Palvine Part 17

by Mizti Danielson-Kaslik,

merlot

I fell into an uneasy sleep.

I lay awake for hours in the dim light that seeped in through the curtains from the streetlamp outside. Eventually, I had a strange wakened dream; it felt like sleep, but I was not entirely sure it was for the dream itself was so cryptic and yet so vivid that I almost felt I must have been awake. There was snow, a rose and blood. The image had been so still yet so clear. There had been no movement. Just the image.

I woke early that morning. So early, it was still very dark outside. The room was cold. The frost from the earth – the first harbinger of a cruel and bitter winter – had crept u to Sylvester’s apartment window. The bitter cold stole through the silken curtains and had hidden in the dark corners of the room and had then preceded to climb up the walls. I dressed quickly in Sylvester’s white shirt which he had left on the wooden floor – tossed off when he had made love to me – which fell to just below my hips. I ran my fingers through my hair and my eyes caught the old jam jar which stored his paint brushes. I didn’t know Sylvester liked jam. I pulled aside the curtain and looked down to the yellow lit street below. It was then that I felt a strange subtle calling to go outside into the dim street, perhaps this was because crisp white snowflakes had begun to fall from the heavens and stay firm and un-melted upon the Parisian street, creating a cold white blanket that covered the land. I looked over to the bed to see if Sylvester was still sleeping peacefully and I smiled to see he was.

I tiptoed to the door. Unbolted it and stepped down the stairs – still in the shirt – to the hallway where I proceeded to the front door. I stepped out in bare feet into the snow. The cold felt good. Somehow true and real in a world where all was false. Even love could be a lie. I continued down the narrow street until I stopped for a second to look up into the moon. The gentle snowflakes plummeted against my face and for the first time in a long time I felt alive. I felt real. It was a strange feeling. I sat down in the snow, closing my eyes and places my face in my hands. Then, as had happened previously in my life, a note on yellowing parchment fell into my lap. I read it aloud.

My Dear,

Camille is dead. I found her this morning when I woke. I so wish you to come to meet me in the graveyard of Notre Dame for I want to tell you more – I have to tell you things I cannot say in a letter. But I fear the worst; I fear Sylvester may have played a part in her death.

Yours,

Marius Chevalier

Palvine Part 11

 by Mizti Danielson-Kaslik

blush pink cocktail

But still, I could not bear the thought of Sylvester in the arms of another woman. He had been so loving and kind to me. I had loved him so much that now, he was almost all I wanted. Almost. I also found my mind permeated by thoughts of Marius; I wanted to hold him; caress him; feel him inside me – beneath my skin. I was so ashamed to admit I felt this way. I wanted two men; two great men – both great in their own right. Sylvester was a fine, artistic lover who had more flaws than I had thoughts in my mind but Marius was fiery and full of an unshakable passion for life. Even though I had only met him earlier that day, I felt so much for Marius – yet – I also felt so much for Sylvester. Can a man not love two women? Can a woman not love two men?

I couldn’t cope with this place; all the noise; the men; the women; the smoke. It was all too much. I needed to get away. This brothel was too much for me; Paris was too much for me; I was too much for me. In an intoxicated panic, I ran out to the iron ornate balcony which looked out over Rue de la Liberte. Paris was beautiful at night. The Seine glistened with the milky luminance of the oil lamps lining the roads; the light autumn rain sprinkled itself over the uneven pavement; the bells of Notre Dame called out midnight. A new day had begun. Looking out over the city, I found myself a little calmer and began to think how any girl could not feel right in Paris. It was such a strange feeling, being intoxicated. It then caught my eye that there was a girl standing outside the brothel, looking up at the window; it was me; it then caught my other eye that there was a girl looking out over Paris from a high window; and she was me as well. I was all of those people. It felt so strange to me to even think these thoughts as I thought them in my weakened sleepy state. I was harshly awoken from my wondering by a soft whisper. 

