to find a bucket and the owners bath water would be fine. He knocked on the correct door. A young woman answered. Timid, she questioned his motivation. Had he spied her last night, undressing a man twice her age? Staring at Tauris, she shook her head. "I look after my flowers well, thank you." Tauris asked about how to get to Rue de Chavais. Stunned, her heart jumped. She opened the window to the display, and pointed to the path via the cul-de-sac. "This is Isabella Mint you have here. Have you been to Sicilly?" The colour returned to her face, as she thought, remembered. "I received the seeds in a letter, and I planted them at the end of autumn, hoping they'd blossom in Winter."
Tauris was able to see the face of a girl in a window. Very slowly he approached. The apartment was not high. He stared. The girl wore a dress, she may have been trying it on for an occasion. The road was dusty, but he was imagining that he was is a dust storm, and the force was pushing his chest so fiercely that his heart stopped, his arms heavy, his stomach queezy like it was filled with oily eggplant. It was filled with eggplant. The girl. The pressure away, but he reached forward, though his limbs were not recognised as leaders and followers, the body was diving with feet dragging behind like lead. "Alienor," his jaw crumbled.
Olympia held Alienor before she chanced a scream. The arms were like a boa constrictor, around around squeezing. They heard "Come berry picking with me" before the window was shut. Te dragging force behind Tauris swapped to lead him to the apartment. Out of breath, he breathed so heavily, he was out of air, the lungs opened but the air was not enough. Opening the door with his heavy body, both girls lay on the bathroom floor. One crying, the other furious. All the towels were rolled taut, each too compact to conceal even a capsule of anti-venom. Pills were on the shelf above. Jars, sleepy jars. The room echoed, the tiles still, cautious to the shrieks. The apparent hugging tried to dull the pitch racing across the walls.
Olympia's hair glistened, encouraging her eyes to do the same. But they were dark, more melancholy now. Her eyelashes were not like butterflies in love with the sunshine, they were rank moths, drawn to the light of another. The image of her head Tauris saw in the mirror, as she stood up. She spoke with Alienor's voice, "Tauris, is that you? The baskets for the berries are in the anteroom."
Tauris had the baskets, and the tired girl in his other arm. She leant on his chest, tears in her eyes and her heart afloat. "I missed you so much." She hugged at his stomach and the love and the passion was warm, yet hasty. Olympia kissed his cheek, her lips warned off his face by his beard. She pushed him out of the doorway, and shut the door. Returning to Alienor, Olympia held her closely.
Leila
Rendez-vous a Nice
by Leila Rousseau
-
Yearn none, for servitude is the work of love. Sacrifice of freedom is the spirit in which this toil grinds. Yearn for a slave, and the heart will bleed ice, red thick and cool, gradually flowing clear devoid of passion. The slave only knows lust as anger, fury, entrapment without escape. Resentment. The master ignites lust.
Tauris guided the thick mist by tracking his rough hands among the Autumn leaves, the ones that refused to fall. He plucked a dark green leathery piece, squashed it between his fingers and held the fines near his definite nose. Walking away, the branch recluded to its position. The memories of which this ghastly vintage scent reminded him, were those of running, old jewellery, beautiful eyes and short explanations.
Pictures, conversations and food were remembered, as he stepped over peat of fallen debris. Tauris tilted his head so his black irises could have been seized by the sun, but his eyes remained healthy, starring just right of the piercing flame. A leaf dishelved itself from the Poplar. Winding down the atmosphere, dancing and turning in the light, then to drop, drop, drop in the cool shade, it made its final decision in the clouds of the undergrowth, that it would join the others in sacrifice.
Freedom was had, for those short moments as Tauris witnessed, were the life that leaf lusted for. All Spring, and all Summer. Months went by, winds, birds, sunshine all tempted the leaf. Tauris saw this but he did not feel the breeze as it swept the leaves devoted to ecological cycle, into a rearrangement.
--
Tauris was a proud boy. He sorted his belongings into shelves and a wardrobe. Books of nature and ice-cream history were organised by size, on the small shelf. His grandfather’s compass was wrapped next to the soldier of the war. Tauris was not unlike the figurine. His features softer and plumper than those of the brazen tin face. The figurine had purpose, fulfilment of duty, sacrifice at birth, and looked like it was made meticulously by an artist. The metal craftsman was not as careful as the father. Its pedestal as its homage to the history of the war, to the stories, the lives, the ghosts, the zombies of the war, to the values that were stated before and reminded during, but not proven during or after the war.
The father was careful, thoughtful and wise in planning and creating Tauris. It was care that made his cheeks olive and his cheekbones high and proud. Proud like a soldier, prone like a soldier to early sacrifice. Not sacrifice to the war, but sacrifice to the country, to the people, for the love born and raised. The soldier, a figurine, all alike, exact, the sacrifice a duty. The life, from entry to exit, risks the sacrifice of a man, a boy, a father. The duty of love changes, dissects and removes, replaces, but it returns to the values that were stated before. The memories remind of the values that were not proven during the sacrifice for love.
--
Though not a scholar, he trod with colleagues and discussed wisdom, thought among these fellows of brute amicable and humane faculty. Hearts would lead the morals and binding duties. Hearts would find the truth of all rationality, for explanation would only be cause of the unkind, the untrue and the heartbroken. These would surely find mend with whole hearts and smiles a more.
--
But when this life be won with joy and friends, he says, and a love so dear, where is the conflict and the torture that had our strength tested? Upon a screaming oath or a testimony of will, none that stand in vain, but in honour of a love, that, if unable to withstand tangible fate, withstands time and change and weather. Here, await, as servitude be the test. Only does the scorn of tides, bulls in a maelstrom menagerie and a thousand lives relived to correct the fate, awaken thyn sensibility, that is love not be rewarded with a passionate kiss or a medal of duty, that this sentence be so long that he reads himself a fool? For this time, these wasted years and love, oh hapless love, be a duty borne to him, not chosen by him. For this time, a country is proud. For this time, he is a number, chosen to fight and die, holding his bayonet with his grey dirty palm and his beautiful head high, shielded only by the integers surrounding him, and his cloak. For this time, for this last time, he is alive as one of many, one of a nation, one of a legendary wave. Cruel in an instant of real time, commemorated in the eternity of history.
--
The letters were not reluctant, they were written so quickly. Every word streaming from his heart to his head, right across to his busy hand, looking up only occasionally for air or a laugh. Days worth of news, must be told and short anecdotes must be shared. The grip of his stylus, though an artful hold, was eager.
Tauris' moon face glowed like a lunar eclipse. Though there was a breeze coming up from the stairs, the room was warm as the sun fell for the equator. The page swept prose of a butterfly flittering heart, and he sighed at his inability to contain it. He looked embarrassed when his mother brought him green tea and orange cakes, as if she had read everything upon entry to the room. Her round shoulders led the way and working arms placed the tray onto the volumes being researched by the future ice-creamer. She consoled Tauris with her hands, kneeding into his tense back. “Dinner will be soon, I thought you could use an afternoon snack. Are you still writing to her?” “Thank you Mamma, I was famished. I'm just letting Alienor know about my studies.”
Tauris was borrowing the books from his grandfather Giovanni, who would be 74 in August. Giovanni bookmarked the chapter referring to crushing chocolate and dried mint. Giovanni would test Tauris on the preliminary stages of roasting cocoa, when to stack the Isabella Mint into rack sin the roasting room, so the oil would pierce the crispy capsules, like a kiss felt on the cheek and to the heart. Alienor's kisses were all he could think about. “Your soul is as lively as Isabella Mint, your lips are fluttering inside me, inside my cocoa shell.”
His velvety cocoa shell, the nose that rubbed Alienor's, the mouth aching for seduction, the leg fit for holding, the velvetty velvetty neck. As she mumbled the words she read, Alienor traced her fingers around the pages, and across the lines. Every pause, the tears wiped with a 'kerchief, the memories saluted with miserable sips of green tea.
Several albatross waved from the Aegean sky. “I cannot bear the bright cheerful days. I am not in a state near elation, I find myself in despair. Desparaged, until my heart meets my love eternal.” Alienor drew the curtains, ignoring the warnings of breakfast and the insistence of seeing sunshine.
Tauris had written to her, knowing that his dream was alive, not knowing why she could not come to the farm. He would get as far as the Cote d'Azur, and if she would help him source the berries; they could return to Sicily by a large merchant yacht before the end of Summer.
- - -
The whistling of an afternoon gust woke Alienor. She was tangled in arms, legs, lengths of hair, and she reached for the bed covers piled on the floor at the foot of the bed. She was imagining a journey by train and bus, and ship to Sicily. She was shouting to the driver to hurry, describing the urgency in careful syllables. Every exclamation was deserving. This was not because the old man was deaf, it was partly because it was so noisy near the windows and the shuddering tracks, and mostly because she wanted to force the locomotive forward with the love she so vehemently described. Push it faster with the antlers of Tauris.
