La Francaise

It was all very beautiful, of course. The clouds hung low over the acres upon acres of farmland and the beautiful Gothic mansion, as though trying to get close enough to touch it, and become part of its beauty.

The infinite hues of roses and tulips and other flowers whose names I didn't know were enough to lighten any burden on a traveler's heart. Simply breathing in the clean air of a farm in northern Italy, and watching th ebees find habitat in bushes and trees and pastel-colored flowers, was enough to clear one's mind and let them drift with the swaying leaves on small branches and the clouds moving slowly but surely across the forget-me-not blue sky.

It was rarely downcast here, in this kaleidoscope of beauty, and sometimes rainy. But mostly it was sunny. A few hours under the pulsing sun could leave one looking as thouigh they'd just regressed from a pristine, white beach settled on the Mediterranean.

Kicking up the brownish, orangeish, yellowish dirt could be its own entertainment in this home away from the world, and watching the dirt spin and sparkle in the waves of sunlight. You could smell apple pie, sitting on the windowsill and releasing its steam and seductive scent to all passersby.

The grazing cows, horses and pigs were a mirror of their calm home. Their limbs were never hurried, their eyes always lazy and half-shut, their hooves and paws remained soft and free from hard work, and cleaned stringently but soothingly by a hand who always gets the fair amount of pay for his work, and goes to bed with a growing stomach full of fresh Italian food.

Every night under the velvety sky, pinpricked with sparkling beacons upon which to make wishes, the cool breeze played on the flowers and in the grass, making them whistle, unashamed, and glisten the next day with morning dew. One could hear crickets, and moos from sitting cows, the occassional flutter of lips from a horse deeply engrossed in his dreams.

The next day, the sun shines meakly in the eastern horizon, over the endless forest of spruce trees, and tentatively peeks through the windows of peacefully sleeping bodies. The sun wakes them up again to a world filled with buzzing bees, vibrantly colored flowers, and sweet smelling apple pie.

Everyone except for me, of course. Everyone knew my story. As Margot Fontaine, daughter of Guy and Antoinette, older sister to Coralie, we were unwelcome French immigrants. However, Coralie had been much more welcome than I. I celebrated with our parents easily then, and then smiled as I watched her pick out a wedding dress. Sttrewn with beads and lace, Coralie twirled in the mirror as the ancidnet dress maker, Peregrino, clapped and sang canto populare to her. I was happy when I first saw the decadence of her ring, and smiled for her while we tasted cakes.

She held her shoulders back and her nose high superiorly, her blond hair swept in an elegant updo, as she and her gorgeous doctor husband boarded the cruise ship to Greece.

I blew kisses and waved, thinking how boring Greece would be, but feeling happy for Coralie all the same. I'd go to Paris or London, or some other big, glamorous city. But sadly, I was not married yet, even though I was eighteen, two years older than my baby sister.

Mom died last month. From loneliness, I think it was. Or maybe from shock. Merely one week after my sister partede on her wonderful honeymoon cruise, we recieved the news that she died from some rare Grecian disease. I cried for weeks. I was surprised I could weave my baskets correctly with so many tears blurring my vision. My eyes were red and raw, I'd cried so much. A few weeks later, mom died and I cried even more. I never thought a body could hold so many tears. But I think my father cried more than I did; I'd never seen a man lose all self-control and sense of masculinity, but then again I hardly saw men at all.

My wide face, thin lips and flabby arms (from eating too many dulces, my father always reprimanded), were not always a welcoming view to potential suitors, who'd heard of my sister and mother's famous, untamed French beauty, and they wanted to come and marry me so as to ease some of my father's sadness and to augment his retirement funds.

Everytime they gulped anxiously at the sight of my muddy brown eyes, and declined the offer smoothly, my father cried more. But eventually, the tears became drink, and he drank so much I was beginning to wonder whether he was trying to replenhish the liquid lost through his tears by drinking.

But what right did he have to cry or to drink over my unmarriageable features? Since I obviously hadn't inhereted my mother's honey and sun colored hair and lean, feather-weight body, I'd clearly inherited my stocky legs and lank brown hair from him.

I'd tried explaining this to him, but he drank anyway. He'd just stare at me with those blood shot eyes and open, drooling mouth.

The only man I'd ever even danced with was my sister's husband, at their wedding reception. His haw was clenched and his forehead crinkled against the suggestive comments hurled at him by his friends. I could feel my face turn into a stomato and somehow managed to keep my deep voice steady enough to excuse myself once the song ended.

I saw those same boys again, sitting on top of a red tractor, bless their souls, they really needed to learn to care for other people. I tucked my head and held my arms and legs close together, almost tripping over my own feet as I hurried past them. But this turtle-izing of myself didn't stop them from yelling, "Hey, doll!" and "I know you can't see your feet, but try not to trip, I don't want the crash to knock my tractor over!" They hooted and laughed uncontrollably, one of them even falling down from the tractor and landing on his back with a plop, but he kept laughing and the others joined him on the ground, not realizing the deep plum shade my face had taken on.

