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Your lie without Desire

Updated: Oct 30, 2022



Her letter reads: Come to Yedaho Coffee House in my favorite color.


In a crowd of fifty, two people would hold their breaths for your candle. Then, imagine the iffy of favorite colors.


Flidias thought this would never happen, and now, there are no predictions he sees it happening.


“If it was my wrong decisions that I have made so far had have taken me to your palms, I am even grateful for that.”—nobody knows where he borrowed these lines.


An anteater reflected Hatent of his past. Indeed, he had poor human company throughout his life because he could not resist randomness. For a scale, Hatent would lose contact with reality amid all his favorite conversations whenever he thoughtlessly came across any geometric pattern.


Yet nobody cares; he would still school a busy stranger about his discovery of frog choreography.


Now, no mortal knows or wants to know why he is looking at an anteater like a dinner plate. His apophenic behavior compelled him to inscribe some tediously echoing records that would be meaningless if had less otherwise. Hatent well calculated the eclipses, tides, and the bill length of many purposeless birds.


One day, he is directing the path for some spilled wine with his finger on a table while explaining his recent breakthrough to Quascal—a limner who could barely even construct a sentence now.


“Learn to appreciate Nature but not when your only son is dying of Cholera,” hiccupped Quascal. Even though Quascal was drunk above his head, his instructions were distinct. Hatent also realized that his idleness incubated bad behavior and looked forward to something that would always keep him positively hooked.


Seasons changed. Haty’s house was just saturated with cheap paintings of geometric patterns. It’s cold outside, and Quascal approaches him with total compassion because it’s getting chronic. Again, he was not tempered; he just told him—in his higher tone of voice—to leave somebody behind to tell his tale.


So, thought of a remedy in the morning, Quascal harnessed him to a busy avenue where the snow had to be removed once every hour; somebody also kept a freezing hoe beside a pole. Though he brought horseshoes to a cow, Hatent agreed to labor for a decent sum besides his bread, and nobody would ever have imagined that this man would take this too far—sculpting the path like his private estate. The winter in Glaves is unforgiving, yet the snowfall fascinated him like anything.


Sometimes you just want to let people understand the world in their way; if you interfere, the change you want in them is possible but not permanent.


He enjoyed being a snow warden and seemed not to be fed up anytime soon. And still, there is one thing that needs to be changed—the season.


In Spring, Hatent was on the verge of his former functions, and Quascal had to be called. The cure: As Quascal explores different environments, he will be in a corner to guard those drying paintings indoors and outdoors. Years passed, and one day, Hatent broomed a cobweb which he seldom does, and he is perfectly conscious about it.


The very next day, Q brought a whole Queen Pineapple home, and unusually Hatent eluded examining its crown. Quascal is unable to track back to the time of this therapeutic victory, yet it is uncelebratory. Both men are in their mid-twenties with popular dreams.


Quascal let Hatent live his unlived life. As he wished, he went to distant lands and became a fine scholar with heavy pockets. Even though Hatent was successful for months, he couldn’t find another fellow to seal Q’s void. So, he rode back to Glaves to greet his first, former, and forever friend.


At home, Quascal had already discovered and decorated the private collections of his hundreds of human fingerprints and dogs’ nose prints—windy smiles of Hatent.


In April, a tall veterinarian asked Quascal to recreate a portrait of his dead horse. Since it is a white pony, lead is the only way to fabricate a vivid white, and Quascal already had some bad business with lead at that time. The day when he agreed to finish the portrait was yesterday.


As Hatent went fetching the lead, he had enough clock to complete the silhouette. After a night-long splash, Quascal covered the craft with a piece of linen and fell asleep by dawn. While Hatent was still in dreams, he departed with his work to Phulend.


An hour after noon, he reached the doors of the veterinarian, and his wife said that he had just left for the tavern and wondered how Quascal had not met him on his way. She also mentioned that he would not return home before fulfilling his purpose over there, perhaps, for two more days.


Though the tavern was not that far from his home, Quascal decided to meet him there. The veterinarian greeted him with appreciation and also profusely apologized for straying him. He was genuinely hypnotized by the fresh paint, bought a beer for the painter, and reserved him a chamber to kill his exhaustion.


