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rainbowfic2024-02-24 09:55 am
freevistas) wrote in rainbowfic2024-02-24 09:55 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Story: Without Homeland
Colors: Teary-eyed #12: Bird poop
Word Count: 976
Rating/Warnings: T
It was a bit too cold for the light dress Alba wore–there was still a chill on the salty breeze–but as she looked around at the other women scattered across the grass, chatting or debating in small circles or chasing gamboling children or pouring themselves fresh drinks, she saw that she wasn’t the only one who’d been eager to put away her winter wools. The men too were in their shirtsleeves, having tossed their jackets over chair-backs and tree branches before they began their bocce games.
Spring had definitely, finally arrived, and with it, the Gruppo I Liberi’s first picnic of the year.
It was also the first Gruppo I Liberi party Alba had been to in months. Even when she lived on Shaw Street, a stone’s throw from Fort Trumbull, the little anarchist enclave had felt all but impenetrable to her, branded as she was–like all Sicilians in the Marchegian anarchists’ eyes–as an assimilationist and a clericalist. Her ex-boyfriend Angelo had granted her access, access which was summarily revoked when she broke things off with him. And now the only reason she felt like she could step foot inside Fort territory was that her old friend Gabrielle, who was hosting the party along with her husband, had invited her.
Maybe it had been a pity invite. Maybe Gabrielle knew that Angelo and his friends were going to be out of town that weekend. Maybe she was hoping Alba would be able to sneak a bottle of something fancy out of the Fairchilds’ liquor cabinet. Whatever the reason, Alba was grateful to be at the picnic, and more than happy to drop a few dollars in the donation basket for the beleaguered Cronaca Sovversiva.
She realized as she listened to a young man recite one of Voltairine de Cleyre’s poems in stumbling English that for all these months she’d been nearly starved of something that was as vital to her as food and water: ideas. Radical ideas, expressed with passionate words exchanged among comrades, words that conjured images in her mind of beautiful struggle and an even more beautiful future. A struggle she ached to be a part of, a future she longed to help bring into being.
For the past few months, it had seemed that her vision of the future had narrowed: it had become no bigger than the small pocket of peace she imagined sharing with Karol and Mairead. She imagined the three of them sharing a house, a house that contained all of the love and care and fun that any of them would need.
But as she beat her palms against each other in enthusiastic applause for the poem and the blushing man who’d read it, she could feel something blossoming in her chest like the fresh bursts of color that had sprung up from the ground now that the snow had finally receded.
As she made her way towards the concrete steps that doubled as a stage for the party’s speakers and performers, she smiled at the children dozing in the chairs that lined the fence; the kids were already tuckered out from an afternoon of sugar-powered games and japes, but the adults, all good and tipsy by that point, were just getting started with the dancing that would carry on until well past sunset.
“That was a wonderful poem,” Alba said in English, leaning into the shy boy’s ear as a clarinet squealed just a few feet away. The boy smiled and dropped his eyes and mouthed something that was probably “Grazie.”
“Would you care to dance?” she asked, offering him her hand as a mandolin joined the clarinet and launched into an up-beat number.
The poet seemed to freeze for a moment before nodding and taking her outstretched hand, leading her to the edge of the “dancefloor” in the middle of the yard. Alba could feel mud and wet grass flicking against her ankles and the hem of her dress, but she hardly cared. She was busy filling the boy’s ear with her opinions about anarchist poetry, and specifically about the work of Rose Freeman Ishill, whose husband published beautiful editions of her poetry with his own hand-press. Had he heard of her? she asked, before carrying on, as undeterred by his lack of response as she was by his clumsy dancing.
It was only when she felt a wet splatter on her shoulder that she snapped out of the trance she’d seemingly fallen into. She pulled away from the boy and looked up to see a seagull circling overhead. Her eyes darted to the gray glob smeared just above the sleeve of her dress, and then back to the poet, whose face looked to her like a palimpsest of contrary desires: the impulse to laugh at her, this silly Sicilian with the bird shit on her shoulder, and the desire to keep dancing with a pretty girl who’d flattered him with her praise and attention.
But another impulse won out: Alba watched the boy reach into his breast pocket and produce a threadbare handkerchief. She couldn’t hear his soft voice over the sound of the band, but he seemed to be asking her permission. She nodded, and he gently wiped her shoulder clean.
She took a step back, a bit dazed, and grateful to be able to occupy herself with applauding the band who’d just finished their tune as she tried to compose herself. The poet smiled and bowed to her before turning to make his way back to the periphery of the yard where Alba had noticed he’d spent most of the afternoon, alone, silently mouthing the words to the poems he’d recite from the back stoop. Alba didn’t realize she’d reached out to him until she felt her hand on his wrist.
