Chapter Three
At Aron's house Marie takes the measurements she needs in between the merry but cautious flow of conversation.
"What is it you do for a living, Aron?" She asks.
"I have some investments," he answers warily.
"Ah, I see. So you are a gentleman of sorts?" she continues unthinkingly. Marie forgets that personal questions are looked down upon with disapproval by her conservative clients, for fear that the tongue can lose the head.
"Most certainly I am not! That would be an injustice to my fellow men, and a grievous lie. I am a . . . secretary of sorts, so I do work like you do, Madame for your living." Aron becomes quiet, and it dawns on Marie that the words which she had meant in no harm could be the undoing of him.
"I did not mean to pry, monsieur. It is merely my way of making conversation. I do regret if I have made bold of myself, I meant no ill to you." She states quickly.
"Those were dangerous words spoken, Madame. We must watch over our words lest by mistake hurt those we mean no harm." Aron replies, changing his icy tinge to a warmer glance, though still very somber. Marie blushed. Unknowingly she had allowed herself to become the tool of the government, the same one she despised. It is almost a curse, it seems. Remembering the words of a client the Master Tailor had once told her: "It is the government's business to know what you do for a living, how well you do it, and every ounce you receive for doing it." Once an official had come to her asking (or rather demanding) that she keep a look out on her neighbor, to ask certain questions and gather information for him and report it. "It is for the good of the people!" he had shouted as he left, and he had seemed hardly sincere if at all. Marie knew that if any man who was not an official made more money then his neighbor and the neighbor complained, that man was a public enemy number one, and soon lost everything that he had, sometimes his very life. Of course, the neighbor who complained didn't receive anything, for then he would have more money then his other neighbor! Marie knew it so well, it had been beaten into her head over and over and over again! She understood Aron's fear of her now, and she bit her lip. Perhaps he thinks that she is like the other people who mouth the empty, hallow shell of the law out of fear for their own safety? To quote the law out of fear? Is that for the people, or against the people? Marie knew, and she sighed.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
In The Heart of A Traitor
Chapter Two
Marie sits happily by the small fire she prepared with a small piece of bread in one hand and an even smaller cup of soured wine in her other hand. Marie cannot remember the last time she forgot her fears and anxiety, and simply enjoyed the silence. Having grown up in an atmosphere of estranged women mourning the loss of their sons, and fathers swearing revenge and intent on avengement, she can well love solitude. Her own father had died when she was but twelve at the hands of the revolutionists when he made a small dagger for a fleeing lord. Of course, as a simple blacksmith he didn't know he was serving royalty, but he was killed anyways along side of his ill-fated patronage on the guillotine. Marie's mother, having had so much death and sorrow in her short life became ill with despair, and later died insane. Pitiful? Very, and heart-breaking that these people should destroy themselves for lack of a better idea to live or to die for. Marie had not been taken in by any kind hearted relative, nor any well-meaning neighbor, but was left alone. Eventually the creditors came to collect the taxes that were then impossible, so Marie was evicted from the only home she had. Living off the streets for sometime, she became ill. Found by a doctor and possibly the only warm hearted person of thousands of cold and indifferent hearts that passed her by. He took her to his wife, nursed her to health, and found her a job as an apprentice to a tailor. Soon enough, Marie was able to rent out the small room which she now sits, contentedly smiling to herself. There is little time to eat anything, time passes by fast and there is a coat to be fitted to a certain Monsieur Aron Du Coeur! She had met his mother yestermorn, a small, pale woman who did not seem particularly wealthy, but perhaps she was. It is not wise to presume any amount of wealth in France; the Authorities come and take it under the name of equality, "To distribute to the people!" though everyone knows that no one receives a penny but the politicians--unless it is in the form of a bribe. No, the wealthy politicians are made wealthy by the people's money, by the rules of the people, who were given to them by the politicians. They were wealthy though they dressed averagely or even poorly, the tailors knew. And Marie is a tailor. She sighs, rich politicians don't pay better then poor kings. In fact, sometimes they don't pay at all, seeing as their 'service to the people is payment enough.' Marie begins to hope that the Du Coeurs are poor, just because they wouldn't be such liars. Turning a sharp corner, Marie runs into a middle-aged man, causing her to drop her bundles into the muddy street.