It was a four-hour nap, and the mixer behind the curtains said the vet would be here in an hour. In his sleep transitional state Quascal drained the rest from the bottle and looked for a stool near the hearth.


A couple was quarreling in the tavern since he was out from the nap. He then stopped digging his eye gunk, spread his fingers like he wanted to take something out from his pockets, and looked at her with a pause. The angelic girl held a cigarette between her fingers and strongly disagreed on something with her partner.


On seeing this, Q went back to the chamber, grabbed his squirrel brush, and drew a picture of the same man caressing her as if she would break. At first, he scrupled to keeping the painting for himself, but the colleen opened her purse right away, and Quascal made fair funds out of it.


When everything was said and done, the vet showed up from nowhere and shook hands with him at the exit. Then the naïve painter left Phulend to tell about this double bounty to his friend.


At Glaves, the homeboy said this deed would generate a perpetual revenue and seriously motivated him to leap into sketching young lovers.


Quascal was certain that not all would end up purchasing the portrait and was also scared of getting caught crudely in the middle. However, Hatent perceived something glorious in it.


Have you ever experienced the spirit you have when you start something new? The brothers hunted all restaurants and taverns with such energy. Soon, Quascal spotted somebody to sketch and silently seated behind them with a good field of view and began his magic.


So far, so good. And Quascal gestured Hatent of his completion; he sprung up onto his chair and heeled his elbows on the brown table to enjoy their reactions at a distance. Hatent got what he wanted, but for the painter, the couple couldn’t afford the painting so he couldn’t trash it either. The kind couple bought it with what they had at that time.


As time flew by, the second couple had left the place even before he began coloring. In the third, the woman sat beside a man; she had been sharing her plate with someone for the past hour before him. And the fourth refused the painting because both are married to someone else. Quascal is fueled by the last drop of his patience and draws the fifth couple with their consent as Hatent reclines in a chair like he always does.


Out of nowhere, a drop-dead gorgeous girl sat in front of Hatent and began to talk like they grew up together under the same roof. And only the fools who are incapable of surviving in this world would let that girl go—he was undoubtedly not one of them.


“This is my favorite place,” said Hatent, rimming his fingers over the transparent tumbler.


“Have you been here before?” she asked, fairly tucking her neck.


“No, but this is the closest I have ever got to you.” And he made up the whole thing just to say this to her. Following her long smile, he had enough time for several of these. The eye-mortgaging thing, only next to cliff-sunsets, is when you realize a girl likes you back for the first time ever in your existence.


He was sure that he could last this colloquy for decades. Before that, he awkwardly walked towards Quascal, begged to quit what he had been doing, and asked to sketch him with her. Meanwhile, she checked herself in a tiny mirror.


Months before this, Wundalin’s cart arrives at Phulend. Their year-long mansion is just finally finished, and all eyes are upon them. Nearly twelve servants have been sent to buy the new necessaries, especially candles.


Violet Wundalin, the enchanting girl of the family, and all the candles are for her. The parlor-maid hired Tapryl, a fine chandler from the outskirts of Phulend, to meet the mansion’s lighting needs. The maid told Tapryl to replace every candle with new ones and allowed her to take the old wax with her for free. Tapryl usually sells candles and profits from the difference, but this deal is a winning move in her trade.


She tired an entire day, accumulating the old wax from every single chandelier and candelabra. And she also calculated the required candles on a leaf of linen and left the mansion.


Steps away from her home, Tapryl walked, looking over her shoulders, and at the doors, she balled her eyes to her sides. Then, she kept her wax basket down and fled behind her home to take the keys from the low roof.


Only after hearing a satisfying sound from the lock levers, she noticed a tarnished green letter on her basket with no envelope. Tapryl thought someone must have corked the letter in when she went for the keys—she sighed to change the key’s place again.


The letter reads: Hey,

I saw you yesterday, Then, I stayed to see you every day. Even though, If I do not see you from today, It’s okay, You are all of my tomorrows—I pray.


The truth is, any woman would fall for any man, yet they hardly bring it to light, leaving the rest of this adventure in the wordplay of men. Tapryl was not intellectually inferior to this man, and she romantically retaliated against the letter back.


