On a particularly warm day, a woman of 32 years carelessly tosses her sandals off and sinks her amber feet into the cool, wet soil of the community garden. She smiles silently, perhaps noticing that her shiny toe nails look like the little lavender shells of the animals that burrow deep in the sand at the beach back home.
Mirela has been living on the top floor of the Thallow Flats for a little over three months and has made very few friends. Her dark, untamed beauty and private lifestyle leave the town dwellers to their highly judgmental imaginations. Every morning she rises with the sun and the birds. At dusk, she drinks a single glass of red wine, while watching the sun set from the roof of the flats. What takes place in between, in her private meetings above the rare book store, is unknown to the public.
Preparing for the upcoming winter season, Mirela, using her strong, feminine arms, prudently uproots natural herbs to bring indoors and save from the cold. While humming a soothing tune, she mends the dirt in the places where the wonderful plants used to reside. She gently pats the soil to leave the remaining perennial plants undisturbed in the bed they no longer share. A cool breeze causes a wind chime that is hanging quaintly in a tree to sound its eerie song. In an instant, the tiny hairs on the back of Mirela's neck prickle up. She cautiously scans the grounds with her glorious green and golden flecked eyes to check for any unexpected visitors. Though she strongly senses a presence, she physically sees no one. She listens carefully to what the wind and trees murmur and feels safe once again. After collecting the herbs in a hand-woven basket, she walks to the rare book store and pulls open the majestic, heavy door.
A woman with silver hair and readers sits in the corner absorbed in a book. She doesn't appear to hear or even notice Mirela's entrance.
"Good Morning," Mirela cheerfully speaks.
"Didn't see you there, my dear. Good morning to you too," replies the shop keeper.
With that simple exchange of greetings, Mirela makes her way through the shelves and stacks of age-old books. At the foot of the dangerously steep and skinny set of stairs, Mirela clears her mind and prepares to assume her daily role as Madame Fouquois. She proceeds onward.
5 comments:
I like the poetic detail of Mirela's surroundings. It shows that she is very earthly and in tune with the natural world. I like the way the blog ends with Mirela preparing to assume a different identity, but the reader doesn't know what that alternative identity is. It intensifies the mystery that surrounds a character like Mirela. Overall Al, I like it.
I like the mystery of someone watching her. I think I might use that in my next entry. Spooky old man checkin you out. I also like how you show your character's connection with nature. It gives her an earthy feel that is wholesome.
"A cool breeze causes a wind chime that is hanging quaintly in a tree to sound its eerie song." Something lies underneath this character? Is she in control of it or am I making something out of nothing.
"A woman with silver hair and readers sits in the corner absorbed" I was confused by this sentence maybe you want to clear it up, but I don't think our characters are too similar... I think that with what I am going to do with Alana will make them very different...
Even I am occasionally surprised, it seems.
I rose sometime before the sun from my sleepless slumber. My simmering soul simply seemed to require a morning dosage of thoughtful prayer. I rose and stretched my earthly limbs, and commenced to move about the neighborhood. Even I am amazed by that regular miracle of sunrise. A simple rotation of the globe yields that daily miracle - where with brilliant rays the sun emerges from the horizon.
I returned to the building - its bulk heaping over the corner - and was about to go upstairs when Raymond Barnett smashed headlong into me, no doubt late once again for his occupation of working with automobiles. I could see his nostrils stiffen as he caught a bit of my olfactory concoction. A bit of sulfur, mixed with the corrosive growth that follows water within buildings. Somehow, these people think it rude to comment on one's smell even as they insult and harass each other daily.
It's no worry to me though. I use such phenomena to my advantage. With a bit of natural chemical, my ideal watching spots are protected from unwelcome lurkers. The building is enough of a catacomb enough that they do not have to pass where I've chosen to abide, and such is better for me.
In the immediate present however, I could do little but glower at the idiot sprawled before me. He made his excuses - almost painfully weak - and ran out the door. When one is late, that shows a lack of regard for time - and time can turn against you as I know. Seconds are minutes are hours are days when trapped in Purgatory, but true moments of joy move the time faster and faster until the world as it is - misery - brings one back to the truth. It also, I suppose, can make it more difficult in dealing with others, but difficulty with others is a simple part of life.
I moved to my post and saw Alana across the street staring down toward the park. She was probably thinking of those wind chimes I've seen her with. Harold was toting yet more books. I though for a while he would be involved in some sort of interesting enterprise outside of law, but he simply turned out to be a fanatic for the written word. How boring. The self described Eros Dandelo was leaving the building, no doubt off on some fascinating adventure to improve his physical conditions. And there was Mirela. I wish I hadn't noticed her today.
She goes everyday to her little attic and takes money for cheap comfort. You can tell who your customers are immediately. They creep up to the store, as if God is about to strike them down, then disappear within the doors. And then, they come out secretively, still nervous, but now walking with sudden found Purpose - as if they knew their fate. How trite, to let someone else tell you who you are. They also always have a book under their arm, just so if anyone asks, they can say "I was in the Bookstore! Wasn't it lovely. It's unfortunate they carry those Romance novels - they really ruin the spirit of the place, you think?" I pity their souls.
But today, not having a great deal specific to do - no instructions from the Authority - I resolved to expose her, to drive her in tears from the room, to reveal her own wekaness when it came to true dealings with fate.
So I cleaned my corporal body, and proceeded on a mission: to expose her for her own self. I walked in, nodded to Harold, who had no idea who I was, as engrossed in books as he is. I ascended the stairs, and caught the first bit of her trickery. Touch of lemon with incense - a truly exotic scent - almost enough to take the mind to a foreign place. I was impressed with her design - the fabrics felt like air upon my exposed flesh as I passed though the portal - into the nexus of her shop of superstition.
"Come, lost soul; come to a place of spiritual welcome," she said. "Oh madam of wisdom," I intoned, "Tell me what lies in my future. I am lost, confused. Where shall I go? Does she love me?" I thought this was enough of a helpless plea to smoke her out - my appearance of weakness would embolden her to exposes herself more readily. But it was not to be.
"Harbinger! Do not defile yourself with such lies!" she cried, and I froze. This was not expected. "Fouquois has seen you for what you are!"
I was shocked. "Madam, what do you mean? I am lost." I turned to go, to goad her more effectively.
"Stay still! You will gain something here. You came to find lies, but you will only find the lies you tell yourself!" She was raving, I thought, I hoped.
"You watch with purpose, but every moment you are here, and NOT there, not where you know you should have gone, you become guilty. Do not judge, lest ye be judged, sir. Be warned!"
And I ran.
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