"Watch where you are going, wench!" he shouts at her, instead of helping her undo his carelessness. If Marie had been thoughtless or careless, she might have shouted back, but she knows a politician when she sees one. The man hurries on, and she continues rescuing her items before they are ruined. A kind voice startles her by saying:
"Here, I saw what happened! Let me do this for you. Unluckily I was too far away to do anything, I do hope you will accept my apologies." Glancing up, Marie sees a young man, perhaps in his thirties, picking up her bundles.
"Merci, Monsieur." She says gratefully.
"No, call me Aron, and may I ask your name?"
"Marie. You are not Aron Du Coeur, are you?"
"Indeed I am!" he replies surprised, "Do not tell me that my fame has spread so far through France?" he laughed.
"I do believe it has, seeing as I have come to measure you for a new coat, by order of Madame Du Coeurs."
"Come then, my house is down this street, I will escort you there." And so they walked the few steps to the kitchen door, those steps that had proceeded his fame.
Marie sits happily by the small fire she prepared with a small piece of bread in one hand and an even smaller cup of soured wine in her other hand. Marie cannot remember the last time she forgot her fears and anxiety, and simply enjoyed the silence. Having grown up in an atmosphere of estranged women mourning the loss of their sons, and fathers swearing revenge and intent on avengement, she can well love solitude. Her own father had died when she was but twelve at the hands of the revolutionists when he made a small dagger for a fleeing lord. Of course, as a simple blacksmith he didn't know he was serving royalty, but he was killed anyways along side of his ill-fated patronage on the guillotine. Marie's mother, having had so much death and sorrow in her short life became ill with despair, and later died insane. Pitiful? Very, and heart-breaking that these people should destroy themselves for lack of a better idea to live or to die for. Marie had not been taken in by any kind hearted relative, nor any well-meaning neighbor, but was left alone. Eventually the creditors came to collect the taxes that were then impossible, so Marie was evicted from the only home she had. Living off the streets for sometime, she became ill. Found by a doctor and possibly the only warm hearted person of thousands of cold and indifferent hearts that passed her by. He took her to his wife, nursed her to health, and found her a job as an apprentice to a tailor. Soon enough, Marie was able to rent out the small room which she now sits, contentedly smiling to herself. There is little time to eat anything, time passes by fast and there is a coat to be fitted to a certain Monsieur Aron Du Coeur! She had met his mother yestermorn, a small, pale woman who did not seem particularly wealthy, but perhaps she was. It is not wise to presume any amount of wealth in France; the Authorities come and take it under the name of equality, "To distribute to the people!" though everyone knows that no one receives a penny but the politicians--unless it is in the form of a bribe. No, the wealthy politicians are made wealthy by the people's money, by the rules of the people, who were given to them by the politicians. They were wealthy though they dressed averagely or even poorly, the tailors knew. And Marie is a tailor. She sighs, rich politicians don't pay better then poor kings. In fact, sometimes they don't pay at all, seeing as their 'service to the people is payment enough.' Marie begins to hope that the Du Coeurs are poor, just because they wouldn't be such liars. Turning a sharp corner, Marie runs into a middle-aged man, causing her to drop her bundles into the muddy street.
"Watch where you are going, wench!" he shouts at her, instead of helping her undo his carelessness. If Marie had been thoughtless or careless, she might have shouted back, but she knows a politician when she sees one. The man hurries on, and she continues rescuing her items before they are ruined. A kind voice startles her by saying:
"Here, I saw what happened! Let me do this for you. Unluckily I was too far away to do anything, I do hope you will accept my apologies." Glancing up, Marie sees a young man, perhaps in his thirties, picking up her bundles.
"Merci, Monsieur." She says gratefully.
"No, call me Aron, and may I ask your name?"
"Marie. You are not Aron Du Coeur, are you?"
"Indeed I am!" he replies surprised, "Do not tell me that my fame has spread so far through France?" he laughed.
"I do believe it has, seeing as I have come to measure you for a new coat, by order of Madame Du Coeurs."
"Come then, my house is down this street, I will escort you there." And so they walked the few steps to the kitchen door, those steps that had proceeded his fame.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
In The Heart of A Traitor
Hi all,
I had been considering that instead of writing merely short stories, write a book in chapters.
