The Silver Balloon
Soil
異なった花はまだ土および日曜日を浸す。 ^^
Salutations, everybody! I hope you're well. I had to give this one a bit of a small head-scratcher here and there. I really have no definite plot for this story yet-just a shaky outline.
By the time you read this, ACTS are over. *Whew, wipes brow.* Right now, I envy my future self....*Sighs.* Ah, well. In any case, I wanted to celebrate with an update or two. :D I can only hope I have at least this update done by Thursday. *Grrrs, looks determined.*
The muse is on, and I am praying for the merry month of May to come-and Summer to sweep the Earth once again! *Sighs dreamily.* That is, if I don't have to take any classes during the Summer....*Swallows, sways on feet.* Oh, dear....
Well, in any case, for my dear readers and reviewers, recyclablefoxx, Butterfly Meadow, Phantom77, JoyJababaNoid, Mikell, MelodyWinters, RaND0mnESS, PlainSimpleGarak, and milliondollarninja-
^^ Doomo arigatou gozaimasu! Thank you very much!
Please, take care, everyone.
Quote:
"Let me arise and open the gate,
To breathe the wild warm air of the heath,
And to let in Love, and to let out Hate,
And anger at living and scorn of Fate,
To let in Life, and to let out Death."
- Violet Fane
He knew he tasted victory as soon as his fingertips brushed against the silky smoothness that promised the presence of paper. His breathing once again hitched, and Mikey eagerly tugged out the small envelope-which, sure enough, bore the old fashioned script on the front.
That was Rosa's handwriting, alright. Feeling giddy, Mikey nonchalantly tucked the small piece of paper into his oversized jacket pocket-and turned from the ancient mailbox, eyes carefully scanning the deserted streets.
It was a warm and sunny afternoon-but surprisingly enough, not really any activity on the roads, today. While waiting for it to be safe to pass the street to the old, boarded up ruin's mailbox, the orange-clad turtle noted only three or four cars passing through. Then again, this particular region of New York was rather shady-and none frequented it too often-pardoning late night outings...where he knew they lurked-in the dark.
Mikey shivered, even as the sun cheerily continued to shine through the thick fabrics hiding his shell. The small turtle quickly glanced about himself-made a dash for the alleys once again, devoutly thankful that the oversized fedora covered his head rather nicely. One time, in coming to check the mailbox-he had peered down at a puddle, his own reflection staring interestedly at him.
He looked, perhaps-a bit peculiar, but Mikey thought he looked rather handsome in it. Kind of like that one guy with the fedora had looked like in that kissy kissy goo goo movie with no color that Splinter loved so much.
Mikey hummed lightly under his breath as he pried open the heavy sewer manhole cover, wincing as he did so. It certainly was a large, blunt, and heavy object. Maybe he could use it to go sledding one day-or, pardoning that, a trash can lid.
With that bright thought in his mind, Mikey at least heaved the small grate open, and began to slide into the hungry crevice, foot finding the rusty ladder.
As he climbed down into the dim gloom of the sewers, he gently released the metallic lid-but the result was that it fell back to Earth with a BANG, shattering through the calm, quiet, drip-drip-dripatmosphere like thunder.
Mikey froze as the sound continuously echoed throughout the tunnels, and his hands flew almost immediately to his pockets, as his heart began to pound underneath the yellow crest upon his chest. The panicked turtle silently landed on the floor, staggered back, eyes frantically fluttering about the tunnels, ears pricked for the sound of running footsteps pattering against the sewer rock.
......but none came. Mikey's breathing eased slightly, as did his rapid heartbeat. Another minute or two went by.
No Leo, no Raph, no Don, and certainly no Master Splinter. The little turtle's eyes fluttered shut, and he exhaled heavily, sinking onto the comforting warm wood of an old crate he had kept near the rusted steps near the manhole. About this time on fair days, a few rays of sunlight would fall upon it from the grate a little ways up from the wall-near the open manhole. It was rather nice to sit near-plus, well...Mikey did have a habit of slipping from the bottom step, and was still too short to make the steep drop directly to the bottom. Ah, well. At least Raph didn't know better to torment him about it. There was only an inch or so difference in height between them-but Raph always seemed to have that stupid half-inch on Mikey whenever Master Splinter did their monthly measuring-and lined them up at the wall.
Mikey waited for his heartbeat to slow down a bit-then, he reached inside of his parka, and pulled out the slip of precious paper. Not counting Rosa's recent gift, this was his second letter. It was just as-if not more so-precious as his first.
A small, goofy smile spread across the turtle's face, and he eagerly began to tear at the envelope. A small token of him wanted to very slowly, very carefully rip the paper open-but he had done that with the last letter. Rosa had responded once again-and Mikey was desperate to see whether or not she had found his reply annoying or not. He halted in tearing the paper for a second. Suppose she was?
But Rosa didn't seem like that type of person from her writings, so the turtle continued to tear the top of the envelope-avoiding the paper he knew to be in there. The last thing he wanted to do was to mutilate the message.
