Snow - mass snow hurtles like a pod of whistling asteroids towards the ground, yet a lone spec of snow drifts and tarries, turns and hesitates, spins and swirls before it finally reaches the ground in a silent, soft caress.
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Her black hair under the troubadour hat sent the green boater bobbing up and down. In her golden eyes their shined indignation harsher and fiercer than the July sun. Blood seeped through the fabric of her doublet—a jagged wound from the carriage wheel that had shattered her ribs, her breaths shallow, her vision flickering.
The second day Florence came back, but he had black rings under his eyes. His brother (Fern had just realised the day before they were brothers – of course! Their names matched perfectly) had not come back after leaving yesterday.
And indeed, it was like something had broken the café in half. In the week that followed the accidents, Fern and the rest of the poets (Alder, Artemisia and Clover had returned) were huddled around the poet’s corner, not in the mood to interact with the other people around the café. There was no sign of Florence and Venice – Fern had somehow neglected to ask how they were, but he hoped the fact that Florence wasn’t in the café meant that Venice was alive.
TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of gore and violence.
Ready? Let's get to the beginning of the end.
Venice was standing on the roof. It was morning. Venice was standing on the roof of the SNC. It was a cold morning in February. Venice was standing on the slanted, tin-plated roof of the SNC. It was a grey, cold morning in February and the ice hadn’t melted from the roof yet.
As winter started to rip away, as spring ripened to summer slowly, their crops grew and then harvested, and until the next Christmas, when flurrying and drifting snow came, Fern stayed within the sanctuary of the SNC. He no longer hurried into the city for opportunities to make money, hugged his alcohol, and curled up miserably in his small bed. He had accepted his place, had become accustomed to it, and had been even glad to be living in the scrap houses of society. Fern was very glad that he could now concentrate on writing poetry and making literature however he wanted.
He lay in bed that night, shivering from the cold like he had in years before, but there was something different this time. His mind was better equipped against the stabbing cold; his feet were cold to the bone, and he tucked them against his shins, but his mind was racing, and it coursed joyous warmth down his thighs and shinbones, down to the tips of his toes. Soon, his shivering turned to excited trembling.
Half in a daze, half sceptical, Fern squeezed and wove his way through the maze of chair legs and waving hands to the Poets’ Section.
This section was composed of two rectangular tables. Spying an unoccupied corner seat, Fern stuffed himself into the small wooden chair, trying to be inconspicuous while the others on the tables wrote and discussed. The loud creak from the suffering piece of furniture denied his efforts.
He woke up the next morning with a mild hangover. It wasn’t a splitting headache as his body had already become accustomed to his irregular (or should he say overly regular) drinking habits.
Sometime in the middle of the night, his tired body had managed to move itself onto his bed – which he thought was no better than the floor except for having a few decimetres of elevation – and there he had laid until the birds were squabbling outside till he managed to pull himself out of bed.
He lifted one foot after the other and carried himself back to his apartment. The dusk sky was harsh, the wind was dark, and the leaves fell from the trees in clumps.
And beyond the stretch of the dark trees and the fading grass was the city he had just walked away from – he didn’t want to set foot there again. It mocked him. It wasn’t somewhere people should live – it wasn’t natural! It made him feel…