is rumored night of Mistral, the following story.
At one time, far away from us when time was expressed in seasons, the wind was blowing as sometimes happens in this region, and for hours without intermission. He crossed the plains, rushing between villages, crumpled trees and crops, livestock and knocked the men.
When night came, the Mistral still hitting against the walls of a beautiful house, built on one edge of land dotted with vineyards. It slipped under doors by raising the dust on forgotten worn tiles, and managed to infiltrate between the shutters closed. The candlelight flickered briefly, stirring shadows on the attentive faces of family members and neighbors, gathered around the table in the large kitchen. At times, their eyes toward the floor escaped. Interrogative. Silent. Then slowly, with a slight sigh, attention was again drawn to the ripple of flames.
Above, in the master bedroom, a woman gave birth, with just the necessary effort to enjoy the happy and peaceful feeling of a job well done. The child was beautiful and well trained. His first cry was launched to clear the ceiling plastered with lime. The cry burst from the tiny chest, and the benevolent smile of the beautiful nurse who held him, while bloody and gooey in the arm, turned into a hideous grimace. The child stank. No, timeless miasma usual given by the design world: blood, water, sweat, and mucous stool. Emanation hot and stale, metallic, musky. But a terrifying remugle of raw garlic, salty and glebe of rotten orange. Surprise she almost dropped the infant, and could not suppress a groan by the applicant in swaddling clothes, to quickly clear the dross of childbirth. The newborn was swaddled tightly placed in the arms of his mother. The child opened her mouth, seeking the breast. The fetid breath reaches the tired face of the mother. She could not find the words, but his face expressed a deep disgust, turned and drove the tiny hands burden. The father was pacing behind the door, heard the cries and rushed, radiant and triumphant, in the room. And returned, worn low and shoulder, as soon as leaned toward her newborn child. The door closed. The midwife did not know what to say or do, never had any similar experience on his long list of births. Discomfort in the room sat silent. You could hear only the wind gusts chaotic and discrete and regular breathing of the baby.
Slowly, like a container filled to the brim, not closed when a faucet is leaking drops regular part was gradually invaded by the awful stench of the first breaths of the newborn. The midwife left the place hurriedly, shortness of breath, the body, like wrapped around his nose. The mother was alone with her baby beside her, left the bedside. Beautiful and serene, looking happy, he tasted the air with delight, and threw an invisible thread of shit, regardless faces of his mother on the verge of nausea.
Meanwhile, on the ground floor you find commenting on the event without reason or answer. The tone was rising. He had to decide, try to find a solution. But some had heard of such a tragedy in the vicinity, or beyond. No human being known to them and could not stink, let alone a newborn uneventful. In the hubbub of protests, a soft-spoken and slender
pierced - The wind ... do you hear the wind?
- Well, what the wind, Grandma. Replied irritably, the father of the infant.
- The wind is so strong tonight, so violent and angry. Doubtless in coming to the little world, at'il nabbed a song in his throat?
- But what do we jaspines you there?
- Calm down ... The Peter reassured the Tantenette, laying on his arm, his hand stained cemetery flowers. "It simply means that the wind and life are probably entangled gases"
Glance pensive and mines close, skeptical silence greeted this story and waved briefly to the audience, when suddenly a long complaint by the chimney wind blew, and blew out the candles on a candelabra of fine laid on the buffet. All startled. A wonderful scent of sweet pea and orange blossom, slightly caramelized sugar and shuttle passed to the oven, slid under the noses of everyone. All smiled unconsciously, and the features of their faces, chopped by the sun and the work of the earth, suddenly relaxed, smooth and bright.
