Cinq contes fantastiques by Claude Ollier

By Claude Ollier

II est dans l'un et l'autre paysages à l. a. fois, là à los angeles même position, sans remuer. Il les despatched tous les deux, les despatched bien dans son corps tous les deux, tout autour de son corps, aussi loin qu'il puisse appréhender le monde. Pour une fois ! L'univers s'offre à lui dans une dualité insoupçonnée, séductrice, jusqu'à ce jour celée dans l. a. coïncidence. L'impression est universelle. Cela dure un bon second. los angeles métamorphose se prolongeait, le randonneur se sentait pris au jeu et jouissait sans retenue de los angeles faculté nouvelle à lui octroyer pour prix de sa disponibilité. De son désir d'errer, sa jouissance à s'égarer, se perdre. Est-ce là un monde ancien ? je l'aurai vu sur les gravures, songeait-il, les contes figuraient ce hassle sur les scènes lointaines où l'on jouait. Cet éclat modulé, troublant, l'intense rigidity de l'être et l'émerveillement. Cette splendeur dans l'herbe. Ce qui aurait pu passer au regard d'autrui pour une aimantation extraordinaire de los angeles contrée s'est effacé d'un coup, dédoublement des lignes comme gommé d'un clin d'oeil.

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Cinq contes fantastiques

II est dans l'un et l'autre paysages à l. a. fois, là à l. a. même position, sans remuer. Il les despatched tous les deux, les despatched bien dans son corps tous les deux, tout autour de son corps, aussi loin qu'il puisse appréhender le monde. Pour une fois ! L'univers s'offre à lui dans une dualité insoupçonnée, séductrice, jusqu'à ce jour celée dans los angeles coïncidence.

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Just like that, gone before you understand. ” Dirty water rises in the back of my throat, the liquid language of my own terror and rage. “Hold me. ” Jesse rolls over on me; her hands grip my hipbones tightly. “I love you. I love you. I’m here,” she repeats. I stare up into her dark eyes, puzzled, afraid. I draw a breath in deeply, smile my bland smile. ” I laugh, rolling away from her. Jesse punches me playfully, and I catch her hand in the air. “My love,” she whispers, and cups her body against my hip, closes her eyes.

Literature is a conversation—a lively enthralling exchange that constantly challenges and widens our own imaginations. A skinny guy from the Bronx told things I never imagined about growing up a Puerto Rican who has never seen the islands. A tall woman from the Midwest talked about apple farms and hiding up among the half-ripe fruit so as not to have to think about dead and lost children. God yes, I murmured. Yes. In return, I tried to reimagine the world as my great-grandmother saw it, feeling in my low back the generational impact of giving birth to eleven children in fifteen years.

I lie to her the way I always do, a lie stolen from a book. “Like lavender,” stomach churning over the memory of sour sweat and snuff. I realize I do not really know what lavender smells like, and I am for a moment afraid she will ask something else, some question that will betray me. ” I hug her back and close my eyes. I cannot say a word. I was born between the older cousins and the younger, born in a pause of babies and therefore outside, always watching. Once, way before Tommy died, I was pushed out on the steps while everyone stood listening to my Cousin Barbara.

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