Mots.

Une lueur d’amertume enveloppe mon âme
Comme un froid sibérien comme
Une chandelle fige dans l’air du matin
Quelque part une femme
Quelque part un oiseau

Une écharpe de laine oubliée sur la lune
Tel un manteau de brume
Sur le dos d’une étoile
Et mon cœur de bitume dévoile
Son corps d’argent

Quelque part une membrane
Quelque part un ruisseau

Et dans les bras d’un homme dans le port
De l’oubli j’ai gravé ma démence
Et les pétales ternis
J’ai crié aux aurores
Quelque part une amphore
Quelque part une enfant

The House.

The story I’m about to tell you really happened. Whether it really happened for real or I made it up for real is not quite clear. Ask my sister, she would probably know.

After I’d been living in this small village in Bas St-Laurent for two or three years, my friends and I, on a very dark, cloudy afternoon, stumbled upon quite a fascinating feature in the forest, about half a kilometer (kids – the most talented and accurate at guessing distances, true fact!) in the woods, right behind my house.

We were doing what we usually did on such afternoons: arguing about who was the leader – I would assume since I was the oldest kid on the street, I got to be the leader, you can ask my sister about that, too. We were fumbling around our usual “path” and checking out our surroundings, everybody yapping at the same time and pushing each other around. There were five or six of us. We had left the young ones behind to guard the “entrance” to the forest. We always did that. The forest was our land. We owned it. And the younger kids got the shit job.

All of us stopped at once. (Insert here: short film of children in a file, all bumping into each other as they stop.) There it was, in this clearing we swore we had played in dozens of times. There it was, amidst the autumn leaves on the damp ground. It seemed to have been standing there for a very long time. It almost seemed it was many hundred years old. (Again, kids: most experienced human beings at evaluating the age of a building in the middle of the dark forest.)

The house. For a long while, which was probably more like ten seconds, we stood there, in our raincoats, with our colorful little rubber boots and stared. We were positively terrified. “That house was not there last week!” shouted one of the girls. She always assumed she was right. (Or did I always assume she was wrong? Hmm.) So we argued about that. I think we crept away from the house so slowly and with such subtlety that it never noticed we had discovered it. Which is probably a good thing. Creepy house notices terrified younglings? Not good. Even the movie would be crappy. And scary. But crappy.

We never went back. Not that close, anyway. We sort of observed it from a distance, though, on two or three occasions, and decided it was probably haunted. So then, we never went back.

This is not a picture of the actual house, but it sure looks like it. I got it at: http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Europe/Norway/photo120524.htm

Me.

Cute, no? I admit I wear less makeup, depending on the occasion. Also, the little bag is an accessory I do not actually own. But I'd like to. But I don't.

Other differences: my eyes are not that big proportionately to my head. I very rarely wear tops that show off my midriff and...Boo is not all brown with a little white bib. He's a little tiger.

Resemblences with the real me: the hair (sort of) and the black clothing.

In fact, this looks nothing like me.

Have a great Sunday, everyone.

Isabelle – The End.

Isabelle could hear them arguing about her failure, though she could not make out the words. She lit another cigarette and threw her small metal case beside her. The match hit the chair and curled up among the charred remains of hundreds of others littered on the chamber floor. She walked up to the door and screamed at it.

“Tunisia!”

The exasperated look on Esmé’s face worstened with the commotion. All twelve of the operators had taken a step back hurriedly at the sound of Isabelle’s shout and fallen to the floor. Isabelle emerged running from the room and attempted the seventeenth escape in less than a week.

Isabelle – Part IV.

Humphrey lowered his defiant stare and studied his feet. He reached for one of the clipboards hanging from pegs on the door frame and looked up. When will that wretched woman understand things should not be rushed?, he thought. He slammed one fist on the table now deserted by the twelve others. They were now standing in a single file right before Isabelle’s door. The woman at the head of the lineup extended one hand towards the doorknob. Humphrey hissed at the woman and paused before looking at Esmé again.

“In the beginning, there was light. And He said that was good. And He drank from the Chalice and obscured our sight. Mark my words: we must locate it, Esmé. We must. We have no other choice. Time is running out.”
“And what,” she spat, “are your puny neurons transmitting right now, you extraordinary moron? We have been waiting for this revelation of yours patiently, we have tried to be our most understanding but this charade has to stop, Humphrey! We have been very supportive. And so far, all our efforts have been in vain.”
“I haven’t –“ Humphrey slithered away from Esmé.
“No! You haven’t! You seem not to have the capability of channeling her. How many times, Humphrey, how many times will I have to explain this?”