A Tale So Possible It's True

I have been melancholy of late. In an effort of affect my blues, I'd like to speak today of something close to my heart. wine.

Yes, wine. It may surprise you, but my familiarity with the beverage dates to my earliest adventures. I am credited with saving an entire year's vintage from ruination as a youth. In actuality, it was my prodigious steed who saved that year's wine. she was a beautiful creature. the color of ash and spotted snow-white, like the granite topped mountains of New England. She was just old enough to saddle and I was just aged enough to ride. It was a sparkling spring in the American colonies. Talk of taxes and governance pursed everyone's lips. But not us. Concord and I rode blissfully up and down mountainous passes, too youth too care for politics, too naive to think about rebellion.  Mr. Delacroix, to whom I was employed, a rotund man cheerfully mustachioed was the premier viner of New France (I'm told, today it's called Vermont). 

A brawny voice boomed over the rows of vines, "Foutre! The day, she is beautiful! Abruti, boy where are you?" Mr. Delcrioux's English warbled heavily with french slurs, "Le vin, we must check the wine!" 

I, as I was most often at dawn, was in the barn collecting eggs from the chickens when I heard  Delacroix shouts. I saddled Concord and, with the eggs in hand rode to meet him near the cellar. 

"He's always like this in the spring." I reasurred Concord as I dismounted.

The viner wobbled about the the cellar with a taster of tokay in one hand and a sloshing glass of his prized chardonnay in the other. his night gown swirled about his short legs. I tiptoed down the cold, stone stairs. He whirled about and i gave a starteld cry. Delacroix's excited face was wreathed in an wild corna of thick, black hair. The egg basket tumbled from my hands.

"Merde boy! don't frighten a man like that!" he cried, "le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage! eggs in the cellar? to the house with you." Delacroix sipped the tokay. "you have that horse of yours with?" he smiled. "hurry, quick for some breakfest, I have an important task for you, mon grand."

I found Delacroix on the porch after a quick meal of croissant and preserve. Delacriox sent me on errand to Newport. I was to find a group of exotic traders and give them a sealed letter and directions to the farm. giddily, we set our sights to Newport.

The trip to was hardly adventureous. But to an eager lad and best freind in hoof, it was a trail forged beyond tale. I spun tall fables and epic poems of my heroic consqest through the hills of New France. the bards would caterwaul my deeds was they did for ledgends past. 'Lo!' they would sing 'hear now the tale of the boy- no the man -  who carried the message for Delacroix Vinery!' High above, my daydreams soars in a cloudless sky. Beneath bows spurting youthful leafs Concord's trot drew a hyonotic beat. The midday sun painted green the rocky path.

We reached Newport late in the day without incident. The tavern was easy to find, it's lanterns already lit in the reddening light of dust. 

...

Chapter one, final

An hour later the two caretakers appeared at the church soaked and shivering. Paul had never experienced such a dichotomy of blistering sweatiness and chill. his fingers were numb and his testicles boiled in heat ridden underwear. where the rain hadn't seeped into his clothes sweat stained the rest. He threw the short shovel to the church floor, splattering mud as he cleared his boots. A call came across the mud spectled oak. it was muffled but distance and age. it was the over-joyes voice of Father Sabismo, "Paul!" it was from the church basement echoing loud up the stairs by the rectory, "a change of clothes on first row before you come join us!"

