Sunday, November 14, 2004

   L'Espoir Chante Eternal chaptre 1
London drove down the dusty road in his dinged, dingy, rusty black car made 30 years ago. He hit a bump, his car lept into the air, and then died.


"Piece of crap," he muttered, and jumped out.


With the hood thrown open, he checked the oil, fine. The engine, however, was not. It had over heated. London hung his head, and smashed his hand down angrily.


Just for a moment, just long enough for the nerves not to notice, he felt no pain; and then: burning. He threw his red-burned hand backwards and squeezed it. His eyes were watering, his skin was blistering, he was cursing under his breath, and his mind was barely clear enough to think, 'ice, water, cold, ice, water, cold, ice, water, cold, ice, water, cold, ICE!'


He spun around, threw open the trunk, and rumaged desparately for his ice cooler. Finding it within the 60 seconds that felt like hours, he threw its lid open, and jammed his burned hand onto his frozen juice pouch. "Ah..."he relaxed just a little, as the stinging of the ice numbed his seething hand.


'Stupid car,' he thought, 'always something wrong with it. I can't even pour water on the Godammed burn in the desert. How much farther is Koritown? Hopefully this piece of shit can last long enough...'


In the mean spirited way he'd always had about him, London kicked the car's back bumper. It stayed on, but the trunk door came crashing down on his head, slamming him halfway into the trunk, and his arms jammed in the icebox.


Feet thrashing, he freed himself, and pulled away, cursing his misfortune. He pushed the car to the side of the road, climbed in the backseat, and laid down. "Might as well rest, if I have to be stuck here," he grumbled.


Soon, London found himself amidst old memories. The one he missed the most was just within reach, and she was crying for him. He cried too, and stretched out his arms only to touch air. Now awake, London found himself sleeping in the backseat of his car, at night, on the side of the road. An incredible pain in his hand, he winced, remembering the day's earlier events.


To see his watch, he realized that he'd slept for four hours. He cursed, "damn."


Crawling into the driver's seat, London stuck the key in the ignition, and puttered off, boredly driving until, he figured, the car broke down. As he knew, silence lay ahead.


An infinity of stars, in infinite beauty, danced far above the roof of the old black car, but London didn't care. He just drove, intent on getting to Koritown by evening. Perhaps that is the reason he almost hit the girl wandering the road.


It was early morning, nearly one, and the girl, though beautiful, was dark and blended into the night. Her head craned back, she admired the myrad beauty of the universe beyond. She was oblivious to the dim lights coming her way, and her gaze was only broken from the sky when the squealing brakes whizzed past her.


Melancholy eyes stared into London's; he couldn't help but be mezmerized. When the car skidded to a stop, he threw the door open, tumbled out, and grabbed the girl by the shoulders. Shaking her, he demanded, "are you OK? are you ok? i'm so sorry! sorry! Oh my God, I'm sorry!!!! Are you ok?"

Slowly, she nodded her head, her wide eyes never breaking gaze with his. That's when London calmed down, and asked, "are you sure?"

She nodded, and pulled out a small red notebook and pen from the bag she held behind her. "All's well," she scribbled.

Confused, London quietly inquired, "what's wrong with you?"


This time, the girl's brow furrowed, and she indignantly wrote, "Not with ME! I just can't talk. What's wrong with YOU?"

Taken aback, London muttered, "Nothing. Sorry."

She smiled, and turned back to the book. "I'm Cynara. (Sai-na-rah)."

He mouthed the name. "Pretty name. I'm London."


Cynara grinned, and from her bag pulled a small, gray, mewling kitten. "It's Efa!" she wrote.

'Cat?'London thought. "Well, do you need a ride? I can get you as far as Koritown, Cynara."

"And Efa?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks."


Cynara smiled, revealing shiny white teeth. Her hair was black, and hung just past her shoulders, her skin was dark brown, and her eyes were golden. And just noticing, London saw her dress. It was dark pink, long sleeved, and long to the bottom, but high baby pink frills clung to her neck, wrists, and ankles. Such a fancy looking girl, London pondered himself.


He had neat, brown hair, brown eyes, and pale brown skin. His clothes were raggedy, dirty, and plain. The ones in the trunk were black.


Then it hit him: London was 24 years old, and Cynara couldn't be more than 16. How would that look?


"Um, Cynara, how old are you?"


Quickly, she wrote, "almost 19 years old. why?"


London jumped when he read her words. "You look so young! What if somebody thinks something badly?!"


She just rolled her eyes and clambered into the car, Efa already purring in her lap. He sighed, looked at a map, and began to drive, once again, into the cool desert night.

thank you!
Comments (1)