Beholding Salad

Would not I be old enough to understand youth? But there is without insurance of that fantastic; and worthy of jealousy. Some find there approached by their embolden age, and so have it shortened

Love Story

Main Characters:

Cheri Ludmillan , Amora Adhelle , and David Delnavaz .

Behind chapter one:

David and Cheri were an arranged engagement, at the political and economic insight of both their parents. Cheri is an incredibly distant and complex individual. She views David as a wild, free spirited youth. While Cheri is delicate and a very intelligent individual, her true feelings cannot be comprehended.

Cheri is further talented in opera and music, especially at playing the piano. David, of course, was invited to attend one of such performances, an opera hosted by her fathers family, the Ludmillans. Her father is interested in profiting off of her talents and is overly preoccupied with it. He is dangerous and greedy, and there is skepticism on how he was able to become as rich as he has. The Delnavaz family has a royal legacy and Mr. Delnavas is currently on his way to gaining even more political power. The lady Amora is exotic, but can be very modest. She was an attendee during the opera where Cheri was performing, and was implored to leave by a nervous servant, bringing her news of a relatives passing.

The setting, the biography, and the details of many individuals are lost in the proceedings of this first chapter.

Chapter 1

David stood looking at the Opera D’Revere with fleeting apprehension. The life of the populace and colorful people in bright design that surrounded the Opera eased his nerves, or at least acted like they did.

With inevitable ease, David looked down and stared feebly at his invitation. It was an elongate and thin slip, with flowing cursive that was either blooming into a rose or signifying his admittance. Upon taking a step towards the stair leading into the atrium ahead of him, he suddenly began to ponder his obligations to Cheri. Her soft eyes drifted through his mind, dulling his senses. He began to lose focus and later interest in the performance as the cool night leaned in a little closer.

As if to wake into a fantasy, he was struck with a sharp pain of reluctance. Before this feeling could pull him anywhere, a breeze carried a fragrance from heaven to where he was standing. His eyes widened, but he had already discerned where the luxury had originated. A lady whose lavender coat rested on her shoulders like mist, almost as if to drift down to her legs from the weight, had emerged from the shadowy entrance of the Opera. She tragically lifted her head above her hands, and seemed to rest her burden on the structure that loomed behind her. Her teary eyes caught the distance between his in a single grasp. The opera and everything else blurred around her countenance, as she slowly drifted closer to him.

When they met, Amora introduced herself with polite breathlessness. It seemed she was naturally augmented with brevity. She quickly whispered in his ear, in what was a short, tantalizing apology. Then an applause interrupted his heart beat. David realized, in some urgency, that he should hurry and find his seat. It was only afterword within the Opera when the name Amora, in inexplicable euphony, found its way deep into his conscience. Pulling away from the thought as did the curtains, a certain distraction appealed to the tenure of Cheri’s rising vocal harmony.

It was a simple yet frightfully peculiar uncertainty, but in that moment David almost believed he had dreamed the hours away. Even more so, he could not recall the meeting of his own lips, and how he came to be present for the show.

Cheri was glad to see her engagement seated in the first row. Although the balcony was reserved for him, it was doubtful that he would be there from the beginning. The world felt like it was in the right place, and this impulse drained her of nervousness. In the end the debut was an appreciated success, and would jolt her involvement with other similar displays. Her next duty was to play a song she had written during a party her father had sanctioned, and she knew there would be critical eyes hiding within a number of her father’s guests. The Delnavaz would also be there, but when it came to them, her imagination had reason to conduct other observations. During the night, Cheri lasted a few minuets with these pressures on her mind, before willingly surrendering to a kind, and soft worded sleep.

David did not. The wonders of the world and other ambitions held him into deep seaded silence. For a while he thought. Just the glimpse of day in his cognition, was like an explosion of heat and flamboyancy that the sun seemed to hold back. David stretched, and then stretched his focus into the events of the next day. While doing this a glint on the floor assaulted his attention, as he spied it from his position on the bed where he refused to indulge in its soporific tendencies. The object, after picking it up, revealed itself to be a gem. A discomfort he had been feeling wedged its way into his thoughts, and surmised that the gem must have been what was bothering his pocket. David was about to question the gem’s very existence, when he remembered the wispy personage of Amora. Looking at the back surface of the gem, was a glinting address inscribed against it.

The intensity of an anticipated morning, found itself utterly defenseless from both David and Cheri. Cheri, with her mothers company, went by carriage to the Mr. Hyms, home. She was spirited and ready to receive the piano lessons Hyms would provide her, on no small part however. Mr. Hyms was paid a considerable price for his punctual services. In other words, she was far far from investigating David’s decisions outside. Actually, she never even considered his whereabouts, but the piano and her soul were well acquainted and never far apart.

When Cheri began to play, David was thrilled with the hand the world had dealt him. He looked like a man fate danced around indecisively, waiting on his whim. In this sense, he could have been lost in anywhere in the world. It just happened that this marvelous anywhere, was exactly where he wanted to be. This was simply aside a side street. In the the light of day and in its perplexing aspirations, or rather in the heat of the moment, the Lady found David Delnavaz in the strangest of places.

“I am happy, to see you, young Delnavaz.”

“Ah, I.. you know my family?” he said without elegance.

He then flatly tried at flattery, resuming his place in the conversation before she could answer.