Paul gladly accepted. a short time later, he found himself down to the church cellers. He was sporting an old tweed sweater and an ancient pair of jeans. though the father was about a head taller then Paul and his waist doubled with beerful living, the father had dug through his ancient store to find jeans from less fruitful times. The jeans only sagged slightly, comfortibly. He turned the last corner of the winding stairs and saw three men around a short table. Granite stone held back the fall of the building above. the stones along the eathen side were stained with the ceaseless drip of water. not from the night's rain, but the ocean-bound conditions of Holy Isle. the basement was dry only literally. Great caskets adorned the room. Wines and whiskeys across the right wall, beers and ales at the far end. Spirited voices greeted him hardily. A strange man sat, red faced between Sabismo and Mr Reming. He wore the grin of a man not used to smiling. A pair of bottles passed the table, each stopping for a moment before the stranger. who dipped them to his cup with a merry grace Paul had not seen since New Year's eve. His thin blond hair and bright red complexion was stark contrast to father Sabismo's mahogony skin and thick, black mane. it shook with laughter as the father slapped the stranger's back. prehaps to dislodge the drink he was choking on. Paul doubted Sabismo's emphatic slapping was much help.
"Ah told ja no'tta mix wine an' whiskey!" Cried the father. then to Paul, " HO-HO! join us, sir!" He spat the greeting sah. Mr Reming cracked a smile and tilted his scare-crow head to the vacant chair. oh that smile, Paul shivered in his warm sweater, "no...no I, uh, gotta..."
"'fraid, no." interjected the smally dressed man. he slurred out, recovering from his fit of coughing, "the rein, iz to much, junger." He might've spoken in oxford english not but a few hours ago, but hints of the rhine swelled in his nasally slurs.
"What Mr. Nueman is tried to say, is that the weather simply wont allow." Explained Mr. Reming.
"Adelberto!" Nueman threw an arm across the table, "Charmed!"
"Paul." He took a seat, knowing he wasn't going anywhere and he was far too tired to protest. Paul was immedeately afered three briming pints of amber tokay. he downed two right away and sipped the third. A round a laughter set the company at ease. Paul had never drank with Mr. Reming before. But he soon discovered what a delight the scarecrow of a man could be. Adelberto took a nap on the table as the tokay flowed more freely. At glasss six, or was it seven, "AH! tis a fine brew!" Sabismo suddenly anounced. "To Munchausen!" he cried, lifting his glass.
"aye, to Munchausen." Mr Reming, Charles as he was more accostom, agreed. the too aged men tipped their steins.
when the toast finished, Paul was about to ask a question that would be forgot when Sabismo anounced that if not for the late baron, he'd never have come across this fadulous drink. "But tis a story for anodder time, prehaps! Paul!" Sabismo turned, almost savagely to the young drunk, "ya ever meet the baron? 'eard o' him at least, eh?"
Paul shook his head. Sabismo looked agast. his eyes doubled in size, popping out of his brown face like great white dinner plates. a cold look came over the merry drunk. He shook his head. his great black mane twisted sadly. Paul was about to offer some poorly thought condoleances for his ignorance when Charles spoke, "We knew him well, we did." he jabbed the slumbering German, Adelberto, with a long, bony finger. "so did this fop." He poured a thimble glass of the whiskey as the wine had ran dry, "aye! ain't that right, father? Regale us! tell the young'en 'bout the time youse had the Czar's herem an' how the baron tricked him in to paying you for it."
"no, no" the suddenly marose Sabismo chidded, "no the boy wouldn't appeariate such a tale of lust and wonder." silence. "but..." Sabismo's brightness rushed back, "you might appeareicate the tale of how you and the baron saved the barony's reputation by traveling to the future."
"w-w-wait," Paul was a self-accompleshed bluffer. he had, on more then one occation won this months rent from travern poker. he prided himself on being a great lier. and as they say, it takes one to know one. "what? you can't 'spect me ta belief that you went to da future!" he protested.
Charles turned to Sabismo, "aye, but he is too unnoble to grasp the possiblities of the possible."
"EE KNEW DAT FLUGGERT, VONMUNCHAUSEN!" Adelberto had arisen. Rested, he drew him self a tall glass of whiskey, drained it and refilled his glass. "that blowhard stole celestrial love zat shulda bein mein...


GASP!
end-o chapter one.
remember, these are the unrevisioned copies here, now.
the debut. if you will.
Next chapter, Adelberto Nueman's tale of the Lady Farfaraway
(sorry Fro, Martin Crabsith with appear in Charles Reming's story.)
update tomarrow tho not Munchausenly, that'll be next week...y

-marcus

Revision: the Fantastic Adventures of Munchausen

    A chill breeze harkens twelve strikes of the midnight bell. They came slowly, cold and bitter. Each strike a mourning wail. "A graveyard by the sea" was his request. A few hundred clicks south of edenbrough sat the Church of Sabismo. The church, in grand colonial style, sat boldly on a short peninsula ringing its chimes to the endless sea. Quaint wooden stairs twisted down the rocky knoll to guide visitors safely to the church doors. The wreaths of white lilies, that looked so peaceful in the morning, now, in the desolate gloom of the eve, haunted the stairs like drooping ghosts. the sky was black as pitch. Not even the crystalline grace of the moon could shine with such sorrow in her heart. At the tenth strike of the hour, the clouds unleashed a pouring rain across the English countryside with a thunderous sob. Twice more the church bell rang out before the rain. It started slow drawing slowly in to a deluge. Father Sabismo, from the doorway of his old church, watched the undertakers' work. It was slow and angonizing to watch. A falsh of lightening lit the miseriable task. In the roll of thunder, the ancient priest blessed his age. Just a few years ago he might've had the spirit to comdend the son of a dear friend by his own sweat. But these days… A another roar of thunder lit the grave yard. The Baron, Elie ___ Von Munchausen. He imaged the writing on the grave, still open. Sabismo shook his great, heavy head and turned to the only attendant of Elie's, a sharply dressed man.

