Original, uhh... thing.
You could read this as fiction, prose, or spiritual/philosophical story telling. No idea really what exactly it is to be honest. Mostly just a short fiction...
Those of you who have read my “Original, uhh…thing’s” before will have some idea what to expect by now. :P lol. Those of you haven’t…well… sorry about any lasting confusion.
Title: Seaming Music
Author: Me
Weird Level: Normal for me. Not that weird, just…yes, potentially a bit...meaningful
Length: Not that long.
Warning: unedited. unbeta'd. However you want to say it. I've not read through it myself even.
ETA: So I caved and did do a quick read through after all. Fixed some of the more obvious things. You knew I eventually would. I did try not to, I did.
Seaming Music
The seams of her flared skirt in her hands, Isis spins, her feet tapping and thumping in tune with the soaring rhythm of the music that fills the cave like room where she lives. The walls blur as she dances ever faster, changing from the drab pale grey to marvellous vortex of colours and textures. She spins, changing directions, speeds and movements as she goes. She does not stop though, ever united with the rising concerto that is flooding out the door and down the mountainside.
Faster she turns, this way, and that way. Her skirt flowing in a direction of its own, yet, separate though its swing may be, its another part of the rhythm. Like the feet that pound her heartbeat, and her body that spins her emotion, they are many parts, working to create a wonderful whole. Singing with the music as she spins.
*********
There’s a man towards the door, leaning on a post. He watches this moment of freedom with a soft smile on his face. He watches her, as she watches the walls that blur. As she spins he sees an ocean, white foam twirling on the waves. His love in her single moment of freedom, lost in a peculiar moment of life.
It’s rare to see her like this anymore. Not since the sickness took hold of her soul. But now, in this moment, he sees that she is part of something larger. A gift of the earth sent to grace their lives - Up here, in the mountain homes.
*********
A harassed mother in her kitchen, built just below on the cliff, bustles to get eight lunches ready for the midday rush of children. There is a pot steaming and buttered bread layers one side of the bench. The cool the natural walls provide doesn’t do her any good at this time of day and she wipes her face on a cloth for a moment of peace before the cooking demands her attention once more.
From above she hears a concerto pounding, the noise flooding through from the ceiling and the door. Once, she remembers, she would wish that noise would stop. Ever it was a smudge on her few seconds of quiet she earned in a day. Now though, dispite the steaming heat and the demanding noise of the pot boiling away, she smiles in appreciation. Never had she thought she would miss that constant noise, but she had missed it - the utter death of quiet had driven her crazy for weeks. Too silent, it was too strange a sensation in life. It had been odd.
So, now she smiles as she listens to the music and the thumping. The pot is boiling over, and the bread is drying out, and she doesn’t care at all. Let the children fix their own lunches today, she decides. They are old enough for that by now.
She should go shopping, the mother nods to herself in decision. For a new pair of shoes - pretty ones, entirely useless ones. Mayter turns off the stove, writes a note and leaves for the afternoon. Away to do something for herself today.
*********
In the village, near the square, a tired teacher pauses in his fatigue. He is old now, and rightfully should be living in greater leisure. Away in a small room, with his books, and a fire - It would be lovely. Its moments like this, when he’s slightly short of energy that he considers leaving to live that life. But, as stands in the centre in the hectic city markets, he sees a woman, old beyond her years, smiling happily as she buys things that she must know, she’ll never have cause to wear.
Her children, for he knows who everyone is in this town, he sent home to lunch not twenty minutes ago. They would be there now, learning how to do what she does for them everyday. In her own way, she is teaching them, as he teaches them. Just that she is doing it in a different way.
There is a moment of sudden still in the square that surrounds him, and he hears music, carrying down softly on the breeze. It comes from one of the houses that are built into the cliff. He listens, whilst he watches the mother of eight children listening too. On par, he sees with her, children must learn, and there must be moments for yourself too.
Time, he thought, to ask for less hours in his day. He could not ever leave his job entirely, he loved it too much, but he recognised now that at his age, he hadn’t enjoyed the music nearly enough.
Stifling summer heat can be damned, he thought, large brown fluffy slippers would feel good in the late afternoons.
“Can I try those on?”
*********
There is an older lady who lives on a small farm situated half way between the cliff with the houses built into it, and the main heart of the town. The sick girl is playing her music once again, she hears. A genuine gypsy child, that one was. To have such a freedom was something everyone else could only dream of. She herself had been like that once, many years ago. She wished she was like that still.
Her eyes stared off into seemingly nothing for a moment. Focussed on an older man she could see paused on the edge of the square. Dignity and an air of erudition seemed to wash over him as he stood there. Beth rose in a sudden spur of youth, and decision. There was a boy working on the water tank, she would send him up the hill with a gift for the girl while she went to get the man that she had wanted for a few years now.
It had been long enough, and they were too old to carry on as sillily as they had been. She would woo him, and thank the girl for helping her see her youth.
*********
Trevor knew he was not much use to anyone really; he was just a handyman, and not much more. But taking a tin of biscuits up the cliff was a new task even for him. He shook his head at the strange folly of the old lady as he climbed. For any other customer he wouldn’t be doing this at all. But, he liked the old lady, and he hoped that she would have luck with her teacher man.