The father then sprang from his chair and rushed upstairs, swallowing the stairs two by two. He returned a few moments later, the handsome boy with the sweet face between his arms, while we heard the tragic calls his mother, who screamed in pain and helplessness. The father crossed
a determined part where everyone around the table, sat half upright, hesitating to intervene, not knowing what to decide, finally seated back buttock heavy, when they heard the door of the house closing loudly. A gust of wind fragrant manage to escape to the kitchen and swept a new candle. The
Tantenette sighed. She left the table and lit one by one, taking all the time, the candles that were blown by the Mistral intoxicating.
father reappeared. Without the toddler.
Faces rose towards him, questioning him in silence. Worried. Also strangely relieved.
Grandma grunted disapprovingly. The father Mufti
word and went without worrying about visitors in his room, joining his wife.
The mother stopped crying. No one dared utter a
comment. We waited. Long. The nose on the chin.
Mistral continued his sarabande deafening. He struck the walls, painted the cypress, which crackled under the assault, hackberry leaves brushed with disheveled, tore long plaintive whistle, as he tried to slip between the roof tiles.
Then came silence.
And we distinctly heard a gentle and quiet laughter, an accomplice of the blade.
unfolded his grandfather's old body, and addressed the audience a look that commanded to leave her mistress of the events. Even Tantenette did not flinch, and nodded in silence. Old tightened her shawl around her shoulders, crossed the hall to the sound of his shoes rubbing the ground, and left the house.
Without hesitation, she entered the alley leading from the home of the Masters to the cultivated fields. At the top of the dirt road, before switching to the vines, the wind takes all his race from the upper valley, as no obstacle prevents it from tumbling down and hit, quarrelsome and player, a mulberry robust and stocky, standing there for so long that imagines immutable. Its large branches, dark and tight, covers have always been walkers, a fresh and pleasant shade when the sun becomes too white.
The grandmother heard the laughter crystalline infant, and walked toward the tree. Mistral became the gentle breeze and scents of nature reached light and caressing. The body was wrapped in swaddling clothes hanging on the low branch of mulberry like a huge pod of white beans, tossed by the current. She approached. A gasp of wind swung the cocoon, and the baby's face appeared pale and chubby in the golden light of dawn this fall. The cheeks, round and tense intrigued old. She picked up the child and took him home. The tiny had not opened his lips and his eyes had become very serious.
The grandmother went into the house, the child nestled in her lap. A murmur greeted happy and relieved the infant, who had not yet opened his tiny mouth a soft pink hawthorn. We leaned in unison on the little white bundle, which had been religiously deposited on the kitchen table. The baby stopped waving. His gaze traveled serious meeting, his lips parted as if to offer a kiss, and his cheeks swollen relaxed. A whirlwind of horrific smell violently lashed the faces of adults gathered around the table. A terrible roar lifted their clothes, blow glass, plates and all objects placed on furniture. The tables are unhooked and fell with a crash, fire in the fireplace vanished, while the ashes sprang and defiled every corner, to the ceiling joists. The wave roared louder than ever smelling, corrosive and rancid, and spread through all the corridors, flooding every room, rushing down the stairs, only to tear the door of the room where the little angel came into the world within hours earlier. On the bed, which still retained the disorder and marks the birth, the parents were sleeping, shot emotions. The Mistral and lifted them gently, without awakening, broke the window to take in its Reiters, beyond the hills. We never saw them again.
In the kitchen, the nauseating wave dissipated. The calm.
Women and men with one eye opened prudent snorted like to hunt some acrid dust and burned, and gazed at the room upside down. The table where they were before was gone. A painful gamy smell of humus, rotten fruit and shredded metal, surfaced around. No trace of the grandfather or the baby.
Since that day, Life and Mistral put an end to this terrible disorder, and each remains in its place.
The large and beautiful building where the items were scrambled has since disappeared, and no stone is a testament to his presence.
Today, as ever since the dawn of time, the Mistral has every flavor of the earth and worries of the world. And when it spreads, it drags after him the wrath of deaf men.
And when a newborn enters the world, a quick sweet smell of sweet peas and caramelized cake, oozing from his head round, and thus alleviates the concern of men.
