“Can you pass pepper?”
The thin pale cherry tree branch of a hand reached for the condiment packed in a quaint china figurine of a blue rooster and offered it to the equally frail hand, heavied with a comically big ring, hinting that perhaps the ruby stones and patina gold might not be genuine at all. Between them, a newspaper covered the recent local Parisian and global developments, all of equal gravity considering the date of publication: December 1945. Both ladies sharing the table and the cramped room of an apartment seemed not too eager to look through the pages: their French was still barely passable. But Nika could not resist swapping it from her boyfriend's home, just like she did with other items in the past, including the pepper container. Nika seasoned her portion of dry potatoes she’d prepared for tonight’s dinner, took a sip of hot tea that would make the humble meal bearable. Roxana inhaled the aroma of coming out of a samovar and looked at Nika. “We look like Weird Sisters in Macbeth, guarding a cauldron.” “Most certainly, we do not!” Nika protested. “Andrei finds me..quite attractive” Painting: Family Portrait by Timofey Myagkov (1844) “Indeed, men cannot resist a woman with scars on her face, no matter how skillfully she covers them with her...muddy hair.” “I do not have the need for such an hurting absence of kindness, Roxana. Jean Pierre said he could easily find you a friend…” Roxana took a sip of tea to avoid responding. Secretly, she knew she could attract a “provider.” Well, even this other day, when she fell in the street market, near Gare de L’Est, meager provisions scattered, her cane to the side, a gentleman took good care of her, even after realizing she was missing a foot. “Frostbite,” she named the culprit. The tall muscular stranger helped her to a local restaurant where they talked sipping on tea that the gentlemen generously purchased as a parting gift. The tea they both were drinking now. Roxana could see now how Nika was able to survive in her job as an adult companion. The stranger’s face and demeanor could make Roxana reconsider her more socially acceptable part time job of teaching piano. The cold winters, the long escape through Europe, wars - it was all catching up with her. A warm embrace could not be the worst that could happen. But she could not accept the reason the stranger was so interested in her. He complimented her “royal looks” that resembled a princess. Has she heard of the legends surrounding the last members of the Russian royal family? Did she knew many believe Tsarevna Anastasia survived and her many cousins await her return? Roxana looked at Nika. Nika capped her hands around a big candle on the table, her palms close enough for some wax to drop on her hands. And then despite being burned, she would rub it in her skin. “It actually make them super soft and smooth,” Nika explained at Roxana’s raised eyebrows. Indeed, Nika’s hands were very lady like. But Roxana found other things baffling, too. She wanted to know how exactly the royal nephews and nieces would confirm the identity of the surviving Tsarevna? “Is there a special shoe the woman would have to try on?” The gentleman rubbed his mustache. He always thought that Tsarevna would stay Tsarevna. She would like the same pastimes, books, drinks, teas… “Is *this* her favorite tea?” Roxana asked, sobered. “You seem to enjoy it.” Roxana got up, barely paying attention to the man assurance that he meant no harm and he could help her reunite with the family. Pay for everything, tickets to the States...At least she should take the box of tea. Roxana shook her head, sipping the tea, absentmindedly nodding at Nika’s story about hunting with her boyfriend. Well, less hunting, more poaching. But Jean Pierre managed to find some feral hunting dogs and ... “How do you like the tea?” Roxana interrupted. “It’s good, but I cannot really smell anything with my runny nose. Pepper! Slaba Bogu! I can at least breath better after a good sneeze.” “If you did not go hunting, you might have felt better.” “We had to stay as long as the dogs were up. Once the dogs pick up the scent, you have to follow them to the end. They won’t give up,” Nika was proud with her knowledge of Vènerie***, as if she has been doing her whole life and it was a major inconvenience to explain the rules to those not privileged enough to ever experience it. Roxana pondered if Nika was right. Perhaps she should give up. Or maybe use the pursuit to her advantage. Perhaps she should benefit from the fact that dogs picked up her scent and are willing to do anything to catch up with her. I won a cool giveaway from Kusmi Tea and NUXE US . Inspired by this gift, I wrote this super ((short) story). The air in the Parisian room was heavy with pepper, tea, oily wax and opportunities. Bon chien chasse de race**. *idiom. throw off the scent **idiom. Good dogs hunt well because of their ancestry ***hunting .
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Hugo sat down in the puddle of blood at his feet. The tears began to cascade down his Sahara sun-burnt cheeks, through the unkempt reddish beard and soaked in the crusted military shirt bearing his last name: Hegerton. The tears kept surging, improving his vision but not the chances of his survival: what he thought to spot before was not a NATO flag in the distance, but some colorful trash bags caught in the bushes. He was all alone, lost in the desert, possible pursued by his enemy kidnappers, yet abandoned by fellow Americans.
Hugo thought to the last time he heard unbroken English: when Dr. Patton put him in the insulation about a month ago. Hugo knew that the matter was serious: nobody mentioned airlifting him to the main base, or preferably back home. He was too weak to protest, grateful for the IV that helped him count seconds before he would slip into the nightmarish coma. Eventually, there was nothing to count,no people visiting to change the IV, no familiar helicopter buzz signaling morning and afternoon missions. The silence. Till the kidnappers showed up. The moment he saw their blurry shapes he knew their tribal and military affiliation. He could not protest the joyride in the back of their Jeep. He actually enjoyed the wind on his partially exposed face.It might have actually helped broke the paralysis in his muscles. Suddenly, he came face to face with another warrior of a night. A stray desert dog. He never saw many of those in the area, but it is true that those half domesticated hyenas existed. The dog exposed its teeth in greeting of a threat. Not many of them, Hugo thought, because they die hungry in this land abandoned by sheep or camel shepherds and Bedouins. But this lucky son of a bitch just sniffed out a feast. Hugo hoped for the dog to come even closer, to lounge so he could just grab its weak neck and snap it. He was afraid to reach for the knife that was stuck in his side and risk another hemorrhage. For now, his hands were his weapons.The dog began licking Hugo's feet; the act Hugo found surprising, relieving and ticklish. The animal did not mind the sweat and the salty tears: it spent the last minutes of the dawn cleaning up Hugo's body. The unexpected tenderness of the animal made Hugo's tenseness disappear. He closed his eyes, and fell down onto the sand. He did not wake up until the next night when he discovered the dog had company: two men who appeared to be lost mercenaries. Were they , like the dog, blood thirsty, but not really dangerous? He doubted it. He lifted himself and rested on his arms, a pasha awaiting a report. One of the man began his tale in perfect English. Hugo stood up and squeezed the security blanket of a knife's handle. He felt ready, despite the knees clinking together like ice cubes in a stirred drink. He could use one.
Multilingualism And Literature: 10 Authors Who Write In Other Languages: http://rawlangs.com/2012/12/27/multilingualism-and-literature-10-authors-who-write-in-other-languages/
UNMEDICATED MELANCHOLY IN THE MEDIEVAL TIMES
Analysis of a Visual Image Depicting Expertise Purpose #MOOC ASSIGNMENT Prof. Denise Comer CRANACH, Lucas the Elder Allegory of Melancholy 1528 Oil and tempera on wood, 113 x 72 cm National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh "Let me explain something to you, Alan. Jake expects me to betray his trust. You, on the other hand, are held to a higher standard."
"Is that so?" "It is! You're like some kind of right-wing, pro-family values senator, caught on his knees in an airport toilet with a male hooker. Whereas I am a well-known rascal." |