- - -
Olympia helped her back up to the bed by grabbing Alienor's shoulder. They listened to each other breathing. "You were throwing your arms about, screaming 'Ha le lu jah, j'il aime, he kissed me once, il m'adore, he'll do it again'". "I don't recall." Alienor was deep in thought, pictures of her arpiscodia vapourised all possibility for external consideration. Screetching train wheels, the rapid contraption increasing speed, with every memory of the mouth, the firm hands, the eye lashes, the verse and the lack of words to describe the bond.
Olympia stroked Alienor's thigh, contemplating entry to the distracted mind. Olympia was not one to dream. Her cropped white tufts of hair eulogised her lost empathy, and, rather than seeming a blank canvas, she was none other than an oil- and waterproof paint brush. Tired of decorating and creating, tired of misinterpreting turquoise's calm and earthy vibrancy as love and devotion, exhausted from waving about, seeing and being every colour and shade, and terrified of drowning. The stylus has her purpose, though she could never hold colour. Melancholy was less demanding, so she appeared content. Because she was somewhat fond of this simple state of mind, she was a constant infuriation to Alienor. Intellect would pass nowhere in the bounds of humanity, subjectivity or vitality. Instead, Olympia found stead in caution, abhorrance and disinterest. Alienor, on the other hand, was passionate, gullible and curious.
Olympia tried everything on for size; high boots, short skirts, hats, lacy lingerie, purple lipstick, and big earrings. Nothing ever looked quite right for her shape or face. She even pretended to be gullible and passionate. Curiosity never got the better of her, because she had seen every artwork, every artist, every lover, generous, guilty and strange, all tiresome to Mademoiselle Olympia. She was the muse of curiosity, but not ever long enough to be a well studied subject. Alienor often mocked Olympia for her self proclaimed skill or strength, "My heart beats for Monet, every lilly is a thousand kisses for me and you. You must enjoy the kisses," Alienor would harp to an empty space on a wall imagining Les Nuages were there for them both to see. Servitude was Olympia's response every time, "Servitude, sacrifice for an ideal, a stupid love bought one day with a rose, sold the next to a flower stall. Beautiful, pungent smells offend my nose, remind me of holding stems of thorn. Those dark green leaves too affected me, growing in artificial sunlight."
The absence of resolve. The endless pursuit of the last tide, the completely cleansed water supply, the final trade. The irritation of rush, busy people, distracted people. Olympia was relaxed, took her time to fold Alienor's ear with her tongue and whispered her plans for the evening. Alienor's lips caught Olympia unawares, snapping out of oceanic scenes into a concentrated puffy press. Eyes open, sleepy, clear eyes. Round eyes, closing together like butterfly wings.
Eyes open, kohl circle for wider eyes, baby blue cream for eyes so bright. Looking up, Chanel mascara painted. Cream blush, rouge plump cheeks. Clean teeth, coffee stained, flossed teeth. Mouth pursed, lip brush, pretty lips. Cruel words, cruel world, jacket to protect. Skirt to sex. Bend over, "Alienor, watch me." Olympia rubs the shiny gold on her head with gluey gels and she sparkles in the misfit boots and lazy packed handbag. "Bye!" "Love, love, stars won't fall on you tonight" "Cheerie-Oh!" Open door, slam door to shut.
Bright empty streets, white walls, green trimmings, sandy walkway, scratchy under heels. Bright sunny hair, pale flesh tones, purple jacket, new soles, noisy stamps the pavement. Nearer a stranger, sooner a lover. Making eyes with weak bodies, making love without a heart. Amoreux pas. Mon amore, retournez a moi! Je ne suis pas ton amoree, mais aujourd'hui pour l'heure. Exchanging like a trade, but conversation distracted. Confusion of a lifeless soul by discussion. Simple words created hope for love. Parlez-pas toi. She could never be innocent to trades.
- - -
Tauris lay still, memorising the formula and timing for the Isabella Cocoa unity. He measured and moved the beans and the leaves with precision in his mind. Pouring the crushed particles into the gelato mixture. Wading the paddle through the creamy thickness. Grandpere Giovanni will ask him questions in the morning, teach him more. Giovanni sees the affinity Tauris has with the process. Despite his chapped fingers, Tauris feels the love between Isabella and the chocolate, he feels the motion that moves the ingredients together. With his gorgeous nose, the warm, fresh aroma dances and caresses. Sweet touch, sweet touch in the early morning. Waking beside sweet Alienor.
- - -
Olympia was sensitive to laughter, whether a nervous giggle or a rumbling round belly. Response to humour was her weakness. No better way to feel her soul than to be amused by a funny happening. Alienor and Olympia laughed a lot. The stories of all Olympia's men worked quite a catastrophe on Olympia, and she enjoyed entertaining her friend with extravagant recollections of luxury and of these less than well-behaved men. "Inheritance creates such a boring conversation, Alienor. Even dancing, oysters and saffron rice cannot excite me, if there is no wealth of knowledge." The blonde scooped thick crema from her coffee to taste it's strength on her tongue. "I have been seeing a solicitor, so very deep but no time to spare."
Alienor smoothed her thick cotton dress before the breeze had even a chance. "Do you think we should start meditating?" holding her long brown locks with her other hand. Olympia offered her a crumpet with butter and honey. Alienor nodded her head, finally reaching for the bread after the wind wandered astray. Olympia framed her answer with the little corners she was waving about, using the unchewn toast. "Meditation is all well and good, Alienor, if you want to think so deeply into what you have done, and what you will do. There is a focus one aims for in this exercise, this very spiritual practice. But," as she bit into a dry section and thought about how she'd swallow it - with some coffee, "if I were to sit for hours, my soul surely would be awoken and permit itself existence. It would line the inside of my flesh with a pulsing realisation that I have not considered it, my soul, for so many years. Then it grows thicker, holding onto the flesh outside. I turn blue after my soul does not allow oxygen to pass my skin or blood. Breathing does no good, because the air cannot be consumed past my lungs. No thoughts would climb around my mind, no memory of sensation, colour or fear. Just an understanding that my soul is awake and I am no longer allowed to be its keeper. The only difference between death and living without a soul is waking and flesh. If I meditate, I will be unable to breathe." Olympia held her chest as her heart palpitated during the course of explanation. Working herself up into a frenzy was rare but often enough to sustain a theatrical presence in the company of strangers, in Alienor's company. "Of course, yoga and stretching are what would lead to meditation, time to think." Olympia pondered again. Then she stopped herself, by treating the waiter to her elegant wave. Soft hands wrote another coffee and a ginger tea. "What if you could talk your soul into giving you a second chance. Recoil your focus, after removing and permitting your past grievances." Alienor was hopeful, spiritful, full full full of suggestions, as she knew her friend was melancholy by the awful density of her skin.
- - -
Veiled, the Isabella Mint grew in a crisp climate, the foliage lace-like and graceful. Tauris knelt at the mass and held his arms around the bushes, brushing the scent into the undergrowth and onto his sweater. He was perfumed like the cocoa, wading through the heavy dusk air. An exercise Giovanni taught Tauris the day prior. There was no need to jig about, and most importantly to avoid creating a disturbed atmosphere. Harmony, just turn around when you feel there is harmony. The cloud in his hindsight could be packaged and eaten. That would be practiced early morning until the combination was just right: the mint, the velvetty working flesh and the white morning.
- - -
Caging bliss. She would not wane to his love. This passion was momentary, so lustful, a breath in, not so calming as a breath out. Alienor listened to Olympia's commentary on love. It seemed to her that there would be no protectionm no unconditional love, because Tauris had placed conditions. He placed test of provocation, and the test of other moral pains. It would be youthful, naive of him to test Alienor's love by her physical finds, unless it were measuring the level of love bestowed to each and then to him. She understood well that there must be no communication with Tauris. That was the condition she had placed on herself. Tough it didn't strike points for or agains her, she simply could not speak with him until enough time had passed.
"Tauris has put you on a pedestal, and you are on a golden throne until such day that he stones you off. He was childish to put you there, and he is foolish to believe you will stay elevated. He doesn't realise that it was he who placed you there, that you were not always there. Yes, you were born for rank and for doing great things, but you were not born in the arms of that chair and, if you were, you would never stay. Not for so long as a rest. That lieu bares no comfort for a body that runs, and it certainly doesn't provide shelter. He is stupid to put you where you are to fend for yourself, without spirit or kindness, wearing a robe and dangling your legs. As is you would be amused by such a whimsical honour." Olympia held her gold chain, Alienor imagined the small charm flying into the grass, and Olympia, so frustrated in her spiel, thrusting the rest to follow.
"It will take more than precaution and enlightenment to make him ready for you. Paradox is his state of mind, but he must be clear: if you are more than sweet Alienor, if you are strong, adventurous and seductive, you are more than he can handle." Alienor took her stance, ignoring another word that spilled from Olympia's dry mouth. "He loves me, he needs me to be strong, he knows I am adventuresome and sassy. Why would he write these letters of love and of his life if he would fight for me none if I was in trouble or tormented. He aches to see me again and for me to join him." "Stop there Alienor. He wants you to go to the farm and make milk products and cook his meals and feed your children and he desires never to see your dreams float outside the cottage or your happiness to come from your education. Servitude, he explained, is love. Alienor, servitude is the mentality of those who are slaves, those who are sought as slaves. He condones the actions that please his will. It is his will that he receives your servitude. Life will be a service to love, not amusement or mundane, but disappointment."