The music seemed to be everywhere up here and he couldn’t tell which door it was that he should be leaving these biscuits at. Ahead of him he could see a girl of about his own age yelling at her many younger siblings. Hustling them back to the school, while defending the meal she had cooked them for lunch.
“Well, its not like mum warned me she wouldn’t be here is it? I can’t very well cook cuisine on a moments notice, can I? Besides…” she huffed, “It’s not like you were rushing to make it, is it?”
Her hair was falling out as she stood defensively, and Trevor took a moment before he realised he was staring.
*********
The blaring music and the screaming of her brothers and sisters seemed not to exist for a moment as Helena stared at the boy in front of her. The music came from the house above their’s, she had told him. “Number 89.”
But, he stood there now still, and she didn’t want him to leave just yet. What she had to say to him beyond what was necessary she didn’t know, but there was something about him, that just seemed nice. She liked him.
A crooked and nervous smile spread across his face as he seemed to fish, to find the right words to say. His eyes were the deepest brown, Julienne noticed. You could sink in those. Her heart beat faster as she heard his stammered question. A date?
“Yes I would love a date with you. I - I - I…yes.”
*********
The man outside the door turned at the sound of footsteps heading towards him. Miss Beth had sent biscuits? He blinked at the lad, not quite understanding why she would do that. But he took the biscuit tin nonetheless and smiled as he passed the lad his thermos of cold drink and some money for his bother. He didn’t understand the gesture at all. But it was such a nice thing to do, that Isis would surely love it.
The contents smelled delicious and the tin was decorated in coloured ribbons. The same colours, he noticed laughingly, as Isis’s skirt that was still swaying as she spun. He watched Isis for a moment longer as he tucked the tin behind a rock near the door. It would be a lovely thing to cheer her later in the evening, when the dancing took its effects on her illness.
The small gift would cheer her so very much then. Now, she was happier to dance, and he was happier watching her as she did.
*********
There was a movement in the blur, as Isis spun. She glowed with happiness as she slowed down to see who was there. It was John, standing near the door with a big goofy smile on his face as he watched her. He had been lovely, standing by her so much lately. She would not be getting better nearly as soon, were it not for his fussing, and helping her.
This is the man would always love, she knew - the one who would hide gifts that the neighbours sent, to give to her when she would need them more. It was a lovely thing to do.
“You don’t have to just watch, John. Come on and dance with me!”
Isis smiles lightly and easily as she holds his hand and spins him with her - the grey walls blurring around them.
That’s all I wrote.
Those of you who have read my “Original, uhh…thing’s” before will have some idea what to expect by now. :P lol. Those of you haven’t…well… sorry about any lasting confusion.
Title: Seaming Music
Author: Me
Weird Level: Normal for me. Not that weird, just…yes, potentially a bit...meaningful
Length: Not that long.
Warning: unedited. unbeta'd. However you want to say it. I've not read through it myself even.
ETA: So I caved and did do a quick read through after all. Fixed some of the more obvious things. You knew I eventually would. I did try not to, I did.
Seaming Music
The seams of her flared skirt in her hands, Isis spins, her feet tapping and thumping in tune with the soaring rhythm of the music that fills the cave like room where she lives. The walls blur as she dances ever faster, changing from the drab pale grey to marvellous vortex of colours and textures. She spins, changing directions, speeds and movements as she goes. She does not stop though, ever united with the rising concerto that is flooding out the door and down the mountainside.
Faster she turns, this way, and that way. Her skirt flowing in a direction of its own, yet, separate though its swing may be, its another part of the rhythm. Like the feet that pound her heartbeat, and her body that spins her emotion, they are many parts, working to create a wonderful whole. Singing with the music as she spins.
*********
There’s a man towards the door, leaning on a post. He watches this moment of freedom with a soft smile on his face. He watches her, as she watches the walls that blur. As she spins he sees an ocean, white foam twirling on the waves. His love in her single moment of freedom, lost in a peculiar moment of life.
It’s rare to see her like this anymore. Not since the sickness took hold of her soul. But now, in this moment, he sees that she is part of something larger. A gift of the earth sent to grace their lives - Up here, in the mountain homes.
*********
A harassed mother in her kitchen, built just below on the cliff, bustles to get eight lunches ready for the midday rush of children. There is a pot steaming and buttered bread layers one side of the bench. The cool the natural walls provide doesn’t do her any good at this time of day and she wipes her face on a cloth for a moment of peace before the cooking demands her attention once more.
From above she hears a concerto pounding, the noise flooding through from the ceiling and the door. Once, she remembers, she would wish that noise would stop. Ever it was a smudge on her few seconds of quiet she earned in a day. Now though, dispite the steaming heat and the demanding noise of the pot boiling away, she smiles in appreciation. Never had she thought she would miss that constant noise, but she had missed it - the utter death of quiet had driven her crazy for weeks. Too silent, it was too strange a sensation in life. It had been odd.
