It’s Friday thennnnnnn… 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)
“Tenebrosity: The Latin word for darkness is tenebrosus. Tenebrosity is the quality of gloominess and suggests a sombre and dingy atmosphere.”
“Titubant: Derived from the French word for faltering, titubant describes a staggering or stumbling movement, possibly due to intoxication. It is related to an Italian word titubante, which describes somebody who dithers and is indecisive in their actions.”
“Truckle: A truckle at one time was a small wheel attached to beds so that they could moved around and easily stored. These beds became known as truckle beds. Often used by children, they were stored under larger beds for adults. This gave rise to the figurative sense of truckle as being subservient to someone larger or more prominent, or bending to their will in an obsequious manner. He was obsessed by wealth and status and would truckle up to anyone he thought had power and influence.”
(from “1000 Words to Expand Your Vocabulary” by Joseph Piercy)
My Summertime Goddess | Part 5
Or maybe I was too innocent to see. Of course I wouldn’t be her first female lover, I would be far from her first lover of any gender. My goddess let me approach, sunlight creating a red carpet for my entrance. I bowed low, truckling up to my queen. I began to recite the waterfall of words that I’d practiced so many times. Now the syllables cascaded from my mouth, a frothy mess. She took me anyway. To her tent, a huge teepee of luxury, I was titubant in her graceful shadow. Overwhelmed, with love and obsession and lust and desire. I needed, I craved, I yearned. And she gave. It was delicious, the juicy bite of apple. Until I swallowed the bite. It was over. The world shifted, a veil of tenebrosity dispelled all of the summer warmth. Satisfied, she sighed and floated from me. Leaving me weaker than I could ever describe. I reached out my hand towards her whimsy, she was shifting in and out of focus, I could do nothing as my heavy lids shut out the world to me.
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.
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.