October: Brunhilde (i) (forward)

I lived on a mountain. My house had thick walls made of mud which men had carried on their backs all the way from the river banks of my home country. They were whipped up hillsides, forced over rocks wet with pure river water and through gullies slimy with stinking moss. The rugs in my house had been stitched by the women of my father’s house. They cried over each stitch. I could taste their tears when I put my tongue on the rugs.

It was a good place to live.
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August: notes for an alt. ending

Three things just happened to Riva Cercas.

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March: If I told you

People, shivering inside thick coats, bunched in couples and small groups around red formica high tables. The train station café was cold. Cold enough that Melly could see the wetness of her breath. Cold enough that Lou curled her fingers inside her gloves, letting the knitted fingers flap free. She lifted her paper coffee cup with her fists. Melly wore her scarf wrapped three or four times anaconda-like round her neck. Her woollen cap was pulled down over her forehead. Only her eyes and flushed red cheeks were visible to Lou. The rest of the space between Melly’s cap and scarf was filled with frenzied red hair.

Melly watched bursts of steam gather around Lou’s chapped lips as Lou sipped the coffee. Lou didn’t own a hat. She kept her hood up. The hood framed her face with a ring of fake fur.

‘This cold is hellish,’ Lou said, breaking the ice.

‘I wish I were dead,’ Melly said, re-freezing the space between them.

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