A Numinous Respite for a Simple Ballet Student
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
I trip over the threshold, onto the parapet, and nearly spill viscera on the closest corbel. Knees complaining all the while, I rise by grabbing stone. As I dust off my skirt, I visually travel ‘round the rooftop.
Doves nest, each set of twinned eggs filling a sparse cache. Here and there, shaded pullet coops offer views of other chicks. Nearby, raised beds sing homage to the sun while lifting corn, squash and beans in a green salute more graceful than the most exquisite eleve’ of my Advanced II teacher.
In another corner, potted orange trees, their leaves turned out in enviable angles, lend coolness to a bench crafted from shipping palettes. Patchwork pillows cozy that seat.
Elsewhere, lavender, rosemary and bergamot vibrate with pollinating insects. Sprigs of lemon balm jete’ from under melon plants’ broad leaves. Bamboo petit sauts skyward.
Almost midroof, a string laced with glass wind chimes shakes as a cloud passes. Those citrine and amber circles fouetté rond de jambe beneath the resulting breeze while fabric banners, attached to the site’s lone radio antenna, likewise, soubresaut.
Behind me, a wooden tub gurgles. Koi fish pas de bourre’e in their tank of ever recycling water. Ambitious Zac-John, whiskers extended, sits on the railing above them, preparing for his pas de chat.
Then Hacia’s bleat rouses me. Front hooves lifted tendu to the top of her pen, eyes wide, she sounds off until I scratch her ears. I check her water bowl and hay, too. The latter shows signs of rodents’ ballon; Hacia rarely bothers with the dry stuff since she can lean her wooly head into the elevated tray of radishes and designer beets growing just beyond her corral.
Saajal maintains that Hacia’s insulating hairs, her soft cashmere fuzz, is more pliant than that of similar bovines because of the variety Hacia forges. Saajal hopes to grow raspberry near the goat pen come fall; the plant’s leaves are full of vitamins.
Laban, in contrast, holds that introducing many items into goats’ diets does nothing for their coats. Chenille, his angora, thrives on table scraps combined with silage. No mice mark her pen; only her droppings evidence that she had breakfasted on hay.
Since I care neither for knitting mittens nor crocheting silky vests, Hacia and Chenille mean warm, frothy milk, to me. Herb-enriched or fodder based, that precious drink tastes better than does cabbage or straight starvation. My headmistress suspects I cheat.
Madame Balletomane also believes I could prevent myself from bruising. Last winter, she threatened to take away my ballerino and to ask Mom to stop paying for my studies. The woman has no head to consider that Canberra’s fog makes shimmying up the fire escape awkward, even dangerous. The city’s frozen precipitation, too, makes handholds iffy and transforms the hatch into my foe.
Today, though, there are no chilblains. The worst of my climb has been my discovery that Nabel forgot to make ice and that Abroo has eaten all of the Vegemite. I am reduced to sucking away at half of Sharon’s banana and spaghetti sandwiches.
We picnic on the yoga mat Saajal rolled out next to the garra rufa tank. Although our doctor fish swim in my bathtub during winters, during warmer weather they grow here. I am the only The Classic Ballet Centre student with soft feet.
As we munch, J-Mara, her hair tucked behind a visor, her T-shirt wet with perspiration, focuses her smallest ball-peen hammer on a sheet of silver. A gigantic Chupa Chup protrudes from her maw. A meter away, Waclaw plucks a song of sand and sea on his santur. Hacia punctuates Waclaw’s nisus with bleats.
I reach for a handful of marigold petals to flavor my sandwich and scoop The Ilex Tree out of my backpack. Zac-John, who was busy sniffing my sandals, now lays with his front paws over my feet, his tail curled around his furry self, and his eyes closed. Sharon gives the fish her crumbs and reseats herself under an orange tree, sketchpad in hand.
Nabel, who pokes her head through our trapdoor, pushed the flap open with only one well muscled arm; the other is filled with a large acacia bouquet. Hacia stands once more on hind legs to try to reach Nabel’s fragrant bundle.
Having placed her branches in an empty bucket, which she quickly filled with water from the koi barrel, Nabel removes, from her string bag, spring rolls from Kohn Du’s Take Away. She feeds half of one to Hacia before taking a clot of wet laundry from her carrier. Systematically, she spreads shorts and shirts over fringe-myrtle. I think she is the best smelling student in Canberra’s School of Art.
I apply a lacquer of sunscreen. Below, the Manuka district swells in green and gold chaines. Although there are many ribbons to stitch onto my newest shoes and new pins to be ought for my bun, I stroke Zac-John once more, I regard the bracelet J-Mara is fashioning and only then do I pirouette down the length of our utopia. My demi detourne’ is my exit.
- - -
KJ Hannah Greenberg and her hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs roam the verbal hinterlands. Sylvan creatures to a one, they fashion stories from leaves, shiny bugs and marshmallow fluff. Some of the homes for their writing have included: AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Big Pulp, Morpheus Tales, Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Theaker's Quarterly Fiction, and The New Absurdist. When not disciplining her imaginary friends, Hannah serves as an associate editor for Bewildering Stories.