    Paul wiped his brow with the back of a grimy hand. Sweat or rain. He couldn't tell. Mr. Reming was yelling something that could not be heard over the din of the growing storm. Most likely the old fart was calling him a pussy and barking an order. Paul dropped another shove full of mud with a plop over the find oak coffin. Mr. Reming was dark and cracked from years under the working sun. Tall and jagged as scarecrow he leaned against the tomb stone looking as a death itself wit a smoldering cigar clamped in his yellow teeth. "Why can't you shove s'um dirty 'round?" Paul asked.

    "When I was yer age, I never demanded work from folks my age." Inder his broad brimmed hat the cigar glowed. The old fuck smiled. Broad, yellowed grin showed off his missing tooth. Paul hated Mr. Reming's smile. It was the smile of a man counting bodies. In thruth, Mr. Reming only counted them as one would count the years of life. He was 2,029, by his count though most would recin' him to be --. Too, bad. He loved to smile. An hour of labor silent through the wind and howl of rain.

    

Chapter 1: Stranger Happenings (fin)

Bitter stung her nostrals. A brown blob filled Lu’s vision. Slowly she began to make scence of it. eyes. a nose. kindly wrinkles, short black hair unblurred. Father Sabismo’s ancient face brought a smile. “Child,” the voice, a gruff murmur at first, grew into his rich, heavy cockney accent, “you fainted, easy now.”

Lu swung her legs off the oak pew bench, “Je… ah, Pardon. I…” She fumbled far the thin case concealed in her blouse. She took one, lit it and drew a long drag of arid smoke before asking Father Sabismo if he minded her smoking. he only shook his head. They sat in silence for a while. Thin reeds of smoke drifting into the air. The coffin was closed now. Lu suddenly stood. “I’m going to look at that man.” Lu placed a palm on the smooth lid. She could not stop here. to have come so far to see the man who brought her mom such pain. With a breath, she shoved.

The church doors flung wide with a sudden gallantry that turned the heads of all in attendance. A deep faced man strolled through the threashold. For an instant,  Mrs. Carrebelle believed she was staring at Elie VonMunchausen himself. yet, this man strolling in lacked the luster of granduar that famed the baron. but such is the way when stories become myth. a strong, jaw jutted forward, proud and reeking of noblity. not but the grey stubble of mutton chops on the great chin like carved granite. Lu closed her eyes. She had toiled about what it might be like to see the baron, her grandfather again after so many year. The emotional upwelling she had expect, prepared fore, came not. She watched him limp, his left leg aided heavily by a cane. even at 109, she thought, Munchausen moved too achingly, too stiff, too... something not quite Munchausenly. And the short blond haired boy padded along too close as if lead by leash and his face  painted too much concerned.

Lu turned to the coffin. before her a man. This, she suddenly knew, with out question, that this was no imposter. Laying so still, once a source of terror, was no more than a lifeless doll, harmless even. at 109 years aged the baron was handsome. His noble brow furrowed with an extravagant air. his square jaw and unquestible facial hair rang with nobility. despire his pale, aged skin and heavy, sick-soaked lids eyes, he looked as if he might leap from this very box and catch the next cannonball to Hungary. Lu cursed her earlier fear. Lu recalled that she was once told, death humbles all. But the Baron took to the grave with a vainglorious flare that there could be no doubt. Lu felt her knees weaken as hot tears blurred the peaceful body. This was the man that mother spoke of him as a curse. The one person that caused her so, so much pain.  

Selections from journal of Crewmen Carrebella

Sorry folks. but image, if will that instead of the Münchhausen tale  that you so anticipated, despite it being delayed, for being a tale of extraordinary, monumentality. (I've just signed up for a "word of the day" from VisualThesaurus.com",is in, fact not what you are reading, then I'm sorry.

However, these are the recouped projects of me.

<apple

I purchased this book and charcoals and I got a red pastel an I just started into the canvas, so to speak.

<Time is a River Rushing Over Us

You can see I'm just doodling, but I figured I needed to show what might keep us from the fabulous Baron Von Münchhausen.

Brainwash >

these are the attempt of me trying other methods and media to shout at. and be to armature at it.

I really liked working with just black and white. but I suddenly ran out of monochrome paper,thus I found myself with color.

 

 

 

Actually I enjoyed the blend of three colors dancing on a stage. although every thing looks kinda BLoo under this lens...

  <Untitled

I esptially enjoyed the use of crayon. It doesn't mark as well but provides a neat shimmer effect

<sunrise

I hope you've enjoyed enough to forget i tore you away from Münchhausen's fanastic adventures.

anyway, I'll post Münchhausen by Friday.

SEE YOU ALL NEXT WEEK, FOR THE HOLIDAYS!