The next house I passed was a very different story. It was quiet and simple, and a freckled, thin, blond boy named Paolo was resting on a shovel. He was small, but also eighteen. After my mother and sister's deaths, Paolo was the only one who'd shown me any kindness, whether it be by hugging me or bringing me a slice of his grandmother's freshly baked apple pie. He waved with a teethy smile and I gave him a small wave back.

The door was open when I got home, and I cluld hear the shouts already. The air outside had been so still and open but in here all was dark and my breaths staggered. I gasped as a vase hit the wall in the other room and a male's voice was swearing in rapid French. My father was home. My eyes locked on the stairs and my peripheral vision was blurred. I felt like I was moving through a river with rough currents and a dense fog was settling over it, as my feet moved through the muddy river floor as though it were peanut butter.

I reached the first step and pulled my feet out of the mud with a squealch and my vision and hearing reappeared, and with a sting and a crack I felt my head be pulled back by the hair and I choked, my watery eyes looking up into the thin face of my father, his hot breath on my hairline and some of that foul-smelling alcohol seeping into my nostrols from his ragged, elephant-like breath.

He tossed me from him and I landed on the floor, and I let out a little squeal of pain. He picked up his and my mom's wedding picture from behind him on the wall, and I realized what hewas going to do with it just in time.

I stood and ran as fast as my legs could carry me before the picture slammed into the wall where my headh ad just been. With a roar like a wounded animal, he chased me all the way to the gate outside our falsely cheery mansion.

Paolo looked up confusedly and I pulled my arms close to my chest as I ran, as though it would stop him from staring. I ran until I reached the river bank and sat cross-legged at its edge. I sat there crying about my despicable situation for just a small time before I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Startled because I thought it was my dad at first, I jumped, but then saw that it was Paolo.

I looked into his little face with shame for my tears as he asked what was wrong, kneeling down beside me.

"My dad..." I began, and then paused, not knowing how to continue. "He wants me to get married but no one..." He seemed to finish my sentence in his thoughts.

He considered me for a moment, his hand still resting comfortably on my shoulder. "Margot..." he began, "I know what he's like. It's only going to end if you marry someone."

"But I---" I began to protest, but Paolo placed a finger on my lips. I silenced myself and looked into his cerulean blue eyes.

"Margot, my parents want me to marry also. She's not throwing things at me, but it's all the same pressure. You've always been a good friend to me, and regardless of what those idiots down the road might think, I've always thought you had the prettiest eyes and smile. I guess what I'm trying to say is..."

And, despite the mud mingling next to the river, Paolo got on one knee and took one of my pale hands in his.

"Margot Fontaine...will you marry me?"

The first true smile I'd felt in months burst onto my face and cleared up all memory of any tears I'd shed that day. My held held high and confidence bursting, I replied that I would marry Paolo, and live with him far away from here.

Hand in hand, we walked back up the dirt path from the river bed to my house, smiling in the glorious sunshine, readying ourselves to calm my mother and sister's souls in heaven, and my father's on earth.

Reviews

[Tony Russo]

I like your tone and your style is very interesting. It is very simple, with good descriptions that capture the moment well. For example, I really liked this in the beginning of the story:

The grazing cows, horses and pigs were a mirror of their calm home. Their limbs were never hurried, their eyes always lazy and half-shut, their hooves and paws remained soft and free from hard work, and cleaned stringently but soothingly by a hand who always gets the fair amount of pay for his work, and goes to bed with a growing stomach full of fresh Italian food.

and this (although I lived near cows once and I don't think people realize how loud they are when they are uncomforable)

Every night under the velvety sky, pinpricked with sparkling beacons upon which to make wishes, the cool breeze played on the flowers and in the grass, making them whistle, unashamed, and glisten the next day with morning dew. One could hear crickets, and moos from sitting cows, the occassional flutter of lips from a horse deeply engrossed in his dreams.

This is a good description, although I had to read it again after I read about the teasing before I realized what they were declining and why:

Everytime they gulped anxiously at the sight of my muddy brown eyes, and declined the offer smoothly, my father cried more.

I also like this play on words to describe the father's mood:
:
But eventually, the tears became drink, and he drank so much I was beginning to wonder whether he was trying to replenhish the liquid lost through his tears by drinking.

You did a good job building a modest character that is very likeable.

I hope you are open to a couple words of advice. if not, skip the ending and know that I really liked the writing:
- Take a look at your sentence structure. You have a couple run-ons that would work very well if you seperated them
- Take a look at the words you begin your sentences with. They tend to be the same words, or begin with "And,", which is more the way a person speaks (versus a narator writes. Try cutting your sentences down the middle and rearranging their order, instead of starting with "I" or "My", start with the second half of the sentence. For example,

This:
The air outside had been so still and open but in here all was dark and my breaths staggered.
Can be:
Inside the room an uncomfortable darkness blanketed all but the cold mist of my breath in my face, an unwelcome change from the open, clear air outside.


Again - overall, I like it and will be looking at more of your writing!

Interesting, with some great imagery. One suggesting ~ try making the writing more active: i.e. "I was so happy when," becomes "I felt so happy when." Eliminating the passive tense makes the story more of a sensory experience.

[.quan.011.]

This is a beautiful written story. I agree with a lot of points Rise from the Ashes made. I enjoyed your tone and writing style. The description at the beginning was great. I could really picture the house. Keep up the good work.