- - -
Tauris peeled an orange, thinking about Alienor. Soon he would sail, but he had not heard from her. Was she tired or numb? He longed to give her life, to take her from the lazy coast and hold her, and the berries all the way back to Sicily. "Ciao, Amoree, take me to the land below the sun. Let me kiss your hand and show me where the rivers run," he sang, placing the wedges on a small plate after tearing them from the fruit.
Talk fine, wait for singing. Oh, sweet love from all the body and thyne lungs, a voice exhausted with joy. Bewildered I stand, listening, my ears trembling that I hear your soul, and vision its calling to mine. A labour and sweat, I meet with your beauty only to live for these moments, as if each occasion be the last. An end none so terrible as journey and forgiveness throughout: some of such beauty is delicate and willful, and if this e terror, I beg to be terrified in my last breath. For the light that I see is the warmth that I feel, from every verse and every pause. Day, il a lumieree.
- - -
Certainty. Olympia draped her clothes on the chaise longue, and stood by, watching people from the window. She was anonymous, a naked nymph, praised as a deity by her lovers. The caress of her hand on Clemente's shoulder was gracious. She loved him. The shadow on his neck and chest soon spread to his entire skin, as the curtains were drawn and Olympia climbed onto his silken wooly body. She sipped at his ears, and he held her back with his hands. Soon there was love and more deep, sweet kisses, whispers and adoration.
Chorus, a choir of slaves chosen to empower words with song. Divine creation, well being, poor souls, loneliness; all rejoice in freedom and prosperity. Taken light and given day.
Solemn, Alienor was not sad and not happy. But she was contemplating decisions, and not taking for granted and not regretting decisions made. To explore life and its mysteries, people or their enemies must be understood.
Happy Alienor. "Tell me this is not happiness when there is light so purely radiating from every sight and every passage. The leaves are thin in such light, green, glowing." Spring has awoken the girl. Bright, pretty colours. Hair more golden. Thinking of life with beautiful eyes. Les yeux belles. Creation. It has been existing a long time for this moment. It has waited long hours, years for acknowledgement and praise. Cumulative, Alienor's new found love for life and its beings has met the world with superfluous satisfaction.
- - -
Describe the faces, the windows of apartments, the streets, the air and the hair waving in the wind.
Tauris: The faces have smiles, olive skin and deep souls behind the eyes. The windows are scratched, fronted with window boxes and inside the curtains are old, but washed, and respected like grandmothers. The streets are rough, pavement suited to wheels and running children. The air is filled with mellow flowers and freshness. I don't see her hair.
Olympia: The faces are brisk like footsteps on those difficult paths. The air is good. I have seen inside many apartments, and it no longer makes me curious. If I see a cat on a window garden, I will want to go there for feline. The hair doesn't wave unless it is confident against seduction, it keeps walking with a woman taking over the world.
Alienor: The happy faces of working people, faces tell that labour is respectful and families are honourable. The windows are temporary lookouts for unmarried partners, the cigarette escape for lovers, and the windows open to let the air in to gasp, and to watch the people in the streets. The hair is taken by breeze and dances and sits of shoulders with cotton blouses. Streets are filled with air, wind blowing hair around, soulful people. The lustful are sad. Soon, they too will realise life.
- - -
"I have been accused of being rather vague," Olympia stretched her leg, pulling it toward her. She continued like this until she was satisfied of stretchedness. "I concur that, while I don't explain myself in detail, I am descriptive of the idea I am putting forward. A bad habit of mine really." "Well," Alienor suggested, "I think the use of examples, or specifics, is so tedious and too constricting to reason. You understand my unfinished sentences. There is no doubt it sounds frustrating to others, and I feel it in short stares and anticipation, but it simply cannot be helped. I expect my listeners to be able to fill in the blanks." Olympia started questioning why why why, "Why do you love Tauris?"
- - -
Cedric was comfortable in the whicker basket of a chair, the cushion was fluffy enough to ease his posterior muscle pain. Meditating on his wooden toes, the feet scrunched up, showing the boney phlanges, then releasing the tension he rubbed them. His clean feet were so comfortable in Olympia's hands. When she placed one against her face, each toe was kissed. The feet, so neutral, not violent, held in her hands, her world to avoid purpose of a walk. Feet existing alongside a face. Relaxing and enjoying. No discussions, no question of fidelity, no criminal faith, intermittent smiles.
Our paths may cross, but we were not to be together. Our stares may glance, but we were not to be together. Our stares may pass, but we were not to be together, Parallel we glide, but we do not collide. You are not fire and I am not ice. We do not break, we do not melt.
Sensitive palms, the hands reach for golden touch. Walking, taking steps side by side. Tauris clutching her hand, fingers intertwined. Telling her of the plans. Alienor comes to Palermo. No, he has not yet heard from her. Longing, longing for her eyes and her radiant beautiful face and to touch her hair. He will have to search for her in the Cote d'Azur.
- - -
"Olympia, hear me. I woke from dreams. Driving in circles, around bends with Tauris. No love was consumated. Yes, there was passion, but nothing more. I overheard vehicles, screetching and not leaving." Alienor was flustered and feeling perculiar. "Alienor, I too dreamed of voices and Cedrik's return. His friends told me plainly that he is married. I could not greet him with love. I was cold and a bad turn had been made. How can I rid myself of the coward?" Olympia was grieving over the pseudo president of her heard.
Always turbulent, encounters in dusk, in solitude, fury as a run not as revenge. Ever quiet, ever listening for quiet. The soul disturbed so, torn with razors, an accident. He was looking for her heart. Love a while, love a long while. But do not, please do not love for ever. Do not speak of aeons, do not dream of aeons. Find a chance, fellow, to turn away and leave her be. She has love, but she will give it all. She will be tamed to a barren heart, always yearning to fill it. Do not accept this servitude man, leave her be. Let her save tears for the death of a soldier of love.
Olympia looked out at the day. It was gloomy for her, the sunny green days. They had no end as she walked. Walking, with her soul in her handbag, with her key, lipstick and necessities. Walking into apartments, most without cats, most with tasteless interior. Asked to make a sandwich, the fine cutlery spread butter onto broken loaf, and served on serviette. Jorge was strange, all the plates had been smashed and he didn't have time to find more that he liked. So, he made do with patterned paper. Olympia bit into the bread, and drew the partched curtains, but let a little of the yellow in. She hoped her feelings would change toward sunlight, eventually, if she let a little in at a time.
The whispy hair brought his middle age close, and the whisper in his ear realised his relative youth. Jorge turned and grabbed Olympia by the waist and kissed her rose petal pout. He sat her on the window sill, on top of the awful drapery. Olympia, through every dull day and every long hour, occupied his mind like a dove in a bell tower. Loving her now was a continuation of his thoughts. Holding her body was his raison d'etre.
- - -
Tauris was ill from watching the sails swinging over the thick blue peaks. There was nothing that could give him consolation. He was unsure if he'd see his berry-picking angel. The letters were not returned, so she should have received them. or were they dampening in the morning and hardening on the ground of an empty lawn. Taken by passers by and thrown. What was the postal service like in her country? The mooring was near, Cote d'Azur. Sands and yachts, like an island resort. Tauris was sickened from the motions and the long awaited meeting with his love. The wavering over elation and despair.
- - -
Would there ever be a day that wouldn't cast such a sour glaze over Olympia, what would make her glow? Possibility of happiness, true love is the sunshine. No trust in love or the persistence of love means the rays are cosmetic, for vanity, not for the heart or for the soul. Olympia bares all weather for the superficial, and freezes from her shell down to the aeorta beat beating thick, cool blood.
- - -
Tauris was cold, the winds were so strong now. The shore yearned for his footprints, his journey tracked until he reached the footpath. The foot that led swapped to follow. His eyes saw the route, his heart felt the angst. The streets, the locals giving directions. Tall apartments looked like moments of passion. He turned around and the sea looked like an eternity, stretched over pink sunsets, purple sunrise. An eternity of freedom.
Alienor sang, drying her hair, she sand, drying her shoulders, she sang. Holding her legs with the thick towel, she cried. The window, she opened, and stared into the street. No one familiar, no one she would love more than she loved Tauris. Olympia was right, slavery of love. But there was no happiness without servitude. And the servitude was to the love, not to the individual. The love was so strong, his heart, his eyes, his arms were its servants. His letters, his long letters. The love could not be cried away. So much light outside, dried her tears. Warm air. She could not see the people walking on the street.
Olympia took strides on the road. She was wearing stiletto pumps, patent silver. But she was on a dusty road, imagining she was wearing boots to not think about the dirt in her toes. And a large brimmed hat, the sun was strong and unwelcomed by her. Though Spring enjoyed opening flower buds, Olympia enjoyed rain, dark clouds and snow. She wouldn't get this on the southern coast. She should go north, no, further south for Autumn somewhere else in the world. She ate gelati from a cup, remembering Tauris.