In The Heart of A Traitor
dedicated to J. T, who suggested I write something, and N.S, who I know will appreciate this.
~M.P. Surprenant
Chapter One
The streets of Paris are dark and nearly empty, there is a curfew now. Very few individuals would dare to stalk these byways--especially on this night December 15 of the year 16---, but one figure slumps along as if he owns the very coldness in the wind that plays with his tattered clothes. Dressed in a drab black, he seems to fit the rotting aroma of which he breaths; the perfume of corpses long decayed of which the French authorities savored so willingly. It cannot be said if this man enjoys his situation, but he is at least content. With long strides, his shabby boots make towards the corner house's door that he does not knock but enters silently.
"Madame Cu Coeur, is your son at home?" he asks the pale face that he sees, and she nods slightly. Calling, her son appears, and squeezing her hand slightly in a reassuring way, and lights the candle. It is a small flame, but enough for their needs, and our two gentlemen take a careful seat.
"Aron, we were betrayed." the man states quietly. The younger man's face turns ashen, and asks:
"Who did it?" Oh those simple words! If we had all the answers we need when we need them, the world would be so simple and quite boring. It was a simple statement, and a simple question, but there is no simple solution. The other shook his head, saying:
"Luis does not know, nor does anyone else. It was a well done job-Domina was captured and killed not an hour ago, and I do not think that even he knew who it was."
"Maurice," Aron says brokenly, "Domina? His poor, poor wife." Aron whispered.
"I fear she is next, she was arrested also." Maurice continues, ever so painfully. Perhaps he means well, or does he? Is there no bitterness in his heart as he gives these grievous tidings, and does he want someone else to feel pain, as he did? What can Maurice gain by telling Aron the same news that so many have heard before and withered from the very mention of death of another loved one. In the past Maurice and Aron were never close friends, nor were they bitter enemies. The candle flickers, then dies, and Maurice is headed back to his lodgings. Not a home, just a place to rest, for as far as anyone knows Maurice has no home, or ever had one. The rumor has it that Maurice appeared one gray day just before the secret rebellion began, men who would fight Robespierre and any other communist officials in France, before all their freedoms were lost. Some of the more crushed believed that it was hopeless to fight, while others insisted that the more they fought, the more rights they would lose, and so did nothing. "Because," as they said, "that is how this hell began."
I had been considering that instead of writing merely short stories, write a book in chapters.
In The Heart of A Traitor
dedicated to J. T, who suggested I write something, and N.S, who I know will appreciate this.
~M.P. Surprenant
Chapter One
The streets of Paris are dark and nearly empty, there is a curfew now. Very few individuals would dare to stalk these byways--especially on this night December 15 of the year 16---, but one figure slumps along as if he owns the very coldness in the wind that plays with his tattered clothes. Dressed in a drab black, he seems to fit the rotting aroma of which he breaths; the perfume of corpses long decayed of which the French authorities savored so willingly. It cannot be said if this man enjoys his situation, but he is at least content. With long strides, his shabby boots make towards the corner house's door that he does not knock but enters silently.
"Madame Cu Coeur, is your son at home?" he asks the pale face that he sees, and she nods slightly. Calling, her son appears, and squeezing her hand slightly in a reassuring way, and lights the candle. It is a small flame, but enough for their needs, and our two gentlemen take a careful seat.
"Aron, we were betrayed." the man states quietly. The younger man's face turns ashen, and asks:
"Who did it?" Oh those simple words! If we had all the answers we need when we need them, the world would be so simple and quite boring. It was a simple statement, and a simple question, but there is no simple solution. The other shook his head, saying:
"Luis does not know, nor does anyone else. It was a well done job-Domina was captured and killed not an hour ago, and I do not think that even he knew who it was."
"Maurice," Aron says brokenly, "Domina? His poor, poor wife." Aron whispered.
