And so the world continues to spin on its axis…
Little yellow millet seeds slipped through clutched fingers, and the hens cackled and clucked around Aida’s bare feet, leaving little red lines where their talons scratched her. A long sigh wheezed down, and she let all the grain fall at once. A flurry of wings erupted, and she reached into the bag for more millet. It trickled down to the chickens.
“My goodness,” said Aida suddenly, “I don’t even know who he is. He must be a west sider.” She dumped the whole bag on the crowd at her feet and stomped out of the coop, leaving the indignant chickens to shake the millet out of their feathers. She muttered to herself as she stalked to the weaving shed. “What do I do. What do I do? This disastrous oaf is going to ruin everything. How in the world do I get rid of him?” She put her hand on the handle of the door and bit the insides of her cheeks. “Creep,” she said, and went in.
Victoria Blake is impatient to continue…
For some reason, Aida was just standing there. She had gone late, empty handed, to the priest, and the smell of his house was still making its way up her nostrils. Now she was about ten paces from his door, hesitating. For some reason.
She wasn’t looking for an excuse; she was a professional excuse maker now. At first her family had been suspicious: they knew she liked to be alone, but they also knew her mortal fear of the priest. So they thought her sudden propensity toward going late was odd. At first she too thought it was odd. Somehow, though, once she realized the priest was deceivable, she was no longer afraid of him. She had thought him omniscient; now she knew he was just a man like anyone else. It was only heredity that gave him the job. Anyone can be born.
Victoria Blake has a story to tell…
Vanity of vanities, says the preacher. All is vanity.
Aida woke late. She was, thankfully, alone. Whatever other deficiencies Helena had, at least she got up on time. Aida rolled out of bed and tossed a corner of the sheet up to the head of the bed. It lay there, wrinkled, like so many ripples coming in to meet the edge of the laundry bucket.
A normal day began with feeding the chickens. Although Aida’s family was the weaving family, they also kept hens for eggs and a cow for milk. The hens were Aida’s responsibility, and the cow was Lysias’s. Sometimes Aida’s soul was offended that her younger brother got a more responsible responsibility, but most of the time she was glad to leave it to him. So Aida fed the hens, and while they were busy clucking down their feed with crusty greedy eyes, she stole their eggs. She wondered if they ever noticed when their eggs were gone. She doubted it. Chickens didn’t have minds, only instincts. Perhaps she only had instincts too. Maybe the chickens seemed to themselves to have minds. Maybe the gods took something out of her room every day, and she never noticed. Maybe the gods just viewed people as chickens, and their offerings as eggs. And then, did the gods themselves have owners? Or did the chickens have subjects? Although, the chickens weren’t exactly subjects. Aida’s mind begun working in profane earnest. They were the chickens of the gods. And if they rebelled? Adventure. View Full Post
Prologue / Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter IIIA / Chapter IIIB / Chapter IV
~ * ~
I wish I were on yonder hill;
’Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill,
’Til every tear would turn a mill.
Is go dtí tú mo mhuirnín slán.
Ella Hansen writes: Guided by the helpful comments on the last instalment, I’ve revised the first half of the chapter; a portion of it has been moved to the next chapter. / Prologue / Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter IIIA / Chapter IIIB
~ * ~
Who’s there?
Nay, answer me; stand, and unfold yourself.
Ella Hansen writes: After a few days of illness, Susan is beginning to recover, but her animosity toward her brother Will’s old friend Qian Ang is unchanged, and her sister’s adoration of him has only made matters worse. Her grandmother Molly has noticed but has not yet pressed for explanation. / Prologue / Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter IIIA / Chapter IIIB
~ * ~
Who’s there?
Nay, answer me; stand, and unfold yourself.
Long live the king!
Mark DenHoed and John Ahern write (or, rather, transcribe),
A Love Lost and Regained: Installment VI
Prologue / Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter IIIA
Ella Hansen writes,
~ * ~
At the far end of the dining room, an ancient clock loudly ticked off the seconds. Across the table, an arm’s length away, Dr Overman dipped a piece of prata into the curry and tore off a bite with his teeth. ‘Aren’t you hungry, Mica?’
‘I’m thinking,’ Marie-Claire said slowly. ‘I was wondering—’ Her heart was hammering heat into her throat, and she paused to sip her icy water.
Victoria Blake writes,
I been standing here a while, now, jus’ looking at the water and thinking, pretty much. I meant to do it all along, an’ I still mean to. I’m jus’ thinking. I can hear them, little voices, saying something like Lookit what I found. An’ I wonder what it’ll be when they find it. Whoever these thems are.
I been thinking about how I first noticed that nobody looks direckly at me, maybe a little off to the left side a bit, even my own family sometimes, mostly Mae. View Full Post
A Love Lost and Regained: Installment V
At this point, we (John and Mark) came upon a manuscript in a different hand on a different type of stationary. It was, oddly, laminated. The paper inside was crinkled slightly, as if a tiny bit of water had dripped on it. It read as follows.
View Full Post
