Excerpt from a Novel – The Devorah of Reims – “Oh, Woman! The Beautiful”


These remnants to her beauty are there for consumption by a back of white. A back that shows gleam for gleam in the haze of a heated day, and her eyes! Her eyes show the sparkle of youth, governed over by nature’s best artisans; for they have sculpted in her form the ivory textures of folds. Her form, indeed, has become full by the many meals and neglected fasting.

One should be in love with her, were they not led to their doom. A man named Antoine, with a heart of poetry; and a man named Bertrand, with a mind of theory. Who is it to say where there will be the unveiling beneath wreaths above brows, and petals at an altar?

Is there at all, love to name her place? Among a world where green and blues collide, and life and death keep themselves as distant lovers, is there love for her?

Love is the music of any yearning soul.

When one desires it, though does not openly seek it, love seeks them. Love is the hunter, and sometimes the huntress. A hunter is allured, while the huntress allures. Is that not what beauty does, to the man, in the latter? An allurement, for the alluring woman, near to a ripened age of eighteen, is Devorah. A woman of her hometown, named Reims, and a beauty that is still in the development; her beauty is hunted, because it allures.

To the hunter and his desires, there is only the many beads of sweat for consumption. There are only the many notes to play on a harp atop a woman’s heart.

What is love, if not the rarity? It is always, and is meant to be, the rarity. No matter the denial, it remains the same, as a rarity; and though the yearnings may increase, the rarity only becomes more apparent. Though, it was still a rarity, and has always been a rarity.

Love is as rare as there are stars being engulfed by darkness.

They shine yet, the brightest, though men may find the coldness as more comforting than the warmth, in remembrance to a mother. A woman will sear, to sear a warmth straight from her heart, like a tendril of flame. A token, or a gesture, that is the music to her yearning. A blessed thing, that is she, a woman, with lovely eyes that could be either the darkest shade of brown or the brightest hue of blue.

What is a man if not in love with death?

What is a woman if not in love with life?