|She can't fall much further, as you have to first rise to fall.|
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
Behind 38th Street, Iola
9th January 2034
Tzipora was a child of simple pleasures, the kinds of pleasures that couldn't be taken away from her and would always be there for her to fondle with. The kind of pleasures that were pleasurable only to her and maybe three high-functioning autistics on this earth. Pleasures that only required her fingers and some natural catalyst, like dirt or sand or water.
The clouds over her snow-blonde head were dark and menacing, ones that seemed full to burst to rain down upon the slums and decrepit houses of Iola. It was bitter and cold and would continue to be all week as snow was a definite possibility, which was good. Snow was not necessarily uncommon but a nicety all the same, cleansing the country with a freezing blanket for a few months a year.
Tzipora was outside on the border of the forest, only a little walk from her own backyard and completely alone. The pine trees rose up far into the sky in front of her, only contrasted by the desolate brown lot that Tzipora watched them from. Wearing a red pinafore dress with a white sash and red headband, she was crouched with her knees in the dirt, blackening the hem of her dress. She was doing what she always resorted to; making her own fun. Today she was being rather creative, as she once again dipped her fingers in the hole she'd made in the ground to hold watery mud. Pale fingers went in and came out slick with chocolate-coloured muck. They dripped on the ground for a few seconds before Tzipora placed her fingers on the big white notebook in front of her and drew a smooth curve that took up a large portion of the top left corner. The water in the mud made it spread easily and the result was not unlike earthy paint, but it didn't permanently stain her dress and didn't cost her entire yearly allowance per tin as normal paint did.
Tzipora looked two or three years younger than she actually was, upturned nose and dimples belying a nine-year-old girl. She had grown up in the north, and had inherited pseudo-anaemic pale skin and blue eyes from the fjords that complemented white-blonde hair of Reykjavik. Her left eye, however, was red and slightly swollen as she'd been unfortunate enough to have been noticed by her father before his morning drink.
Tzipora sat back on her heels and looked at what she'd done so far. Tzipora had a very simple, very earnest way of painting. Bold strokes and geometric styles gave the impression of speed and movement to the picture. What exactly the picture was, only Tzipora could be surmised to know. Even then, it was just as likely that she had little idea of what she was doing. But as she examined it from her seated position, she knew that it looked nice to herself, and that was all that she wished for.
On her nose was some dried brown mud that she'd inadvertently smeared there after scratching her nose, giving almost an impression of war paint. Her fingers were still wet with mud, so she wiped them on her exposed calf and picked up the notebook, tucking it under one arm as she climbed to unsteady feet. The notebook was only about the size of a baking tray, but she was short for her age and it seemed larger than it was from her perspective.
Tzipora sometimes drew, sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she played by herself or with Patrick in the playground behind the apartment. Sometimes she even read a book, despite the burnings. She did a great many things, and today it happened to be finger painting.
She looked around herself for a moment, getting her bearings after nearly an hour seated in the same position. There were some soldiers a few hundred metres away, in the scar where the forest disappeared into more housing apartments. They weren't doing much but smoking and talking, holding machine guns haphazardly. Tzipora wasn't afraid of the soldiers, but was wary of them all the same. Sometimes on the way to school they stopped her and searched her, and would call her Cat-lick or spit in her hair and then send her off to school with a kick up the arse. Irish children were not well-loved in the city, and despite Tzipora not actually born Irish, she had lived in the country long enough to pick up the damned accent.
Tzipora walked over soft earth and long grass towards the apartment blocks that were just opposite the forest where she was painting. One of them was hers, and although she'd lived in the small two-bedroom apartment for almost four years now she still found it difficult to identify her own apartment block amongst the seemingly endless wall of grey concrete and small windows that made up the architectural prowess of the local housing authority. The apartments looked like bricks, nasty grey cinderblocks risen up from hell and hollowed out for human use. The only colour came from the clothes being hung out to dry from the balconies and windows, and even then the garments had slowly lost their colour over the years. The city seemed to be dying, and with it the colour and life of the inhabitants. Or perhaps it had always been this way. Tzipora was disturbed to find she couldn't remember.
Chances are, if you're spending this long looking at my lonely profile, I want to make friends with you.
Melons are fantastic. They are the single most important thing for the fabric of the universe, as it uncovers and enchants living sentiments around it.