So, now she smiles as she listens to the music and the thumping. The pot is boiling over, and the bread is drying out, and she doesn’t care at all. Let the children fix their own lunches today, she decides. They are old enough for that by now.
She should go shopping, the mother nods to herself in decision. For a new pair of shoes - pretty ones, entirely useless ones. Mayter turns off the stove, writes a note and leaves for the afternoon. Away to do something for herself today.
*********
In the village, near the square, a tired teacher pauses in his fatigue. He is old now, and rightfully should be living in greater leisure. Away in a small room, with his books, and a fire - It would be lovely. Its moments like this, when he’s slightly short of energy that he considers leaving to live that life. But, as stands in the centre in the hectic city markets, he sees a woman, old beyond her years, smiling happily as she buys things that she must know, she’ll never have cause to wear.
Her children, for he knows who everyone is in this town, he sent home to lunch not twenty minutes ago. They would be there now, learning how to do what she does for them everyday. In her own way, she is teaching them, as he teaches them. Just that she is doing it in a different way.
There is a moment of sudden still in the square that surrounds him, and he hears music, carrying down softly on the breeze. It comes from one of the houses that are built into the cliff. He listens, whilst he watches the mother of eight children listening too. On par, he sees with her, children must learn, and there must be moments for yourself too.
Time, he thought, to ask for less hours in his day. He could not ever leave his job entirely, he loved it too much, but he recognised now that at his age, he hadn’t enjoyed the music nearly enough.
Stifling summer heat can be damned, he thought, large brown fluffy slippers would feel good in the late afternoons.
“Can I try those on?”
*********
There is an older lady who lives on a small farm situated half way between the cliff with the houses built into it, and the main heart of the town. The sick girl is playing her music once again, she hears. A genuine gypsy child, that one was. To have such a freedom was something everyone else could only dream of. She herself had been like that once, many years ago. She wished she was like that still.
Her eyes stared off into seemingly nothing for a moment. Focussed on an older man she could see paused on the edge of the square. Dignity and an air of erudition seemed to wash over him as he stood there. Beth rose in a sudden spur of youth, and decision. There was a boy working on the water tank, she would send him up the hill with a gift for the girl while she went to get the man that she had wanted for a few years now.
It had been long enough, and they were too old to carry on as sillily as they had been. She would woo him, and thank the girl for helping her see her youth.
*********
Trevor knew he was not much use to anyone really; he was just a handyman, and not much more. But taking a tin of biscuits up the cliff was a new task even for him. He shook his head at the strange folly of the old lady as he climbed. For any other customer he wouldn’t be doing this at all. But, he liked the old lady, and he hoped that she would have luck with her teacher man.
The music seemed to be everywhere up here and he couldn’t tell which door it was that he should be leaving these biscuits at. Ahead of him he could see a girl of about his own age yelling at her many younger siblings. Hustling them back to the school, while defending the meal she had cooked them for lunch.
“Well, its not like mum warned me she wouldn’t be here is it? I can’t very well cook cuisine on a moments notice, can I? Besides…” she huffed, “It’s not like you were rushing to make it, is it?”
Her hair was falling out as she stood defensively, and Trevor took a moment before he realised he was staring.
*********
The blaring music and the screaming of her brothers and sisters seemed not to exist for a moment as Helena stared at the boy in front of her. The music came from the house above their’s, she had told him. “Number 89.”
But, he stood there now still, and she didn’t want him to leave just yet. What she had to say to him beyond what was necessary she didn’t know, but there was something about him, that just seemed nice. She liked him.
A crooked and nervous smile spread across his face as he seemed to fish, to find the right words to say. His eyes were the deepest brown, Julienne noticed. You could sink in those. Her heart beat faster as she heard his stammered question. A date?
“Yes I would love a date with you. I - I - I…yes.”
*********
The man outside the door turned at the sound of footsteps heading towards him. Miss Beth had sent biscuits? He blinked at the lad, not quite understanding why she would do that. But he took the biscuit tin nonetheless and smiled as he passed the lad his thermos of cold drink and some money for his bother. He didn’t understand the gesture at all. But it was such a nice thing to do, that Isis would surely love it.
The contents smelled delicious and the tin was decorated in coloured ribbons. The same colours, he noticed laughingly, as Isis’s skirt that was still swaying as she spun. He watched Isis for a moment longer as he tucked the tin behind a rock near the door. It would be a lovely thing to cheer her later in the evening, when the dancing took its effects on her illness.
The small gift would cheer her so very much then. Now, she was happier to dance, and he was happier watching her as she did.
*********
There was a movement in the blur, as Isis spun. She glowed with happiness as she slowed down to see who was there. It was John, standing near the door with a big goofy smile on his face as he watched her. He had been lovely, standing by her so much lately. She would not be getting better nearly as soon, were it not for his fussing, and helping her.
This is the man would always love, she knew - the one who would hide gifts that the neighbours sent, to give to her when she would need them more. It was a lovely thing to do.
“You don’t have to just watch, John. Come on and dance with me!”
Isis smiles lightly and easily as she holds his hand and spins him with her - the grey walls blurring around them.
That’s all I wrote.