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The Rainbow Chronicles

                                                                        by Tanya Rumenova


There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you.

Beatrix Potter

Find the full contents of this page here: https://therainbowchroniclestr.blogspot.com/

Short stories

Paintings with Words

Santa's Workshop

It was dark in Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. Not a single sound could be heard, nor an elf or a dwarf was anywhere in sight, busying into the night, frantically detailing any one gadget in particular so as not to miss the Christmas Eve deadline. Cold and silent had the magnificent fireplace gone, once an open stage for countless performances of percolating kettles and pots of assorted shapes and sizes. The air was uncharacteristically cookie-smell-free. No whiffs of honey, gingerbread or cinnamon were to be perceived by even the best trained among the experienced connoisseurs.

A Temporary Forever

Layers of dust now caked the once-polished glossy plain of glass. Months upon months of neglect had camouflaged not simply the mirror, but the entirety of its abode as well. An ambiance of stagnant silence obscured the little left of a former place of living with a sole skylight perched as if in defiance high up on the wall. Its panes had ceded transparency, yet still retained a level of translucence just enough to allow a single intrepid sun beam to venture into the reign of gloom and grime. It seeped through, and headed straight for the alluring matte maze of dust accumulated on the mirror.

Of Animals and Friends

You know I love cats. Adore would be the word. But then again, there are foxes and otters that fight over the top of the cuteness list; well, the second spot that is, for cats reign supreme and unchallenged. Still, I have a cat, and have never really touched an otter or stared at the eyes of a fox from up close, so it wouldn't be an overstatement to say that they perhaps hide some secrets unknown even to that most inquisitive of animals, queen of curiosity, the cat.

The Assignment

Numbing cold, hopelessly forlorn, that’s how she felt. Yet, she was not. There were others around, a myriad of them, who just like her were freezing in solitude. To the stranger’s eye, however, they resembled a busy hive. Each little bee working hard toward some grand design, each little cog vibrating in a complicated machine programmed to better life somehow. So many differences drove them apart, still altogether they made perfection. She did not feel perfect, or special, however. It is a cumbersome task to define oneself, a task which she kept failing at. Many an hour she had spent in vain attempts to seek out her purpose, to delineate a path to follow.

A Peace of Advice

A vicious squall invaded the marshes with a swift, relentless charge. Its forces were strong as they were cold, succumbing the long blades of grass both with fierceness and frosty might. The battle was never even fought for the field lay open in all directions, exposed to any whimsy conqueror of the North. Somewhere in the far distance, one of the few tors had to be rising amidst the moors providing a glimmer of hope to lost travellers; still its silhouette was indiscernible as no indication of its alleged presence could be detected. To those seasoned in the region the present situation would undoubtedly have posed a perilous challenge. To the bent-down figure wrapped in a tattered burlap cloak, it was surely going to be an end. The man staggered on his feet, putting strenuous effort into each wavering step, pushing on against all odds, advancing a painstaking inch at a time. The heath underneath was the only source of solace to the weary fellow. It carpeted his footfall and assuaged the pain from many hours of walking. Intent indeed he was, albeit but a yard further into the moor, he was already on his knees, unable to continue. Sprawled on the ground with determination and courage depleted, he looked as if beckoning his final hour to come. At this very moment his eyes rested on a darker blob quite near to the south. Was it a mirage summoned by exhaustion or an untimely trickery of a mischievous leprechaun? Whatever it was, he headed towards it, hope revived.

Stella

The aroma of freshly baked bread permeated the air – savoury baguettes with crisp crust and cotton soft essence were neatly rolled on the bottom shelf of the glistening glass-case. An assortment of pastries - lemon meringue tarts, caramel éclairs, chocolate gateau and a kaleidoscopic rainbow of macarons, paraded on the next. The top one boasted flaky Danishes, puffed croissants and warm toasted bagels which tempted the chance visitor, luring one to stay but a little longer. From behind the counter, the percolating sound of fragrant brewing beverages blended with the mellow flow of distant Italian and French chansons that unobtrusively created romantic ambiance and a feeling of utter tranquillity. The waft of ground coffee and some rich exotic cocoa exhilarated the senses and invigorated the mind.