Tauris was directed to the flats at the end of the street. Avoiding the lady shaking a mat from the balcony. The sun was strong, the trees would suffer. The geraniums would suffer in the window box. He wanted to water the small coral shrubs. Closer he was, the purpose grew stronger. He needed to find a bucket and the owners bath water would be fine. He knocked on the correct door. A young woman answered. Timid, she questioned his motivation. Had he spied her last night, undressing a man twice her age? Staring at Tauris, she shook her head. "I look after my flowers well, thank you." Tauris asked about how to get to Rue de Chavais. Stunned, her heart jumped. She opened the window to the display, and pointed to the path via the cul-de-sac. "This is Isabella Mint you have here. Have you been to Sicilly?" The colour returned to her face, as she thought, remembered. "I received the seeds in a letter, and I planted them at the end of autumn, hoping they'd blossom in Winter."
Tauris was able to see the face of a girl in a window. Very slowly he approached. The apartment was not high. He stared. The girl wore a dress, she may have been trying it on for an occasion. The road was dusty, but he was imagining that he was is a dust storm, and the force was pushing his chest so fiercely that his heart stopped, his arms heavy, his stomach queezy like it was filled with oily eggplant. It was filled with eggplant. The girl. The pressure away, but he reached forward, though his limbs were not recognised as leaders and followers, the body was diving with feet dragging behind like lead. "Alienor," his jaw crumbled.
Olympia held Alienor before she chanced a scream. The arms were like a boa constrictor, around around squeezing. They heard "Come berry picking with me" before the window was shut. Te dragging force behind Tauris swapped to lead him to the apartment. Out of breath, he breathed so heavily, he was out of air, the lungs opened but the air was not enough. Opening the door with his heavy body, both girls lay on the bathroom floor. One crying, the other furious. All the towels were rolled taut, each too compact to conceal even a capsule of anti-venom. Pills were on the shelf above. Jars, sleepy jars. The room echoed, the tiles still, cautious to the shrieks. The apparent hugging tried to dull the pitch racing across the walls.
Olympia's hair glistened, encouraging her eyes to do the same. But they were dark, more melancholy now. Her eyelashes were not like butterflies in love with the sunshine, they were rank moths, drawn to the light of another. The image of her head Tauris saw in the mirror, as she stood up. She spoke with Alienor's voice, "Tauris, is that you? The baskets for the berries are in the anteroom."
Tauris had the baskets, and the tired girl in his other arm. She leant on his chest, tears in her eyes and her heart afloat. "I missed you so much." She hugged at his stomach and the love and the passion was warm, yet hasty. Olympia kissed his cheek, her lips warned off his face by his beard. She pushed him out of the doorway, and shut the door. Returning to Alienor, Olympia held her closely.
Leila
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
2. Now He is in Naples
The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Now He is in Naples
by Leila Rousseau
- - -
Olympia is for love. Tides are for taking.
There was a time when a certain Olympia would sail the archepelagos, from the Canary Islands both to Aland, and around the waters of Sardinia. Every journey was, to Olympia, better remembered through an awkwardly animated story, much more so than returning to the boats with the company she kept. The binder; the crook in her neck when she told of the adventures; was the verniculous purpose of her soirees with the sea. No tale of the voyages would ever be revelled in the same manner, nor could it, for she had a terrible memory. So she urged her friends to talk of different subjects in case she was encouraged to start her spiel. "Ask not I, whose phantom soul endures weeks on the water. I fear not the plough of the paddle, but the anchor at shore. And when we swim to the beach, I forget everything. Only that it was night and that I did not drown. But maybe someone did. I say to you also forget, now tell me a story."
- - -
Olympia lay on the beach in a black and white Chanel bikini, and squinted through her sunglasses as she turned over. Facing the sand was so pleasant, Olympia relished. Though she didn't really enjoy the summer, Olympia certainly did brighten up under the suns ray. She looked healthy, and appeared and felt happy. A few Greek men passed her toned behind, and she watched them with mutual interest. Olympia knew better than to take on a Grecan. She much preferred Italians, there was so much less fetta cheese and olives in cucina Italiano.
Stretching her legs through the sand, granuals stuck in her toes. Covering her violet carry bag with her sarong, Olympia jumped up and ran to the water. The Cote d'Azur was white today, and the ocean was fresh. The pale hair glistened, and was dunked in the shallow, where wading slowly was recommended. A beach ball arrived asa present from a dark admirer. Olympia playfully threw it back, and the man asked if she wanted to continue, as he pushed the bubble back through the air. Some to and fro of the ball, and a lunge into the water, and a splash closer and closer, and Antonio introduced himself to the most beautiful woman on the Mediterranean coast. Olympia dragged her lovely legs to the shore and Antonio ran to collect his towel.
Antonio was a property developer from Peru. "I'll be here for three weeks, then I go to Torino, Zurich and Johannesburg. Olympia told him she'd be here for two weeks, and then go to Paris and Germany. She wasn't going to either, she was waiting to go to Naples. Antonio enquired as to her residence, and she told him about the cramped apartment a few kilometers from the seaside. "I'm staying at the Emperial Domain, if you'd like to join me for your remaining weeks?" "Oh, that would be devine." Spagetti Frutti di Mer, and a watermelon splice. They ate, they drank, they were very refreshed and excited about their next two weeks.
Olympia had her own room and ensuite. The penthouse over looked half of the city, and the sunset was so beautiful and the Saint Tropez marina was in clear view. Every morning and every evening Antonio made love to Olympia. Loving the time they spent together, he thought about her all day while he closed deals and threatened competitors. His life seemed glamourous to Olympia, he must treat all women like this. But she didn't know that he would go onto the international destinations alone, without lovers. She was the light in his busy life, and he grew exhausted after the first week.
Olympia ate breakfast, lunch and most dinners at the hotel alone, and she grew tired of this. She met a young Italian at the bar by the pool. He promised to take her to Naples in three weeks. She told Guyan that she was looking after her friend in hospital for a week, until the girl's mother arrives. Then she would be able to live at his condomonium for the remaining two weeks.
Antonio's face was so lovely but distracted by business. He said he'd like Olympia to stay for another week and go to Zurich with him. Olympia knew she must go to Naples, and that Guyan was her ticket there. She'd like to go, but her friend in Paris was expecting her to look after the flower shop for a month. He would be in Peru in late November, and she should visit him there. That sounds perfect.
Landing in Naples was extraordinary, and Olympia belonged here. But she was to be focussed for the week. Guyan was hounding her, and offering her gifts to entice her for another weekend with him. No time for romance, she was there to search for one man.
Olympia had had some realisations about those unlike her. Love was important, and not found daily in different expensive bed spreads and fluffy towels. As much as she would like for her friends to be similar to herself, it was best if they were not. And they were not. They listened to her intently and revelled in her ideas and follies. Sometimes they listened and learned. But it was not a lesson for her friends. It was not anything they should take notice of or care for. Humouring her only encouraged her, and for weaker people, she was dominant. Dominance was okay for her man, her support group. But not for her friends. And one of her friends had succumb to Olympia's opinion and was ever after miserable. The only human care Olympia possessed, Olympia used during this purposeful visit to a sunny city of love and mafia.
The one man who would help her stood at a street cafe with an espresso and a cigarette. The darkness surrounded him so, the ash suit, the moustache, the hat, the shoes looked like they had walked across the earth looking for debtors, the smoke surrounded his head and his hands in a very black cloud. Olympia drew spritely closer to her target. Played in a scene, she'd be very much like a schoolgirl in a red dress with polka dots, running up to the Head Master, asking for directions to the loo. It wasn't that Olympia had guts, she was oblivious to ego, status and red tape. After her lifetime of tales, she had met many men. They were all the same. The barrier around this man was obvious, no one would dare enter his space. There was surely seventeen gunmen watching the man's arena of old town suburbia, and Olympia was prancing into their fire. She looks fiesty to women, just for marching those cobbley stones in her patent peach pumps.
The man didn't look like he would say much, and indeed he didn't. Olympia loved the Italians and tried to not drift away into dreaming of his abode, for even this ancient mafioso was alluring to a common broad like Olympia. Concentrate. Olympia took a cigarette from a neat lilac packet, and offered her aide one, just as he butted out his last. He took it and eyed her like he would offer her money. They enjoyed the smoke in silence, she with grey smoke, he with black smoke. Must be tarred up lungs. Concentrate. Okay, so she asked for a macchiato to stand, and gestured at his hat. He offered it to her like he would take her photo wearing it. She was here for an important cause. She must concentrate. No flirting. But maybe this was a way. So she asked his name, Beau Fozzi of Lazziro. She asked him if that meant he was local, or was he instated with that title like a tourist. He laughed. Olympia de la Ritz Paris. Another cigarette, they were both on the way to hospital at this rate. He asked her what she was doing in the back streets of a city that offered more than coffee with grey men. She said she was there for love. Not for her own. For a love she feared she had broken.
