Regina Saxony
on the topic of that march
She paints. With thick oils and vibrant splashes of color she creates a world not as dull and snowy as what was standard of the view from foggy window she longingly looked out of. The haphazard easel rocks back and forth with the slightest of pressure from the scalpel she delicately whips in the rubber consistency of the paints.
Straddling a black piano bench with a lieu of thin indentations only visible under bright light and paint splatters visible from meters away, she concentrates with a lip snagged between to teeth and eyes squinted in pristine focus. This particular canvas was plastered with ambery tones she took a great pleasure in. The rich azures and orangey-tans reminded her of her childhood trips to Istanbul before the world deteriorated to its current desolation. Before snow was stained with red (although the snow was stained with red several times when it was St. Petersburg) and before he was a young man with ambition.
A red wedge she sliced from the painting trickles to a blank spot on her chilled concrete floor. It is the only spot in the entire one room apartment not covered in newspaper. Each headline takes her back to those long days in March, when all she heard was the crackling of the fire, her stomach churning, and the raising voices of angry women in the streets. Regina is filled with a bitter remembrance of the nipping March day she witnessed, and only witnessed. The fire was warm and she sat at the shoddy kitchen table with the window ajar just a centimeter or two. Sipping on her unpleasantly, earthy tasting tea and nibbling on the moldy bread, she stared at the women below in their woolen coats and fur hats with their raising voices forever branding a terrorizing harmony in her memory.
She remembered the shots too. And she remembered spectating in an utter indifference, the toll of all of the constant war and bloodshed having hardened her into something she deemed less human. But, less, we hardened souls carry on.
She turns her attention back to more trivial things like her canvas while the snow whirlwinds in a whitewash fury outside of the frosted glass. If she narrows her eyes into the thinnest of slits, seemingly thinner than the scratches on the black, glossy piano bench, she swears she can see the Winter Palace foreboding in the distance with an aura of depressing insignificance.
Straddling a black piano bench with a lieu of thin indentations only visible under bright light and paint splatters visible from meters away, she concentrates with a lip snagged between to teeth and eyes squinted in pristine focus. This particular canvas was plastered with ambery tones she took a great pleasure in. The rich azures and orangey-tans reminded her of her childhood trips to Istanbul before the world deteriorated to its current desolation. Before snow was stained with red (although the snow was stained with red several times when it was St. Petersburg) and before he was a young man with ambition.
A red wedge she sliced from the painting trickles to a blank spot on her chilled concrete floor. It is the only spot in the entire one room apartment not covered in newspaper. Each headline takes her back to those long days in March, when all she heard was the crackling of the fire, her stomach churning, and the raising voices of angry women in the streets. Regina is filled with a bitter remembrance of the nipping March day she witnessed, and only witnessed. The fire was warm and she sat at the shoddy kitchen table with the window ajar just a centimeter or two. Sipping on her unpleasantly, earthy tasting tea and nibbling on the moldy bread, she stared at the women below in their woolen coats and fur hats with their raising voices forever branding a terrorizing harmony in her memory.
She remembered the shots too. And she remembered spectating in an utter indifference, the toll of all of the constant war and bloodshed having hardened her into something she deemed less human. But, less, we hardened souls carry on.
She turns her attention back to more trivial things like her canvas while the snow whirlwinds in a whitewash fury outside of the frosted glass. If she narrows her eyes into the thinnest of slits, seemingly thinner than the scratches on the black, glossy piano bench, she swears she can see the Winter Palace foreboding in the distance with an aura of depressing insignificance.
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oh two subscribers and one rec already! Thank you darlings.Oh and I picked out a song that fits the story to a 't'. It's in the summary if you care to listen.