Week 3 Sketches

i.

Notes on Enna

water as restraint/constraint
Enna is balanced in chains
Gracefully chained
wears a pale pink/peach trainer bra even though her brother said she didn’t need one (she only has the one)
her clothes are brown rags when she jumps
the upper river feels like sunshine
she saw a man in a helmet and reached for him, desperate for real light and real air. when she reached the surface, she didn’t breathe
there was an old man standing on the pavement, looking up at the sky-river. he wore brown, too, mud-covered tatters and a long, starved beard

ii.
In those three days, the Underhaven had grown filthy. Silt dripped from the smooth gray concrete walls. If she could have moved, she would have cleaned it off. It had covered the ballerina, but she could not help.

iii.
The river hadn’t returned to where it was supposed to be. It was still suspended six feet over Enna’s head. Beams of sunlight lit the damp streets in a green beauty.
The depth of the sky-river frightened her.

iv.
Aaron sits by the fire, warming his ancient hands. They creak terribly today. The rain is coming.

This time, he doesn’t have the strength to run. Every step breaks him a little more, making his back bend and his gait slow. Aaron’s hair is long and gray; like his beard, it’s thinning terribly. His blue jeans like to sit at his bony hips now, too tired, like him, to hold themselves up.

As the first drops fall, Aaron sighs deeply. It’s too much to ask an old man to evacuate on this short notice. He’s better off here, where he can face the flood and meet fate bravely. Running’s not just the hard way; it’s plain wrong.

v.
The walls were filthy; the current hit them gently and knocked debris out the open Underhaven door. Eventually, at the end of the third day, it caught Enna.

She rose deeply. She did not want to be lifted, not yet, and the cot held her by the rags around her waist. Her arms were chained gracefully to either wall as she rose. Perfect balance blessed her slow, deliberate motions, and she danced. She swirled toward the door, with the ballerina’s poise and the chain in her hand. It was silver, untouched by silt or rust. Daffyd had bought the chain, but that was a secret.

vi.
Dec. 13, 1899

Dearest diary,

I do not feel like being beautiful today. I shall dress myself in rags and dull my hair with ashes.

Rori has died. A battle with pneumonia; six weeks he clung to life and he falls so close to recovery. At the funeral, there was a man in a wonderfully tailored gray suit, gray like a day-lit thunderstorm, and a white top hat. He laid a red rose on the coffin and looked as though he might as well have been dead himself.

I learned later that his name is Georges, and that he liked my mourning garments. A strange comment. He also said that Rori could have been saved, if only he had accepted a gift. Giselle told me that he wished to speak to me, and perhaps to offer me the same gift. I am puzzled.

~Duenne

vii.
Since I started taking the meds, life has been a series of surreal and magical moments. I’ve painted with the sky. Its depths were full of pigment and oil, and I put a brush to the surface to stir them. I have watched music escape from me with intent to please. I have conversed with God about the weather.
It’s odd, really. Because they were supposed to make me sane.

viii.
I flew West, across the waters. It seemed the right direction, at the time. The sunset inspired me. I wanted to follow it, to be in the trail of that red, red sun forever.
One evening, when I was flying West, the sun stopped. It was sudden. I couldn’t stop in time. My wings were torn apart as I tried to fight falling into the sun. Feathers floated behind me, catching fire as I was sucked feet-first into the red lake.
It burned my toes at first, but as soon as my head slid beneath the surface it was simply warm. Peaceful. I did not miss my wings at all, because swimming in the sun was far better than chasing it into the night.

ix.
He bent toward the ground in his gray suit, reaching down for something. I gasped, but no one noticed. They were all too busy in their drunken debauchery.
Slowly, lovingly, he lifted a napkin off the grass and tucked it in his pocket. There was no proud smile on his broad face now. Only shame. I felt a tear gathering in my eye as I watched Roger Taylor walk toward his office, a drop of blood dripping from the center of his hand. The crown of thorns was barely visible in the hazy noon light.

x.
- They never listen, do they? Children, I mean. They come crying to you for help, but they don’t really want advice.
- Tell me more.
- All right. I guess. I was listening to her last night. She got drunk and flirted with this guy who has a girlfriend. Again. And she’s got this other guy who wants to marry her. At least this time the guy didn’t fall for her. The one with the girlfriend. I mean, it’s got to be the tenth time she’s come to me with the same problem. And she knows what’s wrong. But she won’t fix it. And I cut her off. Was that so wrong? I mean, how many times have I pulled her out of the same jam?
- You know, you don’t have to save everyone.
- I guess not. But it’s hard to watch them fall, just the same. And if all they’re going to do is choose to maintain the problem, then why do I even exist?
- For the same reason I do.
- Oh yeah. Do you ever get tired of it?
- Sometimes. But I get paid.
- She makes me cookies whenever I’m home.
- You don’t have to save her again, you know.
- And you don’t have to save me, but you’re still here.
- I guess so.