Finally, in general ...
At one time, far away from us when time was expressed in seasons, the wind was blowing as sometimes happens in this region, and for hours without intermission. He crossed the plains, rushing between villages, crumpled trees and crops, livestock and knocked the men.
When night came, the Mistral still hitting against the walls of a beautiful house, built on one edge of land dotted with vineyards. It slipped under doors by raising the dust on forgotten worn tiles, and managed to infiltrate between the shutters closed. The candlelight flickered briefly, stirring shadows on the attentive faces of family members and neighbors, gathered around the table in the large kitchen. At times, their eyes toward the floor escaped. Interrogative. Silent. Then slowly, with a slight sigh, attention was again drawn to the ripple of flames.
Above, in the master bedroom, a woman gave birth, with just the necessary effort to enjoy the happy and peaceful feeling of a job well done. The child was beautiful and well trained. His first cry was launched to clear the ceiling plastered with lime. The cry burst from the tiny chest, and the benevolent smile of the beautiful nurse who held him, while bloody and gooey in the arm, turned into a hideous grimace. The child stank. No, timeless miasma usual given by the design world: blood, water, sweat, and mucous stool. Emanation hot and stale, metallic, musky. But a terrifying remugle of raw garlic, salty and glebe of rotten orange. Surprise she almost dropped the infant, and could not suppress a groan by the applicant in swaddling clothes, to quickly clear the dross of childbirth. The newborn was swaddled tightly placed in the arms of his mother. The child opened her mouth, seeking the breast. The fetid breath reaches the tired face of the mother. She could not find the words, but his face expressed a deep disgust, turned and drove the tiny hands burden. The father was pacing behind the door, heard the cries and rushed, radiant and triumphant, in the room. And returned, worn low and shoulder, as soon as leaned toward her newborn child. The door closed. The midwife did not know what to say or do, never had any similar experience on his long list of births. Discomfort in the room sat silent. You could hear only the wind gusts chaotic and discrete and regular breathing of the baby.
Slowly, like a container filled to the brim, not closed when a faucet is leaking drops regular part was gradually invaded by the awful stench of the first breaths of the newborn. The midwife left the place hurriedly, shortness of breath, the body, like wrapped around his nose. The mother was alone with her baby beside her, left the bedside. Beautiful and serene, looking happy, he tasted the air with delight, and threw an invisible thread of shit, regardless faces of his mother on the verge of nausea.
Meanwhile, on the ground floor you find commenting on the event without reason or answer. The tone was rising. He had to decide, try to find a solution. But some had heard of such a tragedy in the vicinity, or beyond. No human being known to them and could not stink, let alone a newborn uneventful. In the hubbub of protests, a soft-spoken and slender
pierced - The wind ... do you hear the wind?
- Well, what the wind, Grandma. Replied irritably, the father of the infant.
- The wind is so strong tonight, so violent and angry. Doubtless in coming to the little world, at'il nabbed a song in his throat?
- But what do we jaspines you there?
- Calm down ... The Peter reassured the Tantenette, laying on his arm, his hand stained cemetery flowers. "It simply means that the wind and life are probably entangled gases"
Glance pensive and mines close, skeptical silence greeted this story and waved briefly to the audience, when suddenly a long complaint by the chimney wind blew, and blew out the candles on a candelabra of fine laid on the buffet. All startled. A wonderful scent of sweet pea and orange blossom, slightly caramelized sugar and shuttle passed to the oven, slid under the noses of everyone. All smiled unconsciously, and the features of their faces, chopped by the sun and the work of the earth, suddenly relaxed, smooth and bright.
The father then sprang from his chair and rushed upstairs, swallowing the stairs two by two. He returned a few moments later, the handsome boy with the sweet face between his arms, while we heard the tragic calls his mother, who screamed in pain and helplessness. The father crossed
a determined part where everyone around the table, sat half upright, hesitating to intervene, not knowing what to decide, finally seated back buttock heavy, when they heard the door of the house closing loudly. A gust of wind fragrant manage to escape to the kitchen and swept a new candle. The
Tantenette sighed. She left the table and lit one by one, taking all the time, the candles that were blown by the Mistral intoxicating.
father reappeared. Without the toddler.
