This week I’m writing a continuous story, check out my previous posts to enjoy the whole tale! (or scroll to the very bottom of this post)
“Scaramouch: In the classical Italian theatre of Commedia dell’arte, Scaramouch was a boastful (often Spanish for some reason) and cowardly buffoon. In English in the seventeenth century the word scaramouch became a byword for a gutless and weak rascal. Today it is probably only familiar to people from the lines of the rock song ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ by Queen. Courtly romances were very popular in France in the seventeenth century with their stock characters of the swashbuckling hero, the downtrodden heroine and the scheming scaramouch.”
“Sagacious: Sagacious initially had the meaning of having keen senses of perception, particularly a sense of smell but also of sight and sound. However, the modern meaning is of somebody of clever judgement, discerning in the choices that they make. He was a sagacious judge of character and chose his companions carefully.”
“Sough: An unusual word used to describe a low, soft murmuring sound, rather like a sigh but produced by natural causes such as a gentle breeze rustling leaves on a tree. As she hugged the tree, the great old oak emitted a sorrowful sough.”
(from “1000 Words to Expand Your Vocabulary” by Joseph Piercy)
My Summertime Goddess | Part 4
So I manoeuvred my way through the group of labyrinthine friends. Making pleasantries, laughing at the right jokes and knowing the right things to say, I was as slimy as a scaramouch. But it got me to the centre of the maze, the queen bee of our honeycomb heaven. Now what? I had to make sagacious choices if I wanted a chance. The delicate daisies in her hair soughed at my approach, they whispered to her, beckoning her around to gaze upon she who would disturb her grace. I wondered if she had ever before been approached by a woman of romantic intentions. It was not common in our time of youth, but not unheard of. Maybe I could be her first.
The Story So Far
Petit flowers, nimble in nature, swam through the waves of her light gold hair. She was the epitome of beauty and many wrote her paeans, hoping to win her favour. I was one of these fools, who approached her at an early summer festival. The day was covered in bright blue hope, and I had no knowledge of how my heart would be lost to perdition. I usually found contentment lurking in the penumbra of her entourage, the very outer circle, not close enough to learn her flaws, but the perfect proximity for falling recklessly in love. But today was the day I would break my own rules.
My daydreams that I were soon to act upon were, to be frank, quixotic. She was the quintessence of summer; warm, lovely, encouraging. Her skin was golden even in winter and her voice bathed us in fresh garden streams. I, on the other hand, had quiddities of a different nature. I was known as short and quiet but all round jovial. I did not belong in her collection of groupies, even in this outer orbit, and yet somehow I persisted. I knew that I would never have a chance with my summertime goddess, and yet every moon brought poetic dreams of her, and everyday excuses to socialise where I didn’t fit. It was as if a spell had been cast upon me…
And in a way it had, as it had on all the men that fell down her well of love. Even now the scent of summer flowers is redolent of her floral locks, somehow her spirit is redivivus in petals. But looking back I can also tell you of her rapacious desire for people, and the power they gave her. She was a socialite made of sherbet and fairy dust. Until you dared step beyond the boundary she gave you. Until you couldn’t contain your own desires. Once you made a move on the golden girl, you no longer came around, no longer welcome in any ring of her circle. We all assumed it was by choice, who would want to hang around rejected? But I would find out otherwise, as I was to be her next victim.