As We Are // 2

April 28, 2017

Read chapter one here

Lol, you can definitely tell which is my dominant hand in this picture by which heart is better xD  Whoops.

Wherein a Cottage is Bought

THE NEXT IMPORTANT occurrence was a surprising one which accosted Philippe one afternoon on her way to drop off a custom-made dress to a customer living about two miles from town.  It had been a long, difficult day at Madame Trowbridge’s Dress Shop full of sharp pins and tangling thread, and Philippe’s feet were weary as she trudged along a dusty dirt road back to the boarding house after delivering her package.  When she saw a wide meadow of tall grass on her left, she gratefully made her way through it and cut the distance to the town in half by her clever shortcut.  As she reached the other end of the field, she was extremely surprised to discover a grassy tree-lined lane.  She had expected to find a deer path through another field or thicket of shrubby trees which would lead her closer to town.  She came out confusedly on the road.  It was only distinguishable by the thin wagon tracks and otherwise would have just looked like a pleasant, partly-open section of country.  The grass on the road was trampled and worn down in certain places as if people who had started down the road had thought better of the seclusion and turned back.  Philippe shrugged and turned to the way she assumed the main road was.  So much for the short-cut, she thought with impatience.  Her surprise was even greater, however, when she happened upon a small, ramshackle cottage beside the road.  It had obviously been painted white, but the paint was peeling and ivy grew thickly over the windows and walls obscuring all outside views into the house.  It sat snugly beneath the dense shade of three large-trunked oak trees and had bushy green shrubs growing unappealing across the lawn.  Philippe’s first thought was one of repulsion, but she quickly changed her mind when she saw the hand-written ‘for sale’ sign hung on the doorknob.  A price was written neatly across the bottom of the sign, and Philippe stepped carefully onto the lawn for a closer look.  Her heart skipped a beat.  The sign read:  Negotiable price of $40.00.  For sale by owner -- Widow E. Goodhill.
Philippe pursed her lips with pleasure.  
“Well, Widow Goodhill will just have to sell her house then,” she said in a monotone as she extracted a small pocketbook from an inside pocket of her trenchcoat and knocked on the door of the house.  A few moments later, she was being greeted by a plump, elderly lady and led into the house to negotiate over tea.
“So ye say yer interested in buying me ‘ouse, eh?” said Widow Goodhill in a shrill, commanding tone, her eyes wide and questioning and her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline.  Philippe did not reply, but nodded her head once and waited for the widow to say more.  “An’ ye read the sign?”  
Philippe nodded once more.  “That I did, Mrs. Goodhill.” Widow Goodhill scrutinized Philippe with probing eyes.  
“Excellent.” There was a pause.
“You see, Mrs. Goodhill, I was wondering if you would be willing to sell your house a for a lower price?  Say . . . $30.00?”
“Me ‘ouse is me ‘ouse and will be sold for what ‘tis worth.”  Philippe eyed the old woman trying to puzzle out whether she was agreeing to sell the house for $30.00 or not.  
Which is . . .” replied Philippe.
“The price of $35.00.”
“Mrs. Goodhill, I hate to haggle with you, but you must understand that my poor sisters and I have but $35.00 dollars in our immediate pocketbook.  Your lowering the price by just five more dollars would very well be the means of our sustaining ourselves for a little while before we save up a titch more.” Philippe knew she was exaggerating, but she didn’t care.  She must, and would, have this house.  Widow Goodhill’s expression was maddeningly calm as she stared across the table of tea things at Philippe.  As the silence lengthened into a full minute, Philippe began to become uneasy.  
“Very well then, Ms. Woodhouse.  You’ve won.  The ‘ouse will be sold to ye for $30.00 -- no more, no less.”


“Girls!  Come quickly!” Philippe called out as she opened the door of the boarding house apartment where her sisters waited for her return from work that day.  There were clattering footsteps as they bustled out from from the kitchen where they had been making supper.  
“Oh, Philippe, you’re home!  How was work?” said Beth with her usual gentleness as she dusted her floury hands on her apron and tucked a few flyaway strands of her hair behind her ears.  

“Beth, Anna, Cordelia -- you’ll never guess what happened,” exclaimed Philippe jubilantly.  A rare smile like one that had not lit up her gaunt, pale face in months made the contrast between her rosy cheeks and mischievously dancing green eyes make her look almost pretty.  “I bought us a house.”

