Friday, September 30, 2016

Childhood's Despair, Girlhood's Rondo

Have I not been gone for too long? I have indeed. I have been quite taken by school (and not in the entranced, beautiful way!). As part of an assignment, we had to write a short, at most two-page-long story. I feel that what I've made has a charm that would suit this blog just fine, and maybe you –mes chers lecteurs– would enjoy. It is somewhat of an extension of my previous story/poem "Alice Under The Lantern", and I feel that it reflects what I wanted to achieve initially more successfully. Please do enjoy!
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Alice stands under a lantern. The big clock in the sky is talking to her in ticks, maybe it’s morse, she doesn’t know. She doesn't like it very much but she keeps waiting. She knows Mr.Rabbit will come for her if she's patient. She keeps waiting.

Alice sits under a lantern. The night is cold and the floor is damp and the moths are swirling. Swirling around the moon, also called "the lightbulb overhead". She forgot to wear her coat again, and she thinks she should have brought it with her tonight. She thinks of Mr.Rabbit’s coat while she waits, looking at the moths overhead. They kiss the moon and then fall dead.

Alice is only so many years old. To some she's a youngster, to some she's getting old. She's had a long life compared to others, short life compared to more. The clock doesn’t care, he’s on his merry way. Time doesn’t matter to him, does it to her? Alice waits.

Alice swings her feet next to the lantern. She can't see her reflection lost inside the black-backwater mirror. She should have worn glasses, like Mr.Rabbit does. But then her eyes, would they not be lost? She thinks of Mr.Rabbit’s rabbit coat. And here I thought wolves wore sheepskin, not angora fur.

Hi, Miss. Alice. What do you look at with those glass-like eyes of yours?” It's already past midnight. Passed even, is Cinderella's time for bed. The clock has stricken, and won’t for another long, long time. I raise my voice to her cold ears, but Alice would rather hear a step… Of two drunkards along their way. I can't sing to her anymore, my voice has grown tired. “Still you do not answer” I once was all she desired.
The days I spent with you have been broken and thrown by someone else. What ever-river-black fantasy lies inside those blue pearls? Ever inside here, ever asinine, ever childish heart. “Hi, Miss. Alice.” Isn’t he such a dream? Ever late, ever fickle and forgetful, and Alice doesn’t seem to care. Inside her blue starlit threads, the current time’s darkness is at a loss of words.

The light is morose and morbid, but nobody knows that anymore. The only words from said darkness come out screeching and coarse. “Who is that annoying person?” she wonders. And the voice is not mine. But in the light she can’t really see, the cat that’s speaking over me.

She stands under a lantern. The big cat in the sky is talking to her in clicks of his tongue, maybe it’s morse, she doesn’t know. She doesn't like it very much but she keeps waiting. She knows Mr.Rabbit will come for her if she's patient. She has been waiting.

Hi Miss. Alice. What are you trying to hide in those honeysuckle locks of yours?” The cat doesn’t sing but he speaks. He speaks louder and clearer than me, and Alice listens... “Have they never told you you should talk to strangers? You may learn something new.” And here I thought that lions had no stripes.

“I know my favourite stranger.” And he’s the only one she sees. She knows Mr.Rabbit has come for her, that choking smell is his. She likes it very much. She has finished her waiting, now the rabbit is close.

Alice and her pet run along three pages. From white to black and blue. The rabbit and his pet run along three streets, the lights from blue to red. They run and run and run until the fine rabbit becomes a hare, and the fine Alice becomes a hag. Mr.Rabbit  is only so many years old. To some he's a youngster, to some he's getting old. To Alice…

Ever-deep inside her fruitsome heart, she’ll do the rabbit’s dance. What ever-river-black sentence lies inside those cage-like teeth? Ever inside her, ever asinine, once-upon childish metamorphose. The blue roses I gave to you are slowly turning dark red.

Toujours,
Leur Lapine