The Mystery of Ravenoak - Raven's Call over the Moors

 by Mizti Danielson-Kaslik, 

Black Forest hot chocolate

As night drew closer over the moors, it came to me that I would either need to find an adventure in the next few minutes or return to my room at The Raven Inn back in Ravenoak Village for the night. I had to find the cabin soon. All the maps the villagers had presented me with suggested that the it was around here, but it’d be very hard to see once the darkness of the autumn night had completed corrupted this place. A harsh cry of a bird emanated all around, ricocheting against the hard stone of the rocky surrounding mountainsides. Darkness was drawing in closer as the wind began to die down and the copper leaves on the trees grew still with no breeze to move them. From what I had been told, I didn’t want to be on the moors after darkness as I may become one of the death statistics of Ravenoak and indeed there was something unsettling about the moors as a strange cry seemed to hang on in the air, though there was no sound other than that of the bird. Perhaps it was that the silence was uncomfortable. By now, the sun disappeared completely behind the hills and the clouds vanished, though no stars corrupted the darkness of the sky. The call of the bird sounded again, splitting the air as a mirror shattering upon the floor. Perhaps I should turn back, come back in the daylight. I didn’t like this place. Nothing good could come of my being here and I could barely see anything. But all the murders had happened in the hours of darkness, if there was going to be any movement from the cabin, it would be as midnight approached. A final call sounded as the white moon emerged from behind the mountainside and held itself proudly in the inky blackness of the sky. The call seemed to die away before it was complete. And then there was nothing. Simple silence. Undisrupted and pure. It was as if the sound had shattered against the lake ahead of me and become the tiniest ripple upon the dark opaque surface of the large body of water below. The lake seemed to stop in motion, as if caught in time, as the pure light of the full noon shone upon the facet. The water appeared endlessly deep with a thick black swirling mist swimming a few meters down. The mist seemed to move as smoke in the inky darkness until it diffused throughout the lake. The blackness of the lake could easy swallow any unfortunate swimmer deep into its unfeeling depths.

Preceding the lake, the plane of land which I was standing upon seemed to almost rock as force came upon it. Sickly sticklike brownish grass grew in little tufts from the cracked dry earth underfoot, small weeds seemed to sprout from between the tufts with darkened discoloured petals. Nothing good could grow here. A long wooden planked deck stretched out from the small island over the waters to the centre of the lake. The wood was dark in colour and seemed almostcompletely untouched, other than one small footprint deeply intrenched in the pine. The wood had not rotted, though it was obviously used. I stepped on it gingerly, well aware it could collapse at any moment. The deck stretched to another tiny island in the lake; no more than a few square meters in size. A small wooden structure stood proudly in its centre with a ramshackle roof, topped with protruding nails and small circular windows, partly obscured with little red drapes within the cabin’s walls. A faint light filtered through from behind the red door of the cabin. This was the cabin on the map. A soft sound of whispering emanated. I stopped. Tiptoeing now, I slowly came closer to the door. This was a stupid thing to do. Why hadn’t I just accepted Mrs. Meredith’s offer of hot chocolate and read my book for the night? It was cold. I wanted a blanket. I reached into my pocket and took out my silver flask. Damn. It was empty. Even a drop would have made this situation more pleasant. Slipping it back into my pocket, I noticed the door was open slightly. I reached to knock. Reaching. Reaching. I knocked once and immediately wished I hadn’t. A deafening scream came from within. Without thought, I shoved the heavy door ajar with both hands. There was silence inside the cabin. 

“Hello…” I gulped “is anyone here?”

There was no answer. The cabin was completely silent. Until an old sound of thick liquid in motion sounded very softly beneath my feet. I looked down with a start. The sight shocked me. A body. The throat slit. Convulsing its last on the red carpet. I gasped and dropped to my knees. The body spoke with a thick stammer as the blood gushed out onto the floor; “Tell them it’s… it’s…”. The body’s cold pale hand clutched my forearm harshly as it attempted to speak. 

I was lost for what to say. The hand relinquished its hold on me. The person had died. Murdered upon the moors. A fountain a hot tears camee from the corner of my eye. I looked down at the body’s eyes, intending to close them. They shocked me. They were totally black. Soulless. Lifeless. I gasped again, believing my own eyes were deceiving me. The tear fell upon my left hand, which it came to my attention was covered in blood. Then I realised. If that had just happened, the murderer must be here. I stood up and ran from the cabin, my heart beating as a drum. But there was nothing. No murderer. There was total silence. The call of the raven sounded once more, and I ran back towards the village to tell the villagers of what I had seen and about the eyes. The lifeless black eyes. I swore never to return to that place again in darkness.