“A house?” echoed the three other sisters in unison.  
“Philippe!  Tell me it’s pink,” cried Cordelia clamorously as she bounced around the room happily.  Philippe let out a laugh and smiled again.
“Dear, it’s not pink, but now that we own it we are free to paint it whatever color we want.”  Cordelia and Anna squealed with delight.  As for Beth, being more sophisticated than her twin younger sisters, she went to Philippe and asked for all the details about the house and how Philippe had managed to procure it.  Philippe told the whole tale of how she had happened upon it and then saw the “for sale” sign attempting to keep a straight face all the while, but now and again, and sunny smile broke through and seemed to light up the whole room with its glow.  She didn’t know why she was smiling so widely, for it was only a cottage in the middle of nowhere that she had bought, yet the thought of her and her sisters having their own house to do whatever they wanted in was too much for her.  This was their new start -- this time, she was sure of it.

They moved into the new house two weeks later.  Since the house was for sale by owner, there was minimal paperwork to be signed and so the Woodhouse girls moved into their new house with little hustle and bustle.  They owned few pieces of furniture -- only a few wooden chairs and a decent table which they had bought from a junk shop when they had moved into the boarding house apartment.  Each girl was supplied with a small suitcase of personal possessions rescued from the house they had lived in with their parents; many-times patched clothing, chipped teacups, and a quilt or two.  
Kind Widow Goodhill insisted that they keep some of her extra furniture for she said with a sigh that she was going to live with the gypsies down the road and wouldn’t need all of her furniture from the house.  Personally, the sisters thought Widow Goodhill’s mind not quite right, but they were grateful for her little kindnesses and generosity all the same.  
It was on a bright summer morning in late August that the Woodhouse girls tramped down the lane leading to their new home, arms laden with household possessions, extra fabric scraps that Madame Trowbridge had given to Philippe for her excellent work at the dress shop, and a few odd books.  

“Beth, I can’t even see where I’m going,” complained Cordelia in a fatigued tone.  Beth turned her sister with almost imperceptible frustration.

“Then stop moving your bundle, dear.  Here, hand that chair to me.”  The chair was handed off and received with equal clumsiness.  In a few moments the girls reached a bend in the road and when they had rounded the curve, they saw the rickety house.  
“Oh dear, what an old piece of junk it looks,” exclaimed Philippe impatiently. “I’ll have to hire some farmers around here to help us fix it up.”
Anna and Cordelia’s faces lit up simultaneously. “Farmers?  There are farmers around here?” They looked around as if thinking a crowd of farmers would appear any moment.  Beth and Philippe both turned to each other and burst out laughing.  
“Darlings, we live in the country now,” said Beth with a chuckle.  By that time, they had reached the lawn of the house.  The unwavering shade of the oak trees overlay the lawn and made the interior of the house gloomy.  The girls entered the house, painstakingly avoiding chunks of wood and tiny nails lying about the floors of the rooms.  The curtains and wallpaper hung in bags from the windows and walls, and dust particles could be seen floating before the windows in each room.  
“That poor old widow.  Just look at these awful windows, Philippe.” Beth gestured pityingly to a few broken panes in the kitchen windows.  A spider had spun a thick web across two of the empty panes and sat in the center of his web patiently waiting for a careless fly to come his way.
“I don’t think I can stand more than a single night in this pit.  I’ll go straight for the farmers tomorrow morning,” said Philippe with an eyebrow raised.  

“Well, Philippe.  Don’t put too much faith in those farmers of yours,” asserted Beth with an unladylike wink.  Philippe looked at her sister lovingly and shook her head with a chuckle.

© Sophy Noelle 2017

aesthetic inspiration//philippe:

green scene

April 25, 2017

Okay okay, I promise I'll post something interesting with actual words and not just photos soon!  . . . I just get into these phases and then it's like, "how do you stop?!?". ;D  Yes, I know I post entirely too many photos.

Speaking of which, anything you guys want in particular to see on this blog?  More photos (*cue groaning from everyone reading this post*)? ;)  More of those "philosopher's thoughts" posts?  Poems?  Actual life happenings with words?  Writing (as in novels + stories)?  Portrait shoots/photography?  Or all of the above?  Or none of the above?  Or everything under the sun?  Or everything under the moon?
I've got it all, so just let me know. ;)

This is becoming a bit of a problem: 

Oh dear. ;D  Am I the only one who struggles with this?

Tickles, Roger, Pheobe, Bibbiti, and Bobbiti 
Tickles, my dear tamed-chicken friend, passed away this past winter. <3

(note: hard drive photos once again)

listening to spring //

April 24, 2017

sunday//day of sun//9

April 20, 2017

It was a day of sun & laughter.  It's all good.

Ever have those kinds of weeks where you've been sad?  And then a good day comes along and it's like, life is nice.  Sunday was a day of sun and smiles.

Landline phone calls.
Shorts on a bike ride.
Wind against skin.  
Warmth of sun and body.
Old rowboats.
A thoughtful heart.
Purple flowers poking up through autumn leaves.
Wooden signs on quiet roads.
Long shadows on verdant grass (mine was taller).
