11 August 2015

They called her Lolliphabai for “red apple” in Romani.  But the only red she had were her plump lips.  Her hair was char-black and wavy; her eyes were deep brown as the chestnuts she was roasting on the potbelly stove.  The chimney was sticking up from the roof of the gypsy caravan and was spinning a fine yarn of smoky fluffs.  One can see it from afar.

The gypsy camp was slowly moving up along the riverbank.  They needed a well-protected place to settle for the raw winter ahead.  The caravans were snaking up the road following the body curves of the riverbed.
Lolliphabai was devouring the last rays of autumn warmth and her young heart was skipping happy with the gentle breeze coming from the river.  She was sitting on the back of the caravan, dangling her bare feet.  A tobacco pipe was hanging out from the corner of her red-lipped mouth as if she forgot it was there...

With one hand she occasionally was shaking up the cast iron pan with chestnuts and charcoals in it as they were getting roasted on the small caravan stove.  Gypsy loved everything smoked.  With the other she would cares her almost uncovered perky breasts.  The nipples were pushing through the white shirt from raw silk that she span last spring.  They still carried the delight and excitement from last night.  She picked a lover, read his hand, made him a cooked red wine with cracked pepper and fed him wild forest fruit and smoked pork knuckles, which she stole from the last village the gypsy camp passed by.  Now she was listening to his peaceful snoring from inside the caravan, roasting the chestnuts and thinking about the night that went...  As the recollection of his strong hands holding her thighs like a galloping horseman flipped through her mind, she could feel a big surge of heat streaming to her groin.  Her dark eyes were beaming like glowing coals.

She got up and took the chestnuts off the hot stove.  Then pulled the string that was holding the top skirt and let the skirt drop on the floor.  She had nine skirts around her willowy waist.  Next came down the other skirt; and the other.  And the other…
Lolliphabai made a quick gesture of dusting magic over her head and went inside to wake up her new lover.  They had no much time left to drink each other’s juices before he leaves this gypsy camp to join some other wonderers.

Latcho Drom! (Safe journey!)

© 2015 copyright | an ode to… | sophia terra~ziva | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WHO FORGOT ODILE – project “52”

4 August 2015

The tables were getting ready and butlers were overseeing the correct placing of plates, glassware and cutlery as the ball was to start soon.
All the important and noble families from near and far were invited to celebrate Princess Odette’s birthday.
The King issued special warning for the warding off the young sorceress Odile.  She was not to get any near the party.
It looked like everything was under control… Until the Master of the Ceremony found few black shiny feathers next to the last pile of plates and glasses waiting to be arranged on the table.  He looked over his right shoulder.  Then he slowly checked over his left shoulder.  No body was there, no body was watching.  He took the black feathers and pushed them under the dining table.

Don't mention Odile!  Let’s hope they forget about her…

© 2015 copyright | an ode to… | sophia terra~ziva | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ONLY ON MONDAYS – project “52”

3 August 2015

Mondays were nonworking days.
The aged seamstress made sure that all garments were sawn, pressed and ready for her patrons before church time on Sunday.  She was dry spinster; hardly spoke more than needed.  Her best creations were the wedding dresses she had to make for her clienteles.  At the end of the order, when the happy bride-to-be would pick up the beautiful white dreamy dress, when the little brass bell above the door would ring to announce the bridal customers have just left the shop, she will grab one of the round tins full with buttons and toss it as far as she can chuck.

Then, flying down will be the box with meticulously stacked thread spools, scissors and measure tapes and toss it in a mess on the floor…

She was closed for business on Mondays!
A fortune teller long time ago told her she’d get married one Monday…

© 2015 copyright | an ode to… | sophia terra~ziva | ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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