affame_le_geant_one_must fyn gula having just found evidence with the found paper that the journey she was making was not a solitary one, the madrill stood inside the doorway of the garden shoppe, upon a well worn persian rug and realized with stark objectivity, that she was faced with four pressing issues. they were like pain that pleaded for relief. 1. the bleeding in her hand caused by the broken glass of the barley green jar was not going to stop on its own. it definately required a few stitches to close it. 2. the decomposing flesh of puppertwinkle inside the shoulder bag possessed an extremely foul stench and she needed to refridgerate it or her entire mission would be a useless waste of time, not to mention the possibility of someone discovering she had it, which could result in her arrest or the theft of the flesh itself. 3. she needed to contact proina as soon as possible. 4. where were her snake-tires? how could she resume her journey to the kingdom of broken glass without them? "oh my god! you're bleeding!" a sudden, compassionate voice punctured her contemplation and disembodied impressions like the slit of a sharp knife in the swollen tissue surrounding an eye threatening to close shut. able once more to see within a world where it was still possible to go on, the madrill looked past her urgent problems into the eyes of a woman whose head was that of a bluejay. she was one of those people you could trust immediately, simply by the way her head was cocked to the side with non-judgemental solicitude. the way the sleeves of her red sweatshirt with small white letters saying, "collect something you want to share with others," were pushed up to reveal thin, but muscular forearms indicating she was already busy at making something beautiful for someone else. the mud stains on her thick, quicksilver cords suggesting she had been helping her husband load some bareroot jonamacs on to the flatbed of their wooden workcart. the shopworn doc marten boots, one shoestring untied. she had just turned thirty yesterday with a party her husband threw for her at spunky's in montlespoules with sixteen of her dear friends. she was wearing a turquoise bracelet on her right wrist, a handmade gift from her best friend, campion, who had an independant soap business on e-bay. the madrill liked her immediately. "um...yes...ah.......could i please wash my hands?" the madrill asked. she noticed the bluejay-woman was wiping her hands with a large muslin rag, grey from use. she extended it to her without hesitation. "here you go," she said. "at least you can stop the bleeding." she entered the madrill's circle of privacy and tenderly wrapped the jagged cut with the cloth already turning red with the flow of pulsing blood. "come with me," the bluejay woman said. her name was thora valentine. of course she registered the malodorous smell coming from the madrill's shoulder bag, but she figured it was none of her business, so she did not question it. she did try breathing solely from her mouth though. "we have a sink in the flower shoppe. we'll get that bad hand cleaned up so we can see how deep the wound is. what happened anyway? i gashed my hand with a leatherman knife cutting burlap, just two weeks ago." the madrill sighed. she released the tension that had spilled over her from the unfortunate incident in baeroun's mercantile. she was continuously conscious of the stench in her bag, but she felt she could deal with that soon enough. for right now, she was no longer lonely. she wanted to tell thora valentine everything. and when friendship rises, like a forgotten sun in a night of forever, one must kiss the earth and dance. one must. 030105 what's it to you? who go blather from