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
I trip over the threshold, onto the parapet, and nearly spill viscera on the closest corbel. Knees complaining all the while, I rise by grabbing stone. As I dust off my skirt, I visually travel ‘round the rooftop.
Doves nest, each set of twinned eggs filling a sparse cache. Here and there, shaded pullet coops offer views of other chicks. Nearby, raised beds sing homage to the sun while lifting corn, squash and beans in a green salute more graceful than the most exquisite eleve’ of my Advanced II teacher.
In another corner, potted orange trees, their leaves turned out in enviable angles, lend coolness to a bench crafted from shipping palettes. Patchwork pillows cozy that seat.
Elsewhere, lavender, rosemary and bergamot vibrate with pollinating insects. Sprigs of lemon balm jete’ from under melon plants’ broad leaves. Bamboo petit sauts skyward.
Almost midroof, a string laced with glass wind chimes shakes as a cloud passes. Those citrine and amber circles fouetté rond de jambe beneath the resulting breeze while fabric banners, attached to the site’s lone radio antenna, likewise, soubresaut.
Behind me, a wooden tub gurgles. Koi fish pas de bourre’e in their tank of ever recycling water. Ambitious Zac-John, whiskers extended, sits on the railing above them, preparing for his pas de chat.
Then Hacia’s bleat rouses me. Front hooves lifted tendu to the top of her pen, eyes wide, she sounds off until I scratch her ears. I check her water bowl and hay, too. The latter shows signs of rodents’ ballon; Hacia rarely bothers with the dry stuff since she can lean her wooly head into the elevated tray of radishes and designer beets growing just beyond her corral.
Saajal maintains that Hacia’s insulating hairs, her soft cashmere fuzz, is more pliant than that of similar bovines because of the variety Hacia forges. Saajal hopes to grow raspberry near the goat pen come fall; the plant’s leaves are full of vitamins.
Laban, in contrast, holds that introducing many items into goats’ diets does nothing for their coats. Chenille, his angora, thrives on table scraps combined with silage. No mice mark her pen; only her droppings evidence that she had breakfasted on hay.
Since I care neither for knitting mittens nor crocheting silky vests, Hacia and Chenille mean warm, frothy milk, to me. Herb-enriched or fodder based, that precious drink tastes better than does cabbage or straight starvation. My headmistress suspects I cheat.
Madame Balletomane also believes I could prevent myself from bruising. Last winter, she threatened to take away my ballerino and to ask Mom to stop paying for my studies. The woman has no head to consider that Canberra’s fog makes shimmying up the fire escape awkward, even dangerous. The city’s frozen precipitation, too, makes handholds iffy and transforms the hatch into my foe.
Today, though, there are no chilblains. The worst of my climb has been my discovery that Nabel forgot to make ice and that Abroo has eaten all of the Vegemite. I am reduced to sucking away at half of Sharon’s banana and spaghetti sandwiches.
We picnic on the yoga mat Saajal rolled out next to the garra rufa tank. Although our doctor fish swim in my bathtub during winters, during warmer weather they grow here. I am the only The Classic Ballet Centre student with soft feet.
As we munch, J-Mara, her hair tucked behind a visor, her T-shirt wet with perspiration, focuses her smallest ball-peen hammer on a sheet of silver. A gigantic Chupa Chup protrudes from her maw. A meter away, Waclaw plucks a song of sand and sea on his santur. Hacia punctuates Waclaw’s nisus with bleats.
I reach for a handful of marigold petals to flavor my sandwich and scoop The Ilex Tree out of my backpack. Zac-John, who was busy sniffing my sandals, now lays with his front paws over my feet, his tail curled around his furry self, and his eyes closed. Sharon gives the fish her crumbs and reseats herself under an orange tree, sketchpad in hand.
Nabel, who pokes her head through our trapdoor, pushed the flap open with only one well muscled arm; the other is filled with a large acacia bouquet. Hacia stands once more on hind legs to try to reach Nabel’s fragrant bundle.
Having placed her branches in an empty bucket, which she quickly filled with water from the koi barrel, Nabel removes, from her string bag, spring rolls from Kohn Du’s Take Away. She feeds half of one to Hacia before taking a clot of wet laundry from her carrier. Systematically, she spreads shorts and shirts over fringe-myrtle. I think she is the best smelling student in Canberra’s School of Art.
I apply a lacquer of sunscreen. Below, the Manuka district swells in green and gold chaines. Although there are many ribbons to stitch onto my newest shoes and new pins to be ought for my bun, I stroke Zac-John once more, I regard the bracelet J-Mara is fashioning and only then do I pirouette down the length of our utopia. My demi detourne’ is my exit.
- - -
KJ Hannah Greenberg and her hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs roam the verbal hinterlands. Sylvan creatures to a one, they fashion stories from leaves, shiny bugs and marshmallow fluff. Some of the homes for their writing have included: AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Big Pulp, Morpheus Tales, Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Theaker's Quarterly Fiction, and The New Absurdist. When not disciplining her imaginary friends, Hannah serves as an associate editor for Bewildering Stories.
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