brigit's flame - june: week 2, "nominal nomad"
Written for "nominal nomad" over at BF. I don't even know, guys. This starts out very Hemingway-ish. Don't forget to breathe between sentences!
Dearest ----------,
I have become too accustomed to indoor ventilation. My skin is numbed by the artificial cold and when I step outside, into balm and sweltering sun, the air clings to my skin, buzzes the flesh, reminding me I am alive.
The hardest part is remembering how to breathe.
(A trick, I’ve learned, is holding the canteen near my throat. Its coolness thins the surrounding air, permitting me to gulp and gasp until my lungs no longer burn.)
A native led me along the river’s edge. He extended his hand. Huang He, he called it, pointing to sediment laden river: a rushing mix of brown bordered by green and clay banks. Amidst the crumbling earth was a hut. At first, its size was undistinguishable through the haze. But I recall it seemed quite small, dwarfed by carvings in the surrounding rock.
Let me tell you about them. Behind the walls of straw, sticks, and mud, were faces. Cheekbones were crudely cut in stone, with hollows for eyes. The midday sun cast shadows against curved lips. There were so many. Some were round and jovial; others angled with sloping foreheads and pinched noses. Quite like an army or guardians, I am unsure of which.
There was no time to ponder. Shortly after, I was ushered inside. With the swish of a curtain, my guide was gone.
The first thing I noticed was a pleasant scent. Like licorice, with a deep undercurrent of wood. Large jugs were nestled about the room and filled with water, making the air less oppressive. It was cooler and lacked the steam of the sweltering sun.
That’s when I saw her, kneeling beside a pile of scattered sticks. She was the reason for my journey. Here was the woman with plaited ash hair. Her face was smooth, unmarked by age, a picture of serenity. I had not said a word and yet, the strangest thing happened.
She said that ghosts followed me, prowling at the edge of my mind like some feral cat. Imagine, me, a haunted individual. The idea is laughable at best! But then, she spoke of you, rattled off your name so foreign to her tongue. And I stopped, slumped down on the ground, and listened.
Unlike my incessant travels-for that’s what she called them-you did not seek journeys to faraway cities of spice. She smiled, teeth crooked and yellowed. I shuddered then, as a chill pricked my spine. I don’t know why.
You are open. She called it a higher form of freedom. The spirit soars, venturing to worlds unseen. And while awake, you cannot recall the memories. But there are imprints, left like fingers kneading dough. Or something in a similar vein.
And here I thought you were merely boring!
Excuse the sordid attempts at humour. The sun is high and my mind muddled. Maybe I’ve remembered it wrong. I am currently in a tent between ventures and it provides little escape from the heat. Also, I am doubly frustrated. This letter was scratched with a broken nib.
Please advise me on the accurateness of her portrayal. I am curious for your response. It may persuade me to reconsider the haunted bit. That would explain where all my socks have gone.
With sincerest affection,
J