-Marcus IRmiranti@gmail.com

Chapter 1: Stranger Happenings

A chill breeze harkens twelve strikes of the midnight bell. They came slowly, cold and bitter. Each strike a mourning wail. “A graveyard by the sea” was his request. In the north of Yorkshire, over looking the friged atlantic, this church, in grand colonial style, sat boldly. Pearched high on a short peninsula it over saw the rocky shoreline to the east and wind-scoured plains to the west. Quaint wooden stairs twisted down the rocky knoll to guide visitors up safely to the church doors. The wreaths of white lilies, that looked so peaceful in the morning, now, in the desolate gloom of the eve, haunted the stairs like drooping ghosts. Not a light fell from the skies. Not even the crystalline grace of the moon could shine with such sorrow in her heart. At the tenth long cry of the bell, the clouds, with a thunderous sob, unleashed a pouring rain across the English countryside. Below, a gaunt faced minister opened the doors of his funeral home to the awaiting grievers. Father Sabismo was less surprised that only one person had arrived, but that she had shown at all.
A black sedan rolled to a stop. The heavy rain pecked at the long Duisenberg. Lu stared out the rain spattered window. A once carefree young woman stared back, rain marred the face. She heard the Fredrick’s boots on the wet gravel. Guadalupe Carrabelle, Lu as she preferred, was a wealthy woman of the French aristocracy. At, least that’s what she wished people to believe. In truth, she was lowborn. Lu gazed past that tender face in the rain to the solemn church upon the ridge. How she missed the warm air of Haiti. The sweet tang of tropic rain. This place smelled of herring and sheep even when it was dry. She pulled the black, lance veil down and lit a cigarette. Blue eyes met her brown ones as Fredrick opened her door. A flush of red to his cheeks, he quickly dropped his gaze. They walked together. An umbrella with one hand and Mrs. Carrabelle in the other Fredrick lead her to the church awning. Lu whispered a thank you, pronouncing his name in classic French with a long /e/. She watched the boy trot, blushing back to the Duisenberg. Lu smiled slightly inside.
A gruff weather-beaten voice intruded on her. “Ms. Carrabelle? Ms. Guadalupe Carrabelle? ‘ello?”
Lu shook her head, “Mrs. Carrabelle. Je Suis.” Her red lips pulled a final drag from the cigarette, “Pardon, moi. dis is the Baron’s wake.”
“Father Sabismo.” the elderly man bowed. “Mrs. Carrabelle right-”
“Please, Lu es fine.” She interrupted, “to see an African child so far from home reminds me of mine. It is a comfort, father.”
“A child I ‘ave not been for a while, ma’am,” Sabismo chuckled, “nor ‘ave I seen Africa. Still I’m ‘appy to ease the family of the departed. Come,” the priest offered an arm. Lu slipped her gloved hand into the crook of the father’s elbow. He was a muscular man for the great age he carried. They stepped inside. The scent of pochulli hangs in the dry air. It is the scent of the grave. From far away a shadowed hand grips her soul. Each foot bringing her closer to the Baron then she’d ever been. Lu felt her heart jump. What cruelty was this! Certainly, the father could hear her heart pounding. It drowned out their footfalls, the patter of rain and the howl of the wind. lub-dub! It drowned her too. lub-dub! lub-dub! She fought to breath, to suck in that rank, grave air. lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! The casket stood before her now. Open. The peak of his nose rose above the swells of his cheeks. lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! Lu could take no more. She fell into blackness.



Ok, so I had hoped to get to the interesting, overarching, establishing plot part of this chapter, but today ran off, and i near missed my deadline.

STAY TUNED!

OK!
First: Thanks, all for reading
Second: backed by popular demand i will be updating this space (as intially intended) more regularly
third: updates will now be weekly on tuesday.


I wanna do an interactive story but i need people to create characters.
rather, i want people to create a character to attend a funeral. the funeral is for one Baron Elie VonMunchousen. Their are three other guests when you're character arrives. Pope Sabismo the second, presumebly at the funeral for the baron to read the lord's prayer, is renown as the first african pope. His mahony skin blends richly with his ornate robes. He is talking with the late baron's well-known cohort, Finnius Maximous. Sir Maximous, of course known most for his invition of the first steam powered spider. Unfortunately Finnius' mechanized contraption prove an unrelaible form of transportation. The third guest sits off in the corner of the room. She is a broading sort, it seems. She holds a great, black, leather-bound book which she occationally glances at and turns her mocha-soft face into a black lace hankerchef and sobs. whats most striking about her is the gothic, almost medevil mourning gown she wears.

So You all should submit a describtion of your character, how they are related to the baron and who they interact with to IRmiranti@gmail.com and next week (tues or Tues the third of nov.) we shall learn more about the Baron and his mystrious death and his astranged aacquaintances. ;)

-marcus