Last night Flidias’ sheep divagated into Virgil’s territory again; three belong to his fellow mates. Regardless of the weather, Flidias should find them before the wolves. After two moons, he returned home with only three, and not a single one belonged to his friends.


He then shortly gave up probing the sheep because those woolless sheep would have surfed through the wolf’s intestines by this time. Now he has been searching for a lantern for so long, already chewing half the cigarette in his mouth; the creatures he calls friends had shown up at his doorsteps to claim their sheep.


Little to speak, Flidias bestowed his sheep. He had to sheer at least forty sheep without saving a single penny for chow—just to add one to the flock. In contrast to his dreams, all he has is eight sheep, a comb, a cutter, and a cruel landlord next door.


Having no hope in his drudgery, Flidias fantasized about saturating his trousers like his friends—bride a bounty. So, he flipped his pen to write flirting essays.


After toiling for two days, Tapryl went to the mansion with brand new candles of different colors, and she suddenly became breathless after seeing a ruptured green tarnished mail with its envelope on the home lady’s desk. She contemplated the forfeit for learning the previous mail, which was honestly meant to be here.


Tapryl had to stretch her hands to that letter—this time, not inadvertently. She desired to mentally compare this letter with the one she took home. Before someone says something, the bottom of the letter already reads: To my dear reflection, from Sir Flidias.


“Thud!” goes to the door.


Though the home lady caught Tapryl red-handed, she calmly stated that these kinds of postal mails are senseless—yet made perfect sense to Tapryl. Then the home lady keenly inky pinky ponky-ed the candles and joked whether the green candles glow green. She then told her to put them back in the chandelier and remembered Tapryl to collect her pay before lunch.


After laughing at her ill humor, Tapryl confessed everything back in a letter on the same evening. She also uttered that she was a candlemaker and not his sweetie from whom this nobleman was supposed to hear.


Lo and behold, Sir Flidias is shearing his thirteenth sheep of the day. The kempster opened the mail before his breakfast, and he could not consume—both the words and the walnuts. He principled it was unfair for a gentleman or, a man, at least—to desert a woman’s feelings.


So, he sought the help of his fond foe friends to secede from this stale situation cleanly. Boneless tongue bends both ways—One of the kempsters told not to waste this woman without taking a look; perhaps she might be easy on the eye.


Flidias was convinced to show up as much as he did not want and thought the subsequent withdrawal of his head would make him more suspicious.


“Rehearse yourself telling your grandchildren it is this mistake is the reason why they starve right now,” said another shepherd, broadening his hands. Given such sweet sounds, Flidias persisted in wearing his fancy mask.


Several letters were exchanged. And one day, in a reply mail, he asked Tapryl to set up an eye-to-eye conversation and waited behind the letter, biting his nails. And there was no word from her for a week; Flidias ascertained he had far passed the female’s imaginary boundary of novel relationships.


Following a daybreak rooster, a letter from Tapryl said to meet her at Yedaho. He has been adjusting his bow tie for this moment all his life. At the coffee house, some people had a real fortune in their pockets, whereas he had been waiting for her arrival in a rented costume that only lasted up to five of this evening.


He was lunchless, and the place was peaceless. Flidias told the waiter to bring two lemon teas, one for him and another for her. Meanwhile, he continued to prepare a talk.


Hours later, unable to suffer from her arrival fantasies anymore, he faintly interrogated the names of girls in his vicinity. Slowly but eventually, he had gone through all the girls—aside from the waitresses and a pretty girl who was already sitting in front of a man.


When push comes to shove, drowning himself in all kinds of gloomy retrospectives: Flidias felt Tapryl had somehow learned his dirty deeds, so she betrayed him by design. He awkwardly drank Tapryl’s tea in hunger and prepared pussy-foot the way out.


As a chance to fulfill his quest for Tapryl, the man glued in front of that lass had finally moved to another table, leaving the girl’s good company like that painter had offered him free beer over there. Deadman stands with courage: In the brief discontinuity, Flidias gently asks her the name, and Tapryl says, “Sorry gentleman, I’m Cissily.”

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