It felt rather fun, having a secret pen-pal of sorts. And Mikey had to rush out under the city lights to retrieve the message in a ruined mailbox-just like in a James Bond movie. Except....were there ninjas in James Bond? Mikey didn't know. But close enough. He just didn't have spy-gear, a tuxedo-or really cool shades. Yet. At least he now knew what to ask for his birthday.
Rosa's pink-flower stationary fell into his hands-and Mikey was surprised to feel how gritty the paper felt. He cautiously rubbed at the page, now feeling slightly confused. Perhaps the envelope or something had been dusty?
But his eyes fell upon Rosa's spiky, elegant-if not somewhat difficult to read-handwriting, and such thoughts were almost immediately vacated.
Dear Mikey,
You can't see it, but I'm blushing pink to the roots, right now. A pretty name, eh? I bet you say that to all the girls, you charmer. ^^
Thank you so much for the bus token, dear. At first, I had no idea what on Earth it was-a foreign coin, perhaps? I asked George to take a crack at it-but he seemed just as perplexed as I was. Then, while I waved hello to Helen one day, (my postmistress)-I decided to take a chance. I pulled it out of my pocket, and I inquired to know whether or not she could identify the little piece.
It took her a minute or two, but Helen finally recognized it as a bus token-like those she had seen while visiting her cousin in New York. A very thoughtful gift, my dear-and now I know what to do should I ever wish to come to the city. :) Thank you.
Ah-the rose bud made it? Good. I was not at all certain it would-I wished to send it in the original letter, but seeing as how I'd lose my head if it weren't fastened on, I did forget-and had to send it via a second note. Thank you, my dear boy.
I must admit, I began to laugh again when I read your theory upon rose colors-and your query on whether or not roses would be orange or yellow if left in a great deal of sunlight. It does make sense, doesn't it? Bill, our gardener, once attempted to explain the theory on how acidic properties will enhance the coloration and hue of certain blooms by using the PH scale....but, a silly woman must confess-I nearly fell asleep during his lecture. He is a kind one, though-and the particular bulb I sent was one he helped me pick out.
*Laughs.* Roses come in many hues and types, dear Michelangelo. Just as people do. ^^ I take it you're not the largest friend of red? *Laughs again.*
Red, white, and pink are rather popular rose types. White symbolizes cleanliness, purity, and innocence, while Red stands for passion and love. (I hope you're not retching by this point, son. ^^) Pink stands for sweethearts, or for friendship.
Giving flowers is a popular way of expressing affection or whatnot-always has been. Flowers always leave some of their fragrance on the hand that bestows them, Mikey.
A blue rose? Indeed! Such a very interesting idea-but they cannot bloom naturally. Bulbs may be genetically altered to transfer a bloom's color, but it may be a bit of an odd effect. Still, it will grow, just the same. I asked Bill about it-and he says that blue roses are thought to mean mystery, love at first sight, wisdom, or enchantment. Violet roses DO bloom-and they stand for majesty, gentle affection, royalty, or..."treading cautiously on dangerous ventures." ^^ Heh. Orange roses can also naturally bloom-as they stand for eagerness, impetuous or irrational behavior, energy, and admiration.
As for the color of your particular bulb? You'll see. ^^ I was going to opt with pink...but thankfully, Bill advised me otherwise...! I doubt you would care for the color very much. My grandson Christopher believes that pink readily attracts "cooties", like flypaper. Heh.
You have a very lovely description of the city, my dear boy. George enjoys the quiet of the country retirement has given him, but I do believe a part of him still loves the city. He certainly talks about it enough-though your description was awfully vivid. It sounds as if a hundred thousand captive stars are sparkling like diamonds on the face of the Earth. It sounds breathtaking.
As a little girl, I grew up on my grandfather's farm in Vermont. While I have shifted back and forth between country and suburbs in my life, I must admit that my heart is oft found in the countryside. The more trees to be found-the more to scatter up and climb, even if it meant a few scrapes here and there-the better. I spent my childhood idly dreaming (if I wasn't helping Father outside in the fruit orchards or Mother with the jams or cooking in the kitchen) on the swing hanging from an enormous oak near the barn doors, or about in the woods or meadows-that I was off somewhere else, having misadventures in such wild, excitable, and glowing places such as the city. I read about them more then often in my books-and it seemed to me a kingdom of excitement, of wonder-of something new each and every turn.
Not much changed in the countryside-seasons came, and seasons went. In the Summer, after catching fireflies and letting them go off again-I'd lie on my stomach on the old swing and flutter back and forth, back and forth, flinging my sandals on and off. I remember on one occasion-one went flying off into the gorse bush-and I never did find it. Ah, well. My brother Paul did think it hilarious as we rummaged through the brushes, looking for it.
The grass was damp and cool-and swished past one's feet in the morning and late evenings. The sun went down rather late, and it took a jolly while before the stars began to peer down from the sky. Sometimes, I'd take a peach from the orchard and go down to certain glades or clearings in the woods I found while exploring. I'd look at the stars beginning to soundlessly explode into the sky, one after another after another. My uncle Albert picked out a few choice constellations, and occasionally I'd pick them out while lying about in the grass, or on a very oddly shaped log. I was a silly, absentminded little girl-I sometimes fell asleep out there-or in the barn loft, with hay for a blanket and pillow. ^^ On nights with full moons, the world was covered in a soft glow, and it was nearly as easy for one to get about outside as they did in the day.