The man came out of his guise and chose a story from his past. Looking for words he had not spoken in fifty years, he struggled with an explanation. A boy. A girl. A river. A rush. A storm. Come together. Cannot swim, the boy. Throws log, the girl. Runs, the girl. Jumps to save, the girl. Drowns, the boy. Visits grave. Love stays true. Animated so, trying to tell her that she is the river, the winds. The test. If in life they can't endure the weather, then after they may have a chance. Olympia was not satisfied with such symbolism and per chance. She needed to repair the damage she had done. She must join the two in a matrimony of sorts. She must find the boy. Olympia wished the man would return to his tough exterior and help her. She mentioned a name, and he shrugged. Were there others not into love, not believing in this? She hoped the world was not so jaded and petty as she. Olympia repeated the name and then San Giovanni Deli. He pointed and mumbled something about a river. Not that stupid river story. She called Guyan and he would take her to the deli in the morning. He was really too good to her. Had he known just what she was like, he would surely refuse her completely.
Sometimes it was easier to forget the past and focus. Concentrate. Okay, so they arrived at the deli and the lady behind the counter was dressed pretty with her apron. Olympia wandered what other slices she did. Olympia asked for the duck terrine, and she asked about a boy who might have delivered some frozen goods here. She wouldn't have remembered if it wasn't for his tears. He wept every delivery, like he was upset for days. He had carried on like this for a month. Did she know where to find him? Where was that? Guyan could take her there. Gracias.
Olympia stepped off the Vespa and onto dirty pavement, to find a dry old hut, that looked like an old guard's house. All wrapped up in the beige Louis Vuitton overcoat, with a powder blue dress spraying through at her beautiful knees, and similar coloured snake skinned high sandles, an outfit Guyan treated her to the previous afternoon. Olympia was very sassy. Guyan was in love. She looked into his eyes and turned to ignore the passion. She pulled the gate open and Guyan rode through. They arrived at an enormous house, with some sad tune playing, old guitar and violin, and a gypsy singing lost love. Olympia did not blink. Instead, she took strides to the large door and knocked. The sun was shining to remind the residents of summer and the beach, but they did not seem to notice. The boy appeared at the window, and Olympia was startled. As she waited for the process of unlocking, the jasmine lay droopy in the sun. She should tell him to water it.
Olympia explained to the boy, red eyed and in despair, about her friend. The girl in Saint Tropez was sad too, and longed for him. Olympia was there because she needed to see such deep love united, and though against her principles, her own ideals, she could not stop these lovers from being together. That dear old man must have convoluted this boy's mind with his homemade proverbs, as the boy began talking about a hurricane and flowers and the lost hope. Oh. She had travelled all this way, forfeited Germany for a little brat who daren't follow his heart. Olympia enquired his console. He told her of a job he was doing for the locals, and most of his time was with them if not working for his father. There would be no travel to see her friend, only letters and wishful words. Did Olympia have it right or what? This boy was simply obsessed, he was not in love with her friend, and Olympia had thought if her friend would see the boy in this state she would realise how very right Olympia was in cutting off the childish play of hearts. Now Olympia was satisfied. But what would she tell her friend? Though she didn't know of Olympia's trek, there should be some news to quell this crying soul. Perhaps she should send a telegram to her friend to go to Zurich. Guyan was waiting in the shade of a big leafy tree, over hanging the roof with hard red flowers. They rode back to Naples for ice cream and found a spot poolside to rub oil on each others' legs. Olympia was so happy to not have a pathetic boy in love with her, and she was worried now about her friend. Olympia would have to return to Cote d'Azur before too long. She thought about the river and the storm. Maybe she wasn't the weather, it was love. She was happy she wasn't ever so deeply in love that she would drown. Perhaps the girl in the anecdote threw the log at the boy's head?!
Leila
Now He is in Naples
by Leila Rousseau
- - -
Olympia is for love. Tides are for taking.
There was a time when a certain Olympia would sail the archepelagos, from the Canary Islands both to Aland, and around the waters of Sardinia. Every journey was, to Olympia, better remembered through an awkwardly animated story, much more so than returning to the boats with the company she kept. The binder; the crook in her neck when she told of the adventures; was the verniculous purpose of her soirees with the sea. No tale of the voyages would ever be revelled in the same manner, nor could it, for she had a terrible memory. So she urged her friends to talk of different subjects in case she was encouraged to start her spiel. "Ask not I, whose phantom soul endures weeks on the water. I fear not the plough of the paddle, but the anchor at shore. And when we swim to the beach, I forget everything. Only that it was night and that I did not drown. But maybe someone did. I say to you also forget, now tell me a story."
- - -
Olympia lay on the beach in a black and white Chanel bikini, and squinted through her sunglasses as she turned over. Facing the sand was so pleasant, Olympia relished. Though she didn't really enjoy the summer, Olympia certainly did brighten up under the suns ray. She looked healthy, and appeared and felt happy. A few Greek men passed her toned behind, and she watched them with mutual interest. Olympia knew better than to take on a Grecan. She much preferred Italians, there was so much less fetta cheese and olives in cucina Italiano.
Stretching her legs through the sand, granuals stuck in her toes. Covering her violet carry bag with her sarong, Olympia jumped up and ran to the water. The Cote d'Azur was white today, and the ocean was fresh. The pale hair glistened, and was dunked in the shallow, where wading slowly was recommended. A beach ball arrived asa present from a dark admirer. Olympia playfully threw it back, and the man asked if she wanted to continue, as he pushed the bubble back through the air. Some to and fro of the ball, and a lunge into the water, and a splash closer and closer, and Antonio introduced himself to the most beautiful woman on the Mediterranean coast. Olympia dragged her lovely legs to the shore and Antonio ran to collect his towel.
Antonio was a property developer from Peru. "I'll be here for three weeks, then I go to Torino, Zurich and Johannesburg. Olympia told him she'd be here for two weeks, and then go to Paris and Germany. She wasn't going to either, she was waiting to go to Naples. Antonio enquired as to her residence, and she told him about the cramped apartment a few kilometers from the seaside. "I'm staying at the Emperial Domain, if you'd like to join me for your remaining weeks?" "Oh, that would be devine." Spagetti Frutti di Mer, and a watermelon splice. They ate, they drank, they were very refreshed and excited about their next two weeks.
Olympia had her own room and ensuite. The penthouse over looked half of the city, and the sunset was so beautiful and the Saint Tropez marina was in clear view. Every morning and every evening Antonio made love to Olympia. Loving the time they spent together, he thought about her all day while he closed deals and threatened competitors. His life seemed glamourous to Olympia, he must treat all women like this. But she didn't know that he would go onto the international destinations alone, without lovers. She was the light in his busy life, and he grew exhausted after the first week.
Olympia ate breakfast, lunch and most dinners at the hotel alone, and she grew tired of this. She met a young Italian at the bar by the pool. He promised to take her to Naples in three weeks. She told Guyan that she was looking after her friend in hospital for a week, until the girl's mother arrives. Then she would be able to live at his condomonium for the remaining two weeks.
Antonio's face was so lovely but distracted by business. He said he'd like Olympia to stay for another week and go to Zurich with him. Olympia knew she must go to Naples, and that Guyan was her ticket there. She'd like to go, but her friend in Paris was expecting her to look after the flower shop for a month. He would be in Peru in late November, and she should visit him there. That sounds perfect.
Landing in Naples was extraordinary, and Olympia belonged here. But she was to be focussed for the week. Guyan was hounding her, and offering her gifts to entice her for another weekend with him. No time for romance, she was there to search for one man.
Olympia had had some realisations about those unlike her. Love was important, and not found daily in different expensive bed spreads and fluffy towels. As much as she would like for her friends to be similar to herself, it was best if they were not. And they were not. They listened to her intently and revelled in her ideas and follies. Sometimes they listened and learned. But it was not a lesson for her friends. It was not anything they should take notice of or care for. Humouring her only encouraged her, and for weaker people, she was dominant. Dominance was okay for her man, her support group. But not for her friends. And one of her friends had succumb to Olympia's opinion and was ever after miserable. The only human care Olympia possessed, Olympia used during this purposeful visit to a sunny city of love and mafia.
The one man who would help her stood at a street cafe with an espresso and a cigarette. The darkness surrounded him so, the ash suit, the moustache, the hat, the shoes looked like they had walked across the earth looking for debtors, the smoke surrounded his head and his hands in a very black cloud. Olympia drew spritely closer to her target. Played in a scene, she'd be very much like a schoolgirl in a red dress with polka dots, running up to the Head Master, asking for directions to the loo. It wasn't that Olympia had guts, she was oblivious to ego, status and red tape. After her lifetime of tales, she had met many men. They were all the same. The barrier around this man was obvious, no one would dare enter his space. There was surely seventeen gunmen watching the man's arena of old town suburbia, and Olympia was prancing into their fire. She looks fiesty to women, just for marching those cobbley stones in her patent peach pumps.
