Brijiana

Joined January 2021

4 stories

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Stories (4)

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Ice Cream on Nantucket Island
The enchantment of summer begins upon boarding the steamship for Nantucket. Seagulls loftily circle the vessel, casting a spell over any unwary passengers who unwittingly heed their sharp cries. The engine builds from a gentle purr to a steady rumble that reverberates to a forgotten point deep inside your very bones. This is the signal that, no matter how far you may have traveled to arrive at this point, it is only now that your voyage has truly begun. Were you able to capture the cool, salty, scent of the ocean breezes and blend it with the fragrance of a diesel engine and the steady aroma of roasted hotdogs coming from inside the cabin you would find that you had managed to bottle the essence of summer itself.
By Brijiana4 years ago in Feast
The Heir and the Demon
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley.” Therian hesitated and tried to gather his bearings, not sure, at first, that he had heard anything. The city hummed with activity despite the oppressive afternoon heat. Workers bustled past him down the cobblestone streets of the trade district, deftly maneuvering their way around teetering piles of boxes and barrels. Every now and then a person on horseback would pass by and the crowd would push back against the walls, grumbling, to make way. While not entirely overwhelmed, Therian was uncomfortable. He was not accustomed to being on foot and the smell of unwashed bodies and rotten produce was made all the more unpleasant by the heat. Once a litter passed, carried by four enormous men and escorted in front and back by footguards. It was an oddity to see nobility in this part of the city and the throng stared inquisitively after it as it passed. The richly colored curtains were drawn, hiding the identity of the passenger, nevertheless Therian turned his face away and pressed himself further into the crowd. He now found himself near a large pile of crates that were being loaded from a dark and narrow alley onto a creaking cart pulled by a tired-looking donkey.
By Brijiana4 years ago in Fiction
The Stranger I Know
He passed me on the narrow sidewalk. His walk tells me he has never been poor, Or lonely, or afraid - just somewhat bored.
By Brijiana4 years ago in Poets
Galle or Yalle
I run my fingers around the rim of the bowl and feel for irregularities imperceivable to the naked eye. Even something as innocuous as a tiny nick – a so called “fleabite,” will affect the value. I had spotted the bowl from several tables away at the flea market, the sunlight of the open field catching the floral engravings meticulously cut into the sides. It had been placed precariously near the edge of the small, folding card table to anchor the tablecloth from billowing in the early morning breeze. Turning the bowl over in my hands I can tell by the weight and brilliance that it is made with lead. Ancient alchemists, with their Quixotic efforts to turn base metals into gold, would have been dazzled by the chemical marvels of nineteenth century glassmaking. By adding lead as a purifying agent to glass, this toxic, dull metal transformed this, fragile, hazy material to a crystalline so clear that instead of shadows, it casts rainbows. A material that, when gently struck, rings like an ethereal silver bell. I gently ping the side of the bowl with my finger and hear the sweet, high-tone reverberation. It is not an idle action, nor is it a sentimental one. The ringing is a reassurance that I haven’t accidentally overlooked any cracks or damage hidden in the intricacy of the engraved pattern.
By Brijiana5 years ago in Motivation