"I fear she is next, she was arrested also." Maurice continues, ever so painfully. Perhaps he means well, or does he? Is there no bitterness in his heart as he gives these grievous tidings, and does he want someone else to feel pain, as he did? What can Maurice gain by telling Aron the same news that so many have heard before and withered from the very mention of death of another loved one. In the past Maurice and Aron were never close friends, nor were they bitter enemies. The candle flickers, then dies, and Maurice is headed back to his lodgings. Not a home, just a place to rest, for as far as anyone knows Maurice has no home, or ever had one. The rumor has it that Maurice appeared one gray day just before the secret rebellion began, men who would fight Robespierre and any other communist officials in France, before all their freedoms were lost. Some of the more crushed believed that it was hopeless to fight, while others insisted that the more they fought, the more rights they would lose, and so did nothing. "Because," as they said, "that is how this hell began."
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Mystery of the Chocolate
"I declare," said Lacy vividly, "Those Spanish monks really understand life." Her friend smiled.
"You know, I think I'll go to Spain someday, just to study their culture! Emily, we should do this together." She continued, and Emily nodded slowly, taking care not to lose her needle in the many folds of material she was currently working together.
"I think somehow, that your interest does not lie in the whole of Spanish culture, rather the work which the monks do--make chocolate. You do realize that no one knows their secret?"
"Yes, but maybe they will tell me." Lacy was not to be discouraged.
"I seriously doubt that. These monks have discovered the recipe, and why should they give it away? It is at least some way that they may receive funds for their work. If others took this from them, I hesitate to think of what may happen." Emily pursued.
"Alright, maybe I won't beg for it, but perhaps if I read about their past maybe it will tell me . . ."
"Lacy! Didn't you hear what I just said?"
"Yes, well, sort of."
"What ever gave you such ideas?" Emily was disgusted, and she had pricked her finger.
At the monastery in Spain a few months later, a letter arrived from a certain Miss Lacy De Bois.
"Another letter asking about our chocolate, no doubt." Br. Cletus remarked to his companion.
"I think you are right. When will these people ever learn? I will take it to the superior."
The superior was a very honest man, and smiled at the letter.
"Br. Cletus, write down a reply letter to a certain Miss Lacy De Bois. Dear Madame, in reply to your inquiries of how this order came to find the balance in life, i.e. chocolate, I wish to share with you a secret."
"But--" Br. Cletus began, but said no more, and rather smiled as he finished the letter.
"Emily! They replied to my letter, the monks I mean. Here, read it." Lacy handed her friend the letter. By the time Emily was finished, Lacy was bub ling with excitement.
"But I don't understand, he didn't tell you the secret." Emily mused.
"That is what I thought, but the more I thought about it the more sense it made. And it would explain the perfection of this gift of God."
"But all it says is 'the secret to the perfect food is a perfect way of life.' That doesn't tell you anything."
"Yes it does! The monks perfected chocolate by discipline. Those people that have failed on creating this delicacy failed because they did not have the patience, the thought, or the wisdom. By striving for perfection in themselves, the find perfection also in the things about them, like chocolate!"
Emily just sighed. Her friend was so odd.
"You know, I think I'll go to Spain someday, just to study their culture! Emily, we should do this together." She continued, and Emily nodded slowly, taking care not to lose her needle in the many folds of material she was currently working together.
"I think somehow, that your interest does not lie in the whole of Spanish culture, rather the work which the monks do--make chocolate. You do realize that no one knows their secret?"
"Yes, but maybe they will tell me." Lacy was not to be discouraged.
"I seriously doubt that. These monks have discovered the recipe, and why should they give it away? It is at least some way that they may receive funds for their work. If others took this from them, I hesitate to think of what may happen." Emily pursued.
"Alright, maybe I won't beg for it, but perhaps if I read about their past maybe it will tell me . . ."
"Lacy! Didn't you hear what I just said?"
"Yes, well, sort of."
"What ever gave you such ideas?" Emily was disgusted, and she had pricked her finger.
At the monastery in Spain a few months later, a letter arrived from a certain Miss Lacy De Bois.
"Another letter asking about our chocolate, no doubt." Br. Cletus remarked to his companion.
"I think you are right. When will these people ever learn? I will take it to the superior."
The superior was a very honest man, and smiled at the letter.
"Br. Cletus, write down a reply letter to a certain Miss Lacy De Bois. Dear Madame, in reply to your inquiries of how this order came to find the balance in life, i.e. chocolate, I wish to share with you a secret."
