Chasing Frogs

Vogue China-Tom Munro-1“What are you doing Madeliene?”

“Oh Eduardo darling, good morning! We are chasing frogs! What else do you do after a storm?”

He had found us knee deep in a pond — Baker, Butcher, the clumsy one and I, while trying to spot a frog. I had met the clumsy one in the piazza earlier in the morning, while heading home from the cabin of that Spanish woman I told you about the other day. You see darling, the storm had not stopped during the night, and neither had Muccacina’s playing, until dawn.

The clumsy one and I had been waiting for the perfect excuse to put our wellies to the test and so, donning our short shorts and our wellington boots, we headed towards the woods along with the men, armed with worms and statement necklaces.

Eduardo would not dare to mess up his shoes by joining us in the pond which made us all question his pirate days, but he did join us on the moss, as we drank tea in the clumsy one’s chipped floral tea cups while soaking up the spring sun.

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The 100 year siesta

The 100 year siesta

Image source: Vogue France

Expectation relishes in time. It magnifies every tick tock, enhancing every vein of its form, rendering each minute eternal.

I lied next to Sleeping Beauty for a while yesterday afternoon. I had forgotten the last time I had visited her. Her thick, long hair was still resting on her shoulders and her perfect red rouge, the reason I visited her when I was a child, was still intact, as her ease and tranquillity transpired through the soft sound of her breathing, emitted from those lips. Her hands where around her small waste, a gentle hold on it. Continue reading

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The storm

piano couture stormWe witnessed the worst storm in the village last night darling.

We really did not see it coming, being that the weather in the village is usually dark and dreary. I was going back home after having bought some flowers and brought some books to read from the library, when it started to hail so hard, the villagers and I ran to the first place we could find for shelter, which for some of us, turned out to be a small cabin at the end of the cobble stone street.

We stepped inside — the woman who hides her smiles with her scarves, Baker’s mother with her comb still in her hand, two burly men and I — to find a small living room with a fire burning. We stood, waiting for the owner of the cabin to question our presence there as we soaked the carpet under our feet, when this woman with a glorious head of long red hair came in, bearing curvy hips that produced short, heavy steps.

“It is berry berry windy and berry berry cold outside Maddeliene!” she said, in a thick Spanish accent. She wore a nose ring on her small nose and a Givenchy ear cuff earring. She did not have an inch of grace in her heavy steps and yet all of us adored her the minute we saw her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, have we met?”

“But of course, no, no Maddeliene. Eduardo tells me everything about you — everything! God bless him Madre Mia that boy talks too much!”

I turned around to see puzzled faces around me and realised that the villagers had never seen this woman in the village before. I wondered whether she had come with the storm as the thunder quivered outside.

“What are you doing there — sit there and here,” she said, while lifting throws off the sofas and chairs and handing them to us so we could sit in front of the fire. Starting with tea and moving on to whisky, the villagers and Muccacina (I never caught her name, but then again, this is how everyone called her the minute they saw her), sang “Singing in the rain” until they were too drunk to remember the lyrics and moved on to classic Christmas songs while Muccacina played her piano.

Admittedly, I wasn’t too much fun. All I could do was tense up my shoulders and hold my cup of tea near my lips, raising apocalyptic questions as the armchair I was sitting on vibrated with the sound of the thunder. There is an unquiet horror when the thunder, the wind and the rain are all performing. At one point, Muccacina stopped her playing and called me out for being a downer.

“You’re not singing Maddeliene, why?

I pointed to the outside with one finger, while holding tightly to my tea with the other four.

“Madre mia Maddeliene, why are you so scarred? It’s a storm, it will pass. Aii, I have worried about so many things, only some of them have happened! Come, come.”

She took my hand and led me to the piano near the others and handed me my whisky, after which she played so hard, and we sang so loud, the thunder was nowhere to be heard.

Story credit: Image via Tumblr.

43

Daydreaming about…

Running in the woods in white dresses & velvet shoes…

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72

join the weird & the wonderful!

weird wonderful vogueJoin the weird & the wonderful darling by following Madeliene Rose on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr or Bloglovin’!

Image via Vogue.

21

Horror and beauty

horror beauty vogue-nippon-dec I have told you so many stories about my blue velvet-like village darling. I have talked to you about so many things that have happened here and I have told you about the haute couture, about the men and women who have come here; about the gypsy hoarders who passed through these streets and the circus found under the mirrored glass tent.

What I have not told you is the first thing I thought when I first came here. Back then I was worn down, tired from trying to keep up with the time on the clock, weary of the world brimming with shoulds and musts. I remember it was dark, except for the light of the moon; I remember the smell of Baker’s gingerbread beasts and the knowledge that time here was nowhere to be found.

It was then they I said — “I hope, finally, to have a niche where I can safely look upon the world’s horror and beauty*” before I walked, for the first time, on the cobble stone streets of the village.

Story credits: *Quote via Vanity Fair; Image via Vogue Nippon. 

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