The man didn't look like he would say much, and indeed he didn't. Olympia loved the Italians and tried to not drift away into dreaming of his abode, for even this ancient mafioso was alluring to a common broad like Olympia. Concentrate. Olympia took a cigarette from a neat lilac packet, and offered her aide one, just as he butted out his last. He took it and eyed her like he would offer her money. They enjoyed the smoke in silence, she with grey smoke, he with black smoke. Must be tarred up lungs. Concentrate. Okay, so she asked for a macchiato to stand, and gestured at his hat. He offered it to her like he would take her photo wearing it. She was here for an important cause. She must concentrate. No flirting. But maybe this was a way. So she asked his name, Beau Fozzi of Lazziro. She asked him if that meant he was local, or was he instated with that title like a tourist. He laughed. Olympia de la Ritz Paris. Another cigarette, they were both on the way to hospital at this rate. He asked her what she was doing in the back streets of a city that offered more than coffee with grey men. She said she was there for love. Not for her own. For a love she feared she had broken.
The man came out of his guise and chose a story from his past. Looking for words he had not spoken in fifty years, he struggled with an explanation. A boy. A girl. A river. A rush. A storm. Come together. Cannot swim, the boy. Throws log, the girl. Runs, the girl. Jumps to save, the girl. Drowns, the boy. Visits grave. Love stays true. Animated so, trying to tell her that she is the river, the winds. The test. If in life they can't endure the weather, then after they may have a chance. Olympia was not satisfied with such symbolism and per chance. She needed to repair the damage she had done. She must join the two in a matrimony of sorts. She must find the boy. Olympia wished the man would return to his tough exterior and help her. She mentioned a name, and he shrugged. Were there others not into love, not believing in this? She hoped the world was not so jaded and petty as she. Olympia repeated the name and then San Giovanni Deli. He pointed and mumbled something about a river. Not that stupid river story. She called Guyan and he would take her to the deli in the morning. He was really too good to her. Had he known just what she was like, he would surely refuse her completely.
Sometimes it was easier to forget the past and focus. Concentrate. Okay, so they arrived at the deli and the lady behind the counter was dressed pretty with her apron. Olympia wandered what other slices she did. Olympia asked for the duck terrine, and she asked about a boy who might have delivered some frozen goods here. She wouldn't have remembered if it wasn't for his tears. He wept every delivery, like he was upset for days. He had carried on like this for a month. Did she know where to find him? Where was that? Guyan could take her there. Gracias.
Olympia stepped off the Vespa and onto dirty pavement, to find a dry old hut, that looked like an old guard's house. All wrapped up in the beige Louis Vuitton overcoat, with a powder blue dress spraying through at her beautiful knees, and similar coloured snake skinned high sandles, an outfit Guyan treated her to the previous afternoon. Olympia was very sassy. Guyan was in love. She looked into his eyes and turned to ignore the passion. She pulled the gate open and Guyan rode through. They arrived at an enormous house, with some sad tune playing, old guitar and violin, and a gypsy singing lost love. Olympia did not blink. Instead, she took strides to the large door and knocked. The sun was shining to remind the residents of summer and the beach, but they did not seem to notice. The boy appeared at the window, and Olympia was startled. As she waited for the process of unlocking, the jasmine lay droopy in the sun. She should tell him to water it.
Olympia explained to the boy, red eyed and in despair, about her friend. The girl in Saint Tropez was sad too, and longed for him. Olympia was there because she needed to see such deep love united, and though against her principles, her own ideals, she could not stop these lovers from being together. That dear old man must have convoluted this boy's mind with his homemade proverbs, as the boy began talking about a hurricane and flowers and the lost hope. Oh. She had travelled all this way, forfeited Germany for a little brat who daren't follow his heart. Olympia enquired his console. He told her of a job he was doing for the locals, and most of his time was with them if not working for his father. There would be no travel to see her friend, only letters and wishful words. Did Olympia have it right or what? This boy was simply obsessed, he was not in love with her friend, and Olympia had thought if her friend would see the boy in this state she would realise how very right Olympia was in cutting off the childish play of hearts. Now Olympia was satisfied. But what would she tell her friend? Though she didn't know of Olympia's trek, there should be some news to quell this crying soul. Perhaps she should send a telegram to her friend to go to Zurich. Guyan was waiting in the shade of a big leafy tree, over hanging the roof with hard red flowers. They rode back to Naples for ice cream and found a spot poolside to rub oil on each others' legs. Olympia was so happy to not have a pathetic boy in love with her, and she was worried now about her friend. Olympia would have to return to Cote d'Azur before too long. She thought about the river and the storm. Maybe she wasn't the weather, it was love. She was happy she wasn't ever so deeply in love that she would drown. Perhaps the girl in the anecdote threw the log at the boy's head?!
Leila
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
3. Snow House
The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Snow House
by Leila Rousseau
- -
Softness is comparable to the findings of the day. Find them innocent and pretty, their light touch will never betray virgin purity. Find them buoyant and tough, their eager hands will be tiresome and the comments obscene. They are as you are, treading on this earth, often lifting the dead leaves from the undergrowth to spare the new. You may find them tender, as powdered layers of snow over a pillow for dreams, or as a flame seducing hard ice, flickering its eyes of love, while vapourising every layer. Softness, watch now until it is tainted, in you and in her.
- -
A tiny rose. Mauve bud, held in her hand. The sun awoke this girl on the same day she had clipped the flower from the estuary. Morning walks were focussed, breathing fresh air and thinking about life and the day to ensue. Some places more spirited than others. Her legs were as beautiful, when compared to passers' by. Laziness was not her fight. It was day, rushing to the night. Some small reason to memorise the day, remembering the colours and the flavours and the perfumes.
Never to remember words, just washing away would cleanse her skin from the phrases and whinging that could gnaw at even the most armoured soul. This girl could hear all of the sniggers and they were far out-weighed by laughs and funny jokes. But still, she couldn't bare it. She would rather live in silence than to hear superfluous chatting and the awful female pitches.
Gathering speed, the feet wanted to jump. Energy to cut a glacier with only several pounces. Always breaking free from a stagnant challenge, Tandra was completely oblivious to other walkers. This was until she saw a family of ducks, a mother with two ducklings bobbed along the mangroves peacefully. Then the mother paddled much farther from her followers, their pace without her mature tenacity. Perhaps it would emanate. Tandra slid back into the roaming thought, avoiding her social habits of narcissism and flirting. The larger her strides, the happier she became in recluse. She wasn't shutting herself from the world, she was shutting herself in wide-open spaces.
Slow spitting motion was the way the town, the city, rejected her. Tandra knew she'd be welcomed to others in the country, but the hallow spat her across the waters. On the last day she paced the riparian, she saw two grown ducks, dipping under the clear shallows. Tandra wandered what would be so close to the land, that made the shy ducks dine in. And, why was it so unmudded here? Further the dirty way, nearer the cleaner, and post for remote ideals, untravelled distances. Was it possible that the traffic moved the junk around so much? Why wouldn't yachts and ferry boats be banned from swimming, it must be too cloudy to see, for the fish and the ducks.
Tandra was known to talk. She listened to others too. Always in an effort to be inspired and learn the ways of others. She was popular, her laughter responded kindly to good and bad humour. Her sharp colours and super style were much appreciated by the dull and she was admired by her peers. Her toned back and forceful arms ensured she wouldn't be talked back to, even after creating a stir with bold suggestion or poor wit on a slow day.
Tandra looked through open windows, as though waiting a red wren to fly in to tell her an important truth. Instead, the sunshine glared on the panes, and the wind shut them abruptly. The apricot clouds darkened to avoid her gaze. Why are only the inside of her eyelids the acceptable look for Tandra? Must she be invisible or must the world be black? She grabbed the curtain and dragged it across. Then she almost tore the other, sheltering the earth from her staring eyes. She daren't take a mirror in her hand. Tandra dreaded her morning walk in the morrow.
Tandra was is love with so many things, a collection of things: some gypsy music with violins and guitars strumming wildly, dandelions. When she was a child, she picked bunches of yellow spots with long furry stems with her sister for her mother, much to the annoyance of her father. Though she, with her little sibling, was only alluding to her mother's amusement. And again, not in spite of her Father, though his temper was tipped with a sprinkling of flour or salt. Sometimes it seemed the balance weight was a pale of vinegar. Tandra loved deep crunching snow like in the north, it fell so thick among the pines. Squirrels and little animals running around on important business. Bright woolen jumpers to avoid the winter blues. Cafes with only candle lighting and couches to snuggle on.
It was a long interval between the bad day and when Tandra left the house. A lot of berry and ginger tea was drunk, the wooden floor was thoroughly wiped down by her warm socks, and she didn't know what the weather had been doing outside. Tandra decided to leave the house, because she thought it was her duty to understand what was happening far and wide.
She took the train north, the hours and hours were spent watching the fir trees grow blacker and bleaker, and then like a flock of sheep, they were white, and so powdered with snow. Tandra was not sure if the snow was worse than the blackness before. Was the snow the after effect? She remembered a time when, from her window, she would see rolled up snow. The ball would forever gather snow until it was so big it could be a mountain, and melt in the spring, after a lot of sun rays, into a lake.