"But--" Br. Cletus began, but said no more, and rather smiled as he finished the letter.
"Emily! They replied to my letter, the monks I mean. Here, read it." Lacy handed her friend the letter. By the time Emily was finished, Lacy was bub ling with excitement.
"But I don't understand, he didn't tell you the secret." Emily mused.
"That is what I thought, but the more I thought about it the more sense it made. And it would explain the perfection of this gift of God."
"But all it says is 'the secret to the perfect food is a perfect way of life.' That doesn't tell you anything."
"Yes it does! The monks perfected chocolate by discipline. Those people that have failed on creating this delicacy failed because they did not have the patience, the thought, or the wisdom. By striving for perfection in themselves, the find perfection also in the things about them, like chocolate!"
Emily just sighed. Her friend was so odd.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Just a Note!
Hello,
Thanks for reading my blog, I hope you enjoy the stories!
If you can, I'd appreciate any feed-back on them--like certain stories you like, and others you don't and why that is so...it helps me alot! Also, if you find anything that seems incomplete or unsatisfactory.
Thank you!
Mari S.
Thanks for reading my blog, I hope you enjoy the stories!
If you can, I'd appreciate any feed-back on them--like certain stories you like, and others you don't and why that is so...it helps me alot! Also, if you find anything that seems incomplete or unsatisfactory.
Thank you!
Mari S.
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Cloud Town
High, high up in the sky, a single rain cloud was rolling by. Many think of the cloud as merely another object, but it is in fact a home for the rain-drops. Now, in this particular watery town, there lived a sparkling droplet that was not yet half grown. Now, life for rain drops is not so very different then ours, for when they grow up they leave to find the object of their desire, and for rain drops, it is a beautiful place to spend their lives.
"Mamma, I wish to go to the most beautiful place in all the world, for I think that I would serve best there." he whimpered softly.
"My son, many rain drops have sought the most beautiful place in the world, but as far as I know, none have found it. However, when you are full grown, look down upon the earth, and seek that which is most beautiful to you." She replied, and dropped off into the sky. The little dropling watched her as she drifted down, and wondered why had she chosen such a terrible dry spot? Sighing, he looked around to find some new-comers had arrived.
"Hello there, sonny, listen to the stories these droplets tell." a local standbyer said. The first droplet spoke:
"I figured I would seek the most lucious and green spot on earth. I found it, and it had seemed so pretty from the skies. But when I arrived, I found that they had no need of me, and wanted to throw me far away. I was angry, but I looked at the ground. It had began to mold from too many like me, and soon the lovely plants would die."
The second droplet then spoke:
"I always loved the sand, and so I headed for the desert. But, when I arrived, I discovered that no rain had been there in many, many months. It was so dry, I felt myself returning here almost immediatly. It had been because I was alone. If there had been many droplets every day, then the cactus would have grown, and the green grass."
The little droplet had now grown to full size, and was ready to leave the town of cloud.
"Farewell, my friends, I am off to become the most beautiful spot in all the world!" he cried, and the other droplings whispered among themselves that he had left in search of a dried up spot in Ireland, and together with his local budies would restore the island to her former glory, by their self-sacrifice.
"Mamma, I wish to go to the most beautiful place in all the world, for I think that I would serve best there." he whimpered softly.
"My son, many rain drops have sought the most beautiful place in the world, but as far as I know, none have found it. However, when you are full grown, look down upon the earth, and seek that which is most beautiful to you." She replied, and dropped off into the sky. The little dropling watched her as she drifted down, and wondered why had she chosen such a terrible dry spot? Sighing, he looked around to find some new-comers had arrived.
"Hello there, sonny, listen to the stories these droplets tell." a local standbyer said. The first droplet spoke:
"I figured I would seek the most lucious and green spot on earth. I found it, and it had seemed so pretty from the skies. But when I arrived, I found that they had no need of me, and wanted to throw me far away. I was angry, but I looked at the ground. It had began to mold from too many like me, and soon the lovely plants would die."
The second droplet then spoke:
"I always loved the sand, and so I headed for the desert. But, when I arrived, I discovered that no rain had been there in many, many months. It was so dry, I felt myself returning here almost immediatly. It had been because I was alone. If there had been many droplets every day, then the cactus would have grown, and the green grass."