“One more dance?” she asked as the band swung into their next song.
Colors: Teary-eyed #12: Bird poop
Word Count: 976
Rating/Warnings: T
It was a bit too cold for the light dress Alba wore–there was still a chill on the salty breeze–but as she looked around at the other women scattered across the grass, chatting or debating in small circles or chasing gamboling children or pouring themselves fresh drinks, she saw that she wasn’t the only one who’d been eager to put away her winter wools. The men too were in their shirtsleeves, having tossed their jackets over chair-backs and tree branches before they began their bocce games.
Spring had definitely, finally arrived, and with it, the Gruppo I Liberi’s first picnic of the year.
It was also the first Gruppo I Liberi party Alba had been to in months. Even when she lived on Shaw Street, a stone’s throw from Fort Trumbull, the little anarchist enclave had felt all but impenetrable to her, branded as she was–like all Sicilians in the Marchegian anarchists’ eyes–as an assimilationist and a clericalist. Her ex-boyfriend Angelo had granted her access, access which was summarily revoked when she broke things off with him. And now the only reason she felt like she could step foot inside Fort territory was that her old friend Gabrielle, who was hosting the party along with her husband, had invited her.
Maybe it had been a pity invite. Maybe Gabrielle knew that Angelo and his friends were going to be out of town that weekend. Maybe she was hoping Alba would be able to sneak a bottle of something fancy out of the Fairchilds’ liquor cabinet. Whatever the reason, Alba was grateful to be at the picnic, and more than happy to drop a few dollars in the donation basket for the beleaguered Cronaca Sovversiva.
She realized as she listened to a young man recite one of Voltairine de Cleyre’s poems in stumbling English that for all these months she’d been nearly starved of something that was as vital to her as food and water: ideas. Radical ideas, expressed with passionate words exchanged among comrades, words that conjured images in her mind of beautiful struggle and an even more beautiful future. A struggle she ached to be a part of, a future she longed to help bring into being.
For the past few months, it had seemed that her vision of the future had narrowed: it had become no bigger than the small pocket of peace she imagined sharing with Karol and Mairead. She imagined the three of them sharing a house, a house that contained all of the love and care and fun that any of them would need.
But as she beat her palms against each other in enthusiastic applause for the poem and the blushing man who’d read it, she could feel something blossoming in her chest like the fresh bursts of color that had sprung up from the ground now that the snow had finally receded.
As she made her way towards the concrete steps that doubled as a stage for the party’s speakers and performers, she smiled at the children dozing in the chairs that lined the fence; the kids were already tuckered out from an afternoon of sugar-powered games and japes, but the adults, all good and tipsy by that point, were just getting started with the dancing that would carry on until well past sunset.
“That was a wonderful poem,” Alba said in English, leaning into the shy boy’s ear as a clarinet squealed just a few feet away. The boy smiled and dropped his eyes and mouthed something that was probably “Grazie.”
“Would you care to dance?” she asked, offering him her hand as a mandolin joined the clarinet and launched into an up-beat number.
The poet seemed to freeze for a moment before nodding and taking her outstretched hand, leading her to the edge of the “dancefloor” in the middle of the yard. Alba could feel mud and wet grass flicking against her ankles and the hem of her dress, but she hardly cared. She was busy filling the boy’s ear with her opinions about anarchist poetry, and specifically about the work of Rose Freeman Ishill, whose husband published beautiful editions of her poetry with his own hand-press. Had he heard of her? she asked, before carrying on, as undeterred by his lack of response as she was by his clumsy dancing.
It was only when she felt a wet splatter on her shoulder that she snapped out of the trance she’d seemingly fallen into. She pulled away from the boy and looked up to see a seagull circling overhead. Her eyes darted to the gray glob smeared just above the sleeve of her dress, and then back to the poet, whose face looked to her like a palimpsest of contrary desires: the impulse to laugh at her, this silly Sicilian with the bird shit on her shoulder, and the desire to keep dancing with a pretty girl who’d flattered him with her praise and attention.
But another impulse won out: Alba watched the boy reach into his breast pocket and produce a threadbare handkerchief. She couldn’t hear his soft voice over the sound of the band, but he seemed to be asking her permission. She nodded, and he gently wiped her shoulder clean.
She took a step back, a bit dazed, and grateful to be able to occupy herself with applauding the band who’d just finished their tune as she tried to compose herself. The poet smiled and bowed to her before turning to make his way back to the periphery of the yard where Alba had noticed he’d spent most of the afternoon, alone, silently mouthing the words to the poems he’d recite from the back stoop. Alba didn’t realize she’d reached out to him until she felt her hand on his wrist.
“One more dance?” she asked as the band swung into their next song.