Because I brought peaches to eat so often in the evenings, my Mother insisted that I wash up in the stream before coming back to the house for Supper or bedtime. I always did eat sloppily then-and had sticky fruit juice all over me. ^^ Everything I touched became a sticky mess. I do believe it very nearly drove Father crazy. ^^
Forgive a silly old woman, Michelangelo. The hour here is late-and I hope not to dry out yet another pen. George nearly cried when I informed him I had worn through another set of pencils last Thursday.
Hope is where you find life. And in life is where one finds hope, dear boy. Please take care. And thank you so much for your letters-they are such a pleasure to read.
-Rosa
Mikey blinked for a moment or two as he peered into the envelope. There was something in there....
Finally, it dawned upon the bemused turtle, and he reached into the envelope, giggling lightly as the warm, dry soil rasped slightly against his fingertips.
Rosa had sent soil from her garden. Other then sending a mud pie, there was nothing Mikey could have appreciated more. Least it explained why the letter had been so gritty. But he couldn't bring himself to care very much.
He rolled a tiny white sphere that had tumbled out onto his palm about between his index finger-or, well, Donny SAID that it was an index finger-and his thumb (Which, again, he was not at all certain WAS one...but the turtle could guess.
The tiny white sphere eventually faded into fine powder on his fingertips, and Mikey absentmindedly brushed his hands off on his sides, letter perched in his lap.
Stretching lightly, Mikey stood after a minute or two, carefully retucking the letter and the dirt back into his parka's old pockets. Feeling pleased, the turtle exhaled, then began to scurry down the sewer canal, mind set for home.
He would have to send another answer in reply soon. The anticipation of waiting-waiting, and wondering if that someone had gotten your message-was too much fun to resist, and Mikey wanted to drag out his crayons as soon as he get back. Hopefully, he'd be able to find another stamp by-
"Oooof!"
Mikey let out a short cry as he lost his footing on the slippery edge of the canal water-tripped, and-!
"Aggggh!"
With a particularly loud THUMP! that resonated through the tunnels so easily giving him away, Mikey let out a short squawk, and fell onto his stomach near the edge, watching stars erupt about his vision. The hat had fallen off his face, directly in front of him.
Where something-or someone-else was perched, gazing at the orange-clad turtle skeptically.
Leo hurried forward with a small frown as Mikey uneasily staggered up, wincing lightly as he rubbed irritably at his now sore chest. Owww.
But, discomfort soon forgotten, the orange-clad turtle's eyes immediately juxtaposed to his brother, who was now carefully walking past the damp cement where Mikey had slipped-and where the sewer canal water was sloshing and slurping against the old stone.
"Hey, Mikey."
The turtle finally hopped onto a drier bit of stone before transferring his gaze back to his now slightly panicking brother.
"You alright? And...."
Leo paused, stooped, and picked up the slightly damp fedora, staring at it before uncertainly shaking the excess water droplets from the brim into the canal once more. His brow furrowed.
"...what...exactly are you....wearing?"
A small lump began to rise to Mikey's chest, but, as Leo's arms crossed, he knew immediately that he had to come up with an answer. Now.
On the score of tattling, Leo was the one who you could trust when it came to confidentiality, but the moment that you did something that seemed just the little bit dangerous-like going bowling with old broken bottles, or surfing on the canal after a storm had just hit, or....climbing up to the surface on multiple occasions to correspond with a human...
Oh, yeah. There was no doubt about it: Leo would tattle. Mikey swallowed, then dramatically swished around, oversized coat flailing behind him.
"...I...uh..."
Inspiration flashed into his mind.
"...I was dressing up like Zorro! What d'you think?"
Leo just sighed, and shook his head for a moment or two.
"....Zorro," he said flatly. Mikey only hoped that the turtle didn't note his approaching panic-or the casual drift of his hand to his pocket.
Leo squinted at him, frowning lightly. "...uh, Mike? Zorro wears BLACK. And a mask."
Mikey twirled about once again.
"So? I wear one, too!"
"Yeah, but it's not like Zorro's, y'know. Zorro's the guy with the whip and sword."
Mikey pouted.
"I don't have a whip-just my nimchai. And you're the sword-guy, Leo."
The blue-clad turtle just shrugged.
"Yeah, well, whatever. You kinda look like that guy who solves his problems with his fists on that kissy kissy goo goo movie with the plane."
Leo absentmindedly tugged at Mikey's hand as the two strolled down the dark canals, water sloshing about the dirty undersides of the gleaming tunnels as they did so.
"C'mon, Zorro. Sensei says we hafta train now."
Mikey had never been so willing to oblige for such in his life as he hurried behind his brother, hands still faucetted around the light bulge in his pocket as he did so.
"C'mon. Master Splinter says we gotta train."