The snow was there for sure, like it was falling all over the world. How would she know? It has taken so long already to find this. maybe if she goes back, the snow will be falling in the south. Tandra exited the train coach and stepped out to the meters depths, that she would press in almond shapes with her boots. The north was the only place now with snow. Somehow or other, there would be only one way to share the snow with the south. The tallest hill, the largest snowball, and the biggest push. If it was possible to avoid destruction along the way, maybe use a cleared road and put up signs for the animals.
An old man discussed her idea with the fluffy faced locals, and they decided that it was impossible. Another question came about, the same question Tandra pondered: was the world changing now, and if putting snow where the world would melt it, would it only be a nuisance and delay some bigger better plans made for the globe?
It bothered Tandra, that she didn't know why the sun had closed its eyes on her, and why it was pitch black in the south and without the white sprinkling. These Northerners didn't understand the confusion. She sell backwards into the mould and just thought that maybe she should move to this place, so she could be with the heavenly blanket. How long would it be though, until the winters grew dark and wet. Would the southern storms and vengeance push up to the north? How far, and when? A few years? A hundred? Where would the snow reside if there is no northern refuge? Perhaps the equator. Or would it float in orbit while it waits for the water to calm, and the sun to glow kindly.
For a decade Tandra tidied her cabin cottage in the north. Every winter wading through the front yard out to the firs. Every summer drawing the turquoise curtains just before sundown. Tandra had been photographing snowflakes. After 10 years of winters, she had 19223 specimens, almost enough to fill a whole bucket, or create a snowman's head. Tandra created a snow castle too. It took 12 days to have a nice one ready, and if she remembered nuts and seeds and wheat, then the beings of the the tundra would jump around the palace and it became quite alive and happy.
Tandra laughed at the animals playing about, and she fed them sometimes too. Later in the day, when the fun had been had, the rats came to finish off the seeds, and they scurried for shelter, somewhere warmer than the snow house. They wouldn't dare enter the cabin, but there was a tree stump with a burrow underneath it, that was cosy after supper.
Tandra received a letter from her friend in the south. She heard of a storm moving from the other side of the world. It was expected to go north and then approach Tandra's latitude. The storm was a snow storm, but it may excite rains. Creoleah would visit tandra by train and bring supplies and a helping hand for necessary renovations.
Several days after, Creoleah packed over the salty walkway, and hugged Tandra. There was no need to ask for toast, as Tandra had prepared pomegranate juice, blackberry tea, rye bread and salad toppings. Breakfast was served. Creoleah showed her the bolts and drills needed to tie the house down, and Tandra made her bed. Creoleah explained the problems in the south during the spring. The cities were predominated by wetlands and bullrushes were the most common flower. Water lilies too, imported from China and Nymphaes from Paris, the lotus and chestnuts too. But the daffodils and jonquils would only grow in pots in apartments away from the cold rains. Most of the city was so ugly and dirty now, not like while ago.
Creoleah didn't return to the south. Writing to her mother that Tandra needed help during the storm, and to send another tarpaulin in case the floors became damp. Sometimes Creoleah would wander off past the forest and come back with some machined wood palings. She intended to extend the cabin, so the both of them could live there. Actually, the extra room was for food stores in case the storms would keep them locked in for weeks. Tandra sadly pulled out a dinghy and its paddles. Creoleah said it was for the best that we have that, ready as we don't know what to expect. She tied the boat under the front porch.
Creoleah's family wrote, the storm was due on the 5th of January on the North Pole, so to expect it later in the day as it had grown rough. Tandra was not scared. Three days to go, they were ready. The two had been building a snow castle outside the cabin, to encase it. Part of the front yard and the tree stump were included in the structure. There was four squirrels and a few wrens, and a little hedgehog. The ice roof was attached to the cottage roof for the initial construction, and it was, excepting this, totally freestanding in a dome, like an Eskimo's igloo. Creoleah wiped the icy patches, so they could all see outside.
All four squirrels bounded into the house at once, The ground shook and the pantry rattled. The curtains were open to the ice view, and the wrens were perched on the rails. Their wings flapped a little as they jumped with fright. Tandra lit more candles, ready for a gust of wind. Creoleah was sure, the snow castle would hold, and the cabin would stay. She paddled to the door and shut it behind her. Wearing a coat made from local furs, Creoleah was sure, the house would not blow down. Her ears listened at the wall, through the earmuff, the ice and surely a layer of snow. Nothing. The wall and ground rumbled again and she heard the sound of picks smashing into the ice ceiling. Creoleah returned to the cabin. The ice meteors were still falling, for hours. The tarpaulin would be useless if the ice roof was broken, but Creoleah and Tandra climbed over the timber and fixed the plastic across to provide protection for their shelter.
How long would this last The pounding stopped and started again. They ate and slept and waited. Rivers and lakes would surely be formed mid Winter now, no tundra would survive, no reindeer herder would see his flock again. Perhaps go east for the winter, forever, if the Russians permitted. Not even a flux on the market this year, reindeer meat would die with their farmed and loved souls, and with the acres of former dry lands and snow fields, and with the ancient art of the farmers. The families of farmers would have to learn to boat and fish, and swim, and build their shelters on floating platforms.
How long would a thick wall last? Made from ice it would surely be molten in an hour if hit by water. Should rain like torrents of promiscuous ants falling from the sky, to scare those animals and people living peacefully. The walls would engulf the water, sinking everything protected by it, and the water would permeate the barriers by chewing through it like fast old gums, in a very painful manner.
Tandra and Creoleah hammered at the snow castle. The wall was strong, and the iron strikes only nibbled at the blocks. They decided to keep the enclosure. It was sturdy against their toil, and would surely be a marvel against the weather. With nothing to do, they thought a lot and waited a lot more.
For days and nights, black but for the fluorescent worry of the winter sky and the quivering candlelight fires, the question returned and re-question. How long would this last? How long would these thick walls last? How land would it be until anyone of them was sure it was safe to go outside? How long would it take to escape the lasting walls? Oh, would a mother of ours knock at the door with a box of answers, all reading <>.
One of the squirrels jumped out to the yard when Creoleah opened the door. The little animal scratched at the wall. If the wall was to be melted from the outside, it would have by now. Creoleah and Tandra spared no effort, the wall of the snow castle was gradually broken away, revealing thick fluffy snow. Tandra drove her shovel through over a metre of the fluff. The castle would be snowed in during the week at this rate. Everyone evacuated . The ski racquet shoes were necessary to avoid plunging into the strenuous depths. The dinghy was pushed and dragged for miles. Possibly some houses were already covered, as there were no signs of road clearing or other people. Three was no wind to freeze them or compass to guide them.
Was it snowing everywhere? Tandra wanted to travel south to make sure. Perhaps it would be worse now, after the rains and the storms. The quiet crunching of their progress across the glistening white made Tandra nervous. If only it hadn't snowed after the floods.
Leila
Snow House
by Leila Rousseau
- -
Softness is comparable to the findings of the day. Find them innocent and pretty, their light touch will never betray virgin purity. Find them buoyant and tough, their eager hands will be tiresome and the comments obscene. They are as you are, treading on this earth, often lifting the dead leaves from the undergrowth to spare the new. You may find them tender, as powdered layers of snow over a pillow for dreams, or as a flame seducing hard ice, flickering its eyes of love, while vapourising every layer. Softness, watch now until it is tainted, in you and in her.
- -
A tiny rose. Mauve bud, held in her hand. The sun awoke this girl on the same day she had clipped the flower from the estuary. Morning walks were focussed, breathing fresh air and thinking about life and the day to ensue. Some places more spirited than others. Her legs were as beautiful, when compared to passers' by. Laziness was not her fight. It was day, rushing to the night. Some small reason to memorise the day, remembering the colours and the flavours and the perfumes.
Never to remember words, just washing away would cleanse her skin from the phrases and whinging that could gnaw at even the most armoured soul. This girl could hear all of the sniggers and they were far out-weighed by laughs and funny jokes. But still, she couldn't bare it. She would rather live in silence than to hear superfluous chatting and the awful female pitches.
Gathering speed, the feet wanted to jump. Energy to cut a glacier with only several pounces. Always breaking free from a stagnant challenge, Tandra was completely oblivious to other walkers. This was until she saw a family of ducks, a mother with two ducklings bobbed along the mangroves peacefully. Then the mother paddled much farther from her followers, their pace without her mature tenacity. Perhaps it would emanate. Tandra slid back into the roaming thought, avoiding her social habits of narcissism and flirting. The larger her strides, the happier she became in recluse. She wasn't shutting herself from the world, she was shutting herself in wide-open spaces.
Slow spitting motion was the way the town, the city, rejected her. Tandra knew she'd be welcomed to others in the country, but the hallow spat her across the waters. On the last day she paced the riparian, she saw two grown ducks, dipping under the clear shallows. Tandra wandered what would be so close to the land, that made the shy ducks dine in. And, why was it so unmudded here? Further the dirty way, nearer the cleaner, and post for remote ideals, untravelled distances. Was it possible that the traffic moved the junk around so much? Why wouldn't yachts and ferry boats be banned from swimming, it must be too cloudy to see, for the fish and the ducks.