The little droplet had now grown to full size, and was ready to leave the town of cloud.
"Farewell, my friends, I am off to become the most beautiful spot in all the world!" he cried, and the other droplings whispered among themselves that he had left in search of a dried up spot in Ireland, and together with his local budies would restore the island to her former glory, by their self-sacrifice.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Jesse's Grandmother
Jesse sat by the fire, warming her small toes. It was a beautiful fire, not too big or too small. Jesse's family had owned this house for generations, and it was no wonder why. The engraved beams told stories of nymphs and elves, while the masonry was old enough to tell stories of the revolution. Jesse's Grandmother sat near her in the old rocking chair that her father had built, and seemed to be asleep.
"Grandma, tell me a story!" Jesse blurted out, hoping that Grandma would, for Grandma could tell the best stories.
"A story? What about?" Grandma replied.
"The first thing that pops into your head!" This was the most common sentece that Jesse uttered, and Grandma was expecting it.
"What do you hear, Jesse?"
"I hear the Coyotes howling. The Crickets chirping. The Wind screaming. I hear some Animal that is dying." Jesse said slowly, as she disciphered the noises of the night. As she said the last instance, she became sad, and said:
"Grandma, tell me a story about the animal that is dying."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, for I want to know what happened to it."
"You are a brave child.
Once upon a time, in the woods not far from here, lived a bear. He was a grumpy old bear, and the coyotes feared his strength. The coyotes figured they had it rough, dealing with the temperments of an old bear. But they didn't think of the raccoons. These animals didn't fear broken ribs, they feared the coyote's stomach. The raccoons thought they had it the roughest, considering they didn't love the coyote's stomach. But, the raccoons never thought of the poor farmer, the farmer who lived in fear that he would starve because the raccoons ate all of his harvest. The farmer thought he had it the roughest, because he rationed that nature was against him. But the farmer never thought of the grumpy old bear, who always hid from the farmer's gun."
"But that goes in a circle!" Jesse deducted.
"That is how it is. Each person in this world believes that his lot is the toughest, never thinking of how someone else near him are affected by his actions. With the animals, that is nature, but for us, we have a choice. We can either work together hazardously, hurting eachother because our thoughts are absorbed by self pity, or we can work together in a harmonious way, looking out for oneanother's backs."
"Do you need a shawl, Grandmother?" Jesse asked politely.
"Yes indeed, I would love that. In return, there are some mints on the upper shelf...."
"Grandma, tell me a story!" Jesse blurted out, hoping that Grandma would, for Grandma could tell the best stories.
"A story? What about?" Grandma replied.
"The first thing that pops into your head!" This was the most common sentece that Jesse uttered, and Grandma was expecting it.
"What do you hear, Jesse?"
"I hear the Coyotes howling. The Crickets chirping. The Wind screaming. I hear some Animal that is dying." Jesse said slowly, as she disciphered the noises of the night. As she said the last instance, she became sad, and said:
"Grandma, tell me a story about the animal that is dying."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, for I want to know what happened to it."
"You are a brave child.
Once upon a time, in the woods not far from here, lived a bear. He was a grumpy old bear, and the coyotes feared his strength. The coyotes figured they had it rough, dealing with the temperments of an old bear. But they didn't think of the raccoons. These animals didn't fear broken ribs, they feared the coyote's stomach. The raccoons thought they had it the roughest, considering they didn't love the coyote's stomach. But, the raccoons never thought of the poor farmer, the farmer who lived in fear that he would starve because the raccoons ate all of his harvest. The farmer thought he had it the roughest, because he rationed that nature was against him. But the farmer never thought of the grumpy old bear, who always hid from the farmer's gun."
"But that goes in a circle!" Jesse deducted.
"That is how it is. Each person in this world believes that his lot is the toughest, never thinking of how someone else near him are affected by his actions. With the animals, that is nature, but for us, we have a choice. We can either work together hazardously, hurting eachother because our thoughts are absorbed by self pity, or we can work together in a harmonious way, looking out for oneanother's backs."
"Do you need a shawl, Grandmother?" Jesse asked politely.
"Yes indeed, I would love that. In return, there are some mints on the upper shelf...."
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)