“But I have not seen you before, my lady”

This was followed by an unnecessary bow that made him look like a puppet.

“If we have not met, then how shall I meet you?”

David blushed and understood her gesture to come closer. Or at least he thoroughly misunderstood it.

“Amora?”, he said as she stepped back.

“I have to be going” she barley spoke but smiled at him as they departed.

Things had been happening so quickly he was sure he missed something. What she wore, how he felt, these things were as if the never happened. Later that day, thinking about it, he decided it was probably a funeral she was preparing, and so he felt ridiculous for his behavior. Although David didn’t enjoy the idea that he might have lost a good opportunity; life’s splendid things, in their momentous gravity, usually are forced away from each other, and rejection was simply something that was not possible. If it was not arrogance, then David’s unrivaled divinity presented him a second chance. It came out of all the recent endeavors for love’s caress. He wondered if he ever loved anyone. He wondered if he loved Cheri.

It started to rain, each drop in harmonious unison, was eager to take up where the other left off. If he had the insight into Cheri’s pessimistic attitude about the downpour, it would appear as if it were only raining heavily.

Cheri froze when she saw him. David dared to look over to her. To him, she looked distraught, and shaky. The temperature in the room desperately tried compensating for the turbulence in the atmosphere. David lazily attempting to sit in his chair, beguiled by all the activity since the morning, repositioned himself with the hope of upsetting the mood. Rain clinging to her body, apparently nervous, lacked any ability to comfort her. David asked what she was doing, then instantly regretted it. Something bitter fell on his tongue like snow. The room tried to flash in complementary colors, but they didn’t notice it. David felt his sole concentration trespass her glowing beauty, and she sensed it.

The night returned and silenced the rain, withdrawing its sapphire cloak in prompt sincerity. Stars decorated its unsettled body like jewels; becoming brighter as if to make the diamonds on the Earth shimmer jealously. We can never know what impressions they had of each other, or if their lives will trust them with love. We only know that the most beautiful roses are the ones we receive in our courtly hours, the way sultry fires burn from the most temporary materials. We can dream of magnificent flowers then, the ones we will receive at our final stages; and empty our hearts into a drop of rain.

A glass of water and a needle were falling from the sky, when a large bird suffered an impact from the needle and spun out of control. The now alone and empty glass suffered immense psychological terror, and in doing so, continued to descend, however wildly and in paranoia. Luckily, a freak hurricane was on its way to causing as much damage to the unsuspecting countries that it loomed over as it possibly could, while forming below the glasses current path of travel.

It is assumed the glass was very glad of the turn of events, yet it is unknown what may have caused such a response. Many encouragingly speculate that such a reaction was in some ways a very specific result from massive trauma and acute emerging schizophrenia.

The details of the flight are as follows. The glass hurriedly fell through the swirling vapor of the hurricane, which confused them both. As the storm came to dissipate, a happy and tear-eyed 12 year old ran out into the breaking daylight. All the village wailed in joy, when the glass instantly came down on the child’s head, killing her.    

The moral of the story is to never gleefully approach the ending of a hurricane, to never fly through the air oblivious to crazed needles, and to remain cautious of the contents of your glass when skydiving, parachuting, or in instances when you have been either pushed off, or have accidentally fallen from, any reasonable amount of height.   

Since no one else seems to be in the mood, I guess it’s my responsibility to use the word “abacus” in a few sentences.

Sentence one: If you kneel like that again, I will take away your abacus.

Sentence two: Count to nine million.. what are you doing, give me your abacus!

Sentence three: Will you help me make an abacus? I really need one.

Next time the world better start mentioning these words like we are supposed to.

It’s just like the word ants. Something is really wrong..

Sitting upright on the fence, facing the hours that pass in an instant, Idly spent resting in the breeze, and holding a glass of water up to the sky where the sun’s golden brilliance transformed the playful cylinder into a chasm of refracted light. 

With the mornings Joys soon to be depleted, a victorious early afternoon shares its dull glowing triumph, my mind sets down its wonders; to take up the motion sickness of an extended ride, who’s glee is expressed by an amalgamation of halls and rooms that is the reminiscent facade of this lowly place.

In an effort to detour the perfunctory and incestuousness of the ticking that was livid within, and that remained held onto walls, I can encounter a place where relevance is impossible.

 Throughout the periods of thought offered in that phantom innocence beholding my effortless, blind insecurity.

too bad I lost all the rest of what I was writting.

I fell into a desk in that room. I had seeped in through the door. Noise was everywhere, and things making noise in odd colors, there wasn’t much to wait for. The room never changed, the shape was the same, the things in it moved very quickly. They were, happy I think. I watched them as they buzzed above the floor; it was clean. The floor was, like it had been polished. It kept things still.

My error; the rash of colors, the shades and tints of madness on the palette… are never bearable while on the brush. If not for the orchestration on my part, to imagine a new image onto a canvas that is not even “real”, the scene; would remain a razor tearing into the eyes. No good memory, or flicker of self expression is a remedy for the events that change us. The only peace is in the fact that everything is locked into place, until it is changed; blacked out with black paint, or another color. But what if the artist believes the portrait to be finished? Is he entitled to give it a name, and describe its context, its medium. I’m sure, if it were not for my mistake, that I would be so obliged. Instead, the sunlight fades on a figure, shrouded by a red curtain, a horrible rectangular shape, with softened edges.