When We Meet

​“How fare thee, my fair friend?” - He inquired peering gently into her eyes, with a smile delightful and overpowering like the surge of warmth after the first sip of an exhilarating morning beverage. It brought him immense pleasure to observe her pale lucidity vibrate with hues of radiant colours. “No need for superfluous courtesy, is there?” – She promptly collected herself, albeit their scheduled meetings were long anticipated and much cherished. Her presence never gave any semblance of attachment away, though deep in her core, she knew she belonged with this titillating know-it-all. The nonchalant breeziness of his question faded away to bring about heartfelt concern.

A Candle's Worth

…hiss… The candle wick shrivelled. For a mere second it seemed charred and still, only to become ablaze in a myriad of oranges and yellows the next. Within a fleeting moment, it settled into a tranquil glow and was ready to peer into the shroud of darkness obscuring the surroundings. A glistening drop of hot wax started to melt its way down. Strangely aware of the burning sensation, the inquisitive flame grew brighter, avid to explore the treasures that the shadows seemed to jealously guard. Its mellow light poured into the ocean of blackness, and soon enough a golden thread wound its way onto the dark mantle. A thick carpet that could muffle the heaviest of footfalls came first into view. The long shaggy ivory strands resembled a Polar meadow – white and unruly, and yet emanated cosiness and comfort that could soothe the weariest of souls. The little flame flared gleefully with its discovery. Its light amplified, brushed against the fabric yet again, as if petting a warm, soft pet; and flooded farther into the gloom.

Portrait of a Friend

A wet streak of paint glistened as it trickled down the empty canvas. What was to become of it, however, was still a blurry haze in the young woman’s mind. She had picked up the brush intent to portray a friend. It had seemed an easy task until but a moment ago. The compulsive urge to depict every feature of his as truthfully as possible was now being distorted into wavering uncertainty. There was so much that she needed to share about Him. Still, her reluctance to ever acknowledge his existence in words, which had for years defined their relationship, was taking over, yet again. Indeed, she never spoke of him, not to her family, not to her friends. He was a weakness that had conquered much of her time, most of her thoughts, and was slowly claiming her soul. Hardly anything ever separated them these days, but it didn’t use to be so. She first met him, briefly, as a child. His presence then was like a lonely shadow that never quite grabbed her full attention. With time, however, his visits frequented, albeit unbidden and unappreciated. Slowly but surely he became an integral part of her life, and she learnt to tolerate him - still harboring resentment deep in her heart, still craving to escape from his imposing clutches.

The Christmas House

​It was early. Quite early. Quiet and still. Night was still wearing her mantle of darkness and shrouded the streets with mysterious obscurity. Lanterns towered along the pavements on a timeless quest to dispel the black magic around and light the way for the few who ventured to set foot outside at this unearthly hour. Freezing cold had set in but half an hour before, and now hustled about embracing each house and bench in his icy arms, giving each tree and fence pole a kiss of numbing chill. It was the charcoal skies that showed benevolence to the small town and lavished the world with cotton-soft snow. It gradually blanketed the huddled houses, carpeted the stone streets and enveloped the brave lanterns. Snowflakes paraded exquisite patterns. The cold edgy ice hanging off the roof eaves now resembled crystal chandeliers. It wasn’t long before the town could snuggle safe in its new seasonal attire.

Poetry

Impressions

Observation
Untitled Note
Abyss
Illusion
to Thomas Hardy (the Exeter experience)

A Temporary Forever

Layers of dust now caked the once-polished glossy plain of glass. Months upon months of neglect had camouflaged not simply the mirror, but the entirety of its abode as well. An ambiance of stagnant silence obscured the little left of a former place of living with a sole skylight perched as if in defiance high up on the wall. Its panes had ceded transparency, yet still retained a level of translucence just enough to allow a single intrepid sun beam to venture into the reign of gloom and grime. It seeped through, and headed straight for the alluring matte maze of dust accumulated on the mirror.
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"It is not love, it's loving that makes us real."

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