Citrus Ice-cream

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Join Winter as she traverses the four seasons while savouring the quiet artist's life

She was a dazzle. Like a citrus fruit - a relic of pomology - whose orangeness flared her full, luscious lips, succulent as they were kissable. Cheeks, fleshy red as if fireworks exploding in the ashen sky. Not only did she embody the fecundity of nymphs but also that of a fragility the likes of Freya's daughters. Her name was Winter and indeed, winter was her personage and silver crown.

Winter had made the sojourn from summer school - sweltering humidity added unto her perspired skin as if dew upon honey. Clad in loose and airy regalia of short pants and a dirty-looking band t-shirt, she day-dreamed of the fairies and pixies that frequented her garden whom they made their home. In her deepest moments of revelry upon wool-gathering, often would they, upon doting over her modest self, impart the invitation for Winter to join their cult of Oberon and Titania. Winter, unsure of her parents’ wishes, heavy-heartily declined. But persevere they did until she conceded. And why wouldn't she? Life as a fairy was all she dreamt of as a sapling of the human race. And so, it was she begun training to become the best fairy humanly possible.

Autumnal Fall had begun, the arrows oaken yellow leaves fell upon the earth as if girdled by Poseidon or perchance Triton? Winter had transmogrified into leaven regalia – denim jeans as blue as her genes – cetacean in voice and in morphic field. Spinning her miniature Ferris wheel, she blew into it like a denizen of vanaheim that she truly was. In her innermost moments of reverie like a the nefelibata that she was, she day-dreamt of having sex with her twin flame held captive by Freyr in volkvangr. Moon after moon and set after sun set, Winter nursed the child within impregnated by the god Zeus. A nymph was her mother in the beguiling form of Freyja – rapping like a raven, stark and raving with incorrigible shrikes at her winder sill, the veranda scattered with granola, as she studied in cold season cold rain brought on by Averruncus her cousin. The rain breathed into the window as Winter’s Menelausian hair braced the lucid window glass. Smelling the colour of coffee she emerged from her dream whereunto her butler – clad in his usual genteel outfit – poured a beverage she loved second to peach ice tea.

Spring had sprung in the land of the immortal sun. A rain of cherry blossom petals dotted the cityscape, soft warm drizzle found its mark in the soil of which emanated petrichor adding a scent of almost edible earth in the aquiline nostrils of Winter. She hopped like a rabbit chasing the moon with a sugar cone of orange flavoured ice cream in one hand and her art canvas in the other. Clad of short denim jeans and a worn-out band t-shirt – with the insignia of the Dao, the dew of the fallen rain masked her sweat clung unto fabric and skin. Ravenous she voraciously licked the citrus ice cream with a finesse of the tongue almost cat-like and with equal feline sensitivity, in some moments of subsistence brain-freeze stuck. Slapping her tomato cheeks, she snapped out, a primitive yet effective method of dispelling the hex of cerebral stasis. Clouds, adrift in an ocean of blue, congregated for a choir of deeper and fuller rain as water burst from pregnant pillows above – oh the tears of celestial beings. Arriving home, a refuge from the deludge falling from above and now below. Winter took to a natural study, taking the voyage of the beagle in her imagination and captured the essence, the eidos, the quiddity of the scene outside her pearlescent window. A realm of cherry blossom trees with pink leaves scattered by the gentle wind – oh the sigh of sylphs and breathe of the tamed wild – and scenery embellished of raindrops refracting, scattering solar light into rainbow of iridescent luminous glory. Bicycle bells aring, torrent of rain upon roofed tiles asound, purring of her ginger cat ambient. The mosaic pieces of the art work before laid out by fractal reality did she interweave. Captivating and poignant of muses, Winter fell into a dream of creation as the painting before her revealed her innermost being – the soul of creation as the creator. “Oh, Monet how I have surpassed thee” she gently spoke with ice-cream tasting lips words breathed out, and tears of joyful sodium chloride streaming down reddened cheeks. A bottle of red wine, a warm hearth upon fireplace alight, soft and comfy couch, snuggling with her affectionate cat, a good book and gentle classical music were the items of action that very evening – the itinerary of a solivagant and whimsical of souls.

Winter had begun its dirge of icicles upon the deadened earth – strata of melancholic snow shoved away by wintry bursts of wind. The sun sat perched around the horizon, threatening to recede its warm embrace upon the denizens of wintry solstice – the time for life had long come and gone and deathliness had sprung in its place like weeds of frost in a garden of joviality that once ruled this hamlet in the land of the rising sun where Winter (the odd-artist girl-who-lived-alone) made her home. Trees, stark and bark ensconced of snow, stood naked with silhouettes distant like skeletal dissenters to the cold spell. Smoke from chimneys far and wide rose up and a mist perforated throughout the White expanse with water in the stream frozen partly so because of the Sun’s endurance in the heavens above. The maiden sat perched near window sill observing and gawking at the snow that fell gently upon frosty grass. The window was condensed of hot air as she breathed out unto surface and drew a heart shape with index finger. Steam from coffee mug flowed upwards - swirl of strong, caffeine scent flowed into nostrils, she breathed in warmth as her lungs expanded and contracted. She found herself whimsically singing a song that lingered in her head like a fungus of insidious growth. A sunbird miraculously pecked at her window requesting entrance into the warmth of Winter’s hearth-home. The fire crackled in the fire place, flames licking the timbre wood obscenely. Worn of sweater and a long dress with rimmed glasses of epic proportions. She shot up and darted across the room to retrieve a book of poetry and thus begun to recite and serenade the sunbird to take flight to warmer shores – cajoling this avian being to retreat to greener pastures per its namesake. Winter soon found herself reciting silently and then after a few moments of heartfelt poignancy of eutonous words on paper as she had breathed life into them with her fertile voice – she left an imprint on the window at evening’s embrace, room warm and darkly lit sustained by the fire, hair was dampened of condensed air. She rubbed her eyes – swollen with somnolence and crawled her stiff body at the impending cold she reluctantly would have to endure this winter season. Collapsing in bed she cuddled her cat – purring like an engine of cuteness – and went into a stupor of slumber, never to awaken for the duration of wintry enchantment, her hibernation had commenced and surely was her refrigerator sufficiently stored for ravenous of appetites and cravings.

 

 


Submitted: March 19, 2021

© Copyright 2021 astralis pendragon. All rights reserved.

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