come back – Page 12

August 20, 2009

Rizardo Before Micola

Rizardo Della Scalla brushed a light rime of dust from the balustrade of the wide arching ponticello clearing a clean spot on which to sit and wait for Micola. He had been early but she was already late. The iridescent green of the little charm tracing the edges of the larger bridge upstream of his own rendezvous reflected neatly off the sleek water below but did little to illuminate either bridge. Warm light from the hotel windows lining the canal and the occasional lamp kept lovers like Rizzardo from stumbling. He was far enough away from the Carnevalers to hear the water sliding under him; close enough to make out the din. A startling thought of her catching him resting had him off the marble and on his feet quickly.

This turned into more of a mess as I tried to clean it up. Funny.

Day 408

June 17, 2009

The Undescribable Treehouse

http://www.dezeen.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/takasugi-an-by-terunobu-fujimori-0.jpg

This didn’t get off the ground. The paragraphs below are more connected ideas I failed to stitch together than true grammatical structures.

Aunchy xa’Thill spied the crooked black chimney through the straight gray firs and paused on the mountian trail above it. A guild-made window—found or stolen from the city—covered a trapezoidal hole in the wall. An unknown builder fashioned that wall from two L-shaped pieces of ply-wood: one painted red, the other unpainted, but still stamped with the mill name. The evergreen roof pitched steeply was scaled more for a doll’s house than

The small home gave him a queer feeling that only increased the more he regarded structure.

The piece-meal home moved unnaturally against the distant backdrop of mountains across the valley and then, as xa’Thill descended the trail from above, it seemed to rise into the trees like the moon cresting the horizon and soaring into the sky.

Day 363

February 11, 2009February 11, 2009

The Trail to Camp-home

A Mid-winter morning grows from grey to bright in the snow spattered mountains. Where once indistinct shadows fogged the aspen groves now crisp lines stretch miles up the orange-on-white meadow like a sun dial.

Ron was born around here, around this time of year, but coldness never appealed to him the way it did to his older brothers. After less than a half night’s sleep bedded down in a rock strewn hollow—not as in the lee of the wind as he’d first thought—Ron hustled through the crust throwing plumes of snow-mist from his feet like a rail engine huffing steam. The sun would rise. Its warmth would blunt the knife of wind. And he’d be happy—happier.

Each couple of steps cycled the same thought: his arrival back in Camp-home. He probably show up from the east near as he could tell. He would walk through most of Camp-home before locating his mother’s tent. There would be some surprise at his arrival, but not too much, then one of his brothers, probably Dan because first-born Ton couldn’t appear ruffled, would ask, “Why did you not come by The Trail?”

They would all hang on his answer expecting a polite plausible palatable excuse. Instead he would answer in the only sensible way he could: “Why would I come by The Trail?”

In a another twenty strides the imaginary memory took the stage of his thoughts once more. He tried to rewrite the script. He tried to cobble an answer that wouldn’t keep him separate from his family. And he did, again, but his feet wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t turn toward the west, wouldn’t seek out The Trail. They kept barging a solitary path through the snow toward Camp-home.

Day 345