Faces rose towards him, questioning him in silence. Worried. Also strangely relieved.
Grandma grunted disapprovingly. The father Mufti
word and went without worrying about visitors in his room, joining his wife.
The mother stopped crying. No one dared utter a
comment. We waited. Long. The nose on the chin.
Mistral continued his sarabande deafening. He struck the walls, painted the cypress, which crackled under the assault, hackberry leaves brushed with disheveled, tore long plaintive whistle, as he tried to slip between the roof tiles.
Then came silence.
And we distinctly heard a gentle and quiet laughter, an accomplice of the blade.
unfolded his grandfather's old body, and addressed the audience a look that commanded to leave her mistress of the events. Even Tantenette did not flinch, and nodded in silence. Old tightened her shawl around her shoulders, crossed the hall to the sound of his shoes rubbing the ground, and left the house.
Without hesitation, she entered the alley leading from the home of the Masters to the cultivated fields. At the top of the dirt road, before switching to the vines, the wind takes all his race from the upper valley, as no obstacle prevents it from tumbling down and hit, quarrelsome and player, a mulberry robust and stocky, standing there for so long that imagines immutable. Its large branches, dark and tight, covers have always been walkers, a fresh and pleasant shade when the sun becomes too white.
The grandmother heard the laughter crystalline infant, and walked toward the tree. Mistral became the gentle breeze and scents of nature reached light and caressing. The body was wrapped in swaddling clothes hanging on the low branch of mulberry like a huge pod of white beans, tossed by the current. She approached. A gasp of wind swung the cocoon, and the baby's face appeared pale and chubby in the golden light of dawn this fall. The cheeks, round and tense intrigued old. She picked up the child and took him home. The tiny had not opened his lips and his eyes had become very serious.
The grandmother went into the house, the child nestled in her lap. A murmur greeted happy and relieved the infant, who had not yet opened his tiny mouth a soft pink hawthorn. We leaned in unison on the little white bundle, which had been religiously deposited on the kitchen table. The baby stopped waving. His gaze traveled serious meeting, his lips parted as if to offer a kiss, and his cheeks swollen relaxed. A whirlwind of horrific smell violently lashed the faces of adults gathered around the table. A terrible roar lifted their clothes, blow glass, plates and all objects placed on furniture. The tables are unhooked and fell with a crash, fire in the fireplace vanished, while the ashes sprang and defiled every corner, to the ceiling joists. The wave roared louder than ever smelling, corrosive and rancid, and spread through all the corridors, flooding every room, rushing down the stairs, only to tear the door of the room where the little angel came into the world within hours earlier. On the bed, which still retained the disorder and marks the birth, the parents were sleeping, shot emotions. The Mistral and lifted them gently, without awakening, broke the window to take in its Reiters, beyond the hills. We never saw them again.
In the kitchen, the nauseating wave dissipated. The calm.
Women and men with one eye opened prudent snorted like to hunt some acrid dust and burned, and gazed at the room upside down. The table where they were before was gone. A painful gamy smell of humus, rotten fruit and shredded metal, surfaced around. No trace of the grandfather or the baby.
Since that day, Life and Mistral put an end to this terrible disorder, and each remains in its place.
The large and beautiful building where the items were scrambled has since disappeared, and no stone is a testament to his presence.
Today, as ever since the dawn of time, the Mistral has every flavor of the earth and worries of the world. And when it spreads, it drags after him the wrath of deaf men.
And when a newborn enters the world, a quick sweet smell of sweet peas and caramelized cake, oozing from his head round, and thus alleviates the concern of men.
Finally, in general ...
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