Tandra was known to talk. She listened to others too. Always in an effort to be inspired and learn the ways of others. She was popular, her laughter responded kindly to good and bad humour. Her sharp colours and super style were much appreciated by the dull and she was admired by her peers. Her toned back and forceful arms ensured she wouldn't be talked back to, even after creating a stir with bold suggestion or poor wit on a slow day.
Tandra looked through open windows, as though waiting a red wren to fly in to tell her an important truth. Instead, the sunshine glared on the panes, and the wind shut them abruptly. The apricot clouds darkened to avoid her gaze. Why are only the inside of her eyelids the acceptable look for Tandra? Must she be invisible or must the world be black? She grabbed the curtain and dragged it across. Then she almost tore the other, sheltering the earth from her staring eyes. She daren't take a mirror in her hand. Tandra dreaded her morning walk in the morrow.
Tandra was is love with so many things, a collection of things: some gypsy music with violins and guitars strumming wildly, dandelions. When she was a child, she picked bunches of yellow spots with long furry stems with her sister for her mother, much to the annoyance of her father. Though she, with her little sibling, was only alluding to her mother's amusement. And again, not in spite of her Father, though his temper was tipped with a sprinkling of flour or salt. Sometimes it seemed the balance weight was a pale of vinegar. Tandra loved deep crunching snow like in the north, it fell so thick among the pines. Squirrels and little animals running around on important business. Bright woolen jumpers to avoid the winter blues. Cafes with only candle lighting and couches to snuggle on.
It was a long interval between the bad day and when Tandra left the house. A lot of berry and ginger tea was drunk, the wooden floor was thoroughly wiped down by her warm socks, and she didn't know what the weather had been doing outside. Tandra decided to leave the house, because she thought it was her duty to understand what was happening far and wide.
She took the train north, the hours and hours were spent watching the fir trees grow blacker and bleaker, and then like a flock of sheep, they were white, and so powdered with snow. Tandra was not sure if the snow was worse than the blackness before. Was the snow the after effect? She remembered a time when, from her window, she would see rolled up snow. The ball would forever gather snow until it was so big it could be a mountain, and melt in the spring, after a lot of sun rays, into a lake.
The snow was there for sure, like it was falling all over the world. How would she know? It has taken so long already to find this. maybe if she goes back, the snow will be falling in the south. Tandra exited the train coach and stepped out to the meters depths, that she would press in almond shapes with her boots. The north was the only place now with snow. Somehow or other, there would be only one way to share the snow with the south. The tallest hill, the largest snowball, and the biggest push. If it was possible to avoid destruction along the way, maybe use a cleared road and put up signs for the animals.
An old man discussed her idea with the fluffy faced locals, and they decided that it was impossible. Another question came about, the same question Tandra pondered: was the world changing now, and if putting snow where the world would melt it, would it only be a nuisance and delay some bigger better plans made for the globe?
It bothered Tandra, that she didn't know why the sun had closed its eyes on her, and why it was pitch black in the south and without the white sprinkling. These Northerners didn't understand the confusion. She sell backwards into the mould and just thought that maybe she should move to this place, so she could be with the heavenly blanket. How long would it be though, until the winters grew dark and wet. Would the southern storms and vengeance push up to the north? How far, and when? A few years? A hundred? Where would the snow reside if there is no northern refuge? Perhaps the equator. Or would it float in orbit while it waits for the water to calm, and the sun to glow kindly.
For a decade Tandra tidied her cabin cottage in the north. Every winter wading through the front yard out to the firs. Every summer drawing the turquoise curtains just before sundown. Tandra had been photographing snowflakes. After 10 years of winters, she had 19223 specimens, almost enough to fill a whole bucket, or create a snowman's head. Tandra created a snow castle too. It took 12 days to have a nice one ready, and if she remembered nuts and seeds and wheat, then the beings of the the tundra would jump around the palace and it became quite alive and happy.
Tandra laughed at the animals playing about, and she fed them sometimes too. Later in the day, when the fun had been had, the rats came to finish off the seeds, and they scurried for shelter, somewhere warmer than the snow house. They wouldn't dare enter the cabin, but there was a tree stump with a burrow underneath it, that was cosy after supper.
Tandra received a letter from her friend in the south. She heard of a storm moving from the other side of the world. It was expected to go north and then approach Tandra's latitude. The storm was a snow storm, but it may excite rains. Creoleah would visit tandra by train and bring supplies and a helping hand for necessary renovations.
Several days after, Creoleah packed over the salty walkway, and hugged Tandra. There was no need to ask for toast, as Tandra had prepared pomegranate juice, blackberry tea, rye bread and salad toppings. Breakfast was served. Creoleah showed her the bolts and drills needed to tie the house down, and Tandra made her bed. Creoleah explained the problems in the south during the spring. The cities were predominated by wetlands and bullrushes were the most common flower. Water lilies too, imported from China and Nymphaes from Paris, the lotus and chestnuts too. But the daffodils and jonquils would only grow in pots in apartments away from the cold rains. Most of the city was so ugly and dirty now, not like while ago.
Creoleah didn't return to the south. Writing to her mother that Tandra needed help during the storm, and to send another tarpaulin in case the floors became damp. Sometimes Creoleah would wander off past the forest and come back with some machined wood palings. She intended to extend the cabin, so the both of them could live there. Actually, the extra room was for food stores in case the storms would keep them locked in for weeks. Tandra sadly pulled out a dinghy and its paddles. Creoleah said it was for the best that we have that, ready as we don't know what to expect. She tied the boat under the front porch.
Creoleah's family wrote, the storm was due on the 5th of January on the North Pole, so to expect it later in the day as it had grown rough. Tandra was not scared. Three days to go, they were ready. The two had been building a snow castle outside the cabin, to encase it. Part of the front yard and the tree stump were included in the structure. There was four squirrels and a few wrens, and a little hedgehog. The ice roof was attached to the cottage roof for the initial construction, and it was, excepting this, totally freestanding in a dome, like an Eskimo's igloo. Creoleah wiped the icy patches, so they could all see outside.
All four squirrels bounded into the house at once, The ground shook and the pantry rattled. The curtains were open to the ice view, and the wrens were perched on the rails. Their wings flapped a little as they jumped with fright. Tandra lit more candles, ready for a gust of wind. Creoleah was sure, the snow castle would hold, and the cabin would stay. She paddled to the door and shut it behind her. Wearing a coat made from local furs, Creoleah was sure, the house would not blow down. Her ears listened at the wall, through the earmuff, the ice and surely a layer of snow. Nothing. The wall and ground rumbled again and she heard the sound of picks smashing into the ice ceiling. Creoleah returned to the cabin. The ice meteors were still falling, for hours. The tarpaulin would be useless if the ice roof was broken, but Creoleah and Tandra climbed over the timber and fixed the plastic across to provide protection for their shelter.
How long would this last The pounding stopped and started again. They ate and slept and waited. Rivers and lakes would surely be formed mid Winter now, no tundra would survive, no reindeer herder would see his flock again. Perhaps go east for the winter, forever, if the Russians permitted. Not even a flux on the market this year, reindeer meat would die with their farmed and loved souls, and with the acres of former dry lands and snow fields, and with the ancient art of the farmers. The families of farmers would have to learn to boat and fish, and swim, and build their shelters on floating platforms.
How long would a thick wall last? Made from ice it would surely be molten in an hour if hit by water. Should rain like torrents of promiscuous ants falling from the sky, to scare those animals and people living peacefully. The walls would engulf the water, sinking everything protected by it, and the water would permeate the barriers by chewing through it like fast old gums, in a very painful manner.
Tandra and Creoleah hammered at the snow castle. The wall was strong, and the iron strikes only nibbled at the blocks. They decided to keep the enclosure. It was sturdy against their toil, and would surely be a marvel against the weather. With nothing to do, they thought a lot and waited a lot more.
For days and nights, black but for the fluorescent worry of the winter sky and the quivering candlelight fires, the question returned and re-question. How long would this last? How long would these thick walls last? How land would it be until anyone of them was sure it was safe to go outside? How long would it take to escape the lasting walls? Oh, would a mother of ours knock at the door with a box of answers, all reading <
One of the squirrels jumped out to the yard when Creoleah opened the door. The little animal scratched at the wall. If the wall was to be melted from the outside, it would have by now. Creoleah and Tandra spared no effort, the wall of the snow castle was gradually broken away, revealing thick fluffy snow. Tandra drove her shovel through over a metre of the fluff. The castle would be snowed in during the week at this rate. Everyone evacuated . The ski racquet shoes were necessary to avoid plunging into the strenuous depths. The dinghy was pushed and dragged for miles. Possibly some houses were already covered, as there were no signs of road clearing or other people. Three was no wind to freeze them or compass to guide them.
Was it snowing everywhere? Tandra wanted to travel south to make sure. Perhaps it would be worse now, after the rains and the storms. The quiet crunching of their progress across the glistening white made Tandra nervous. If only it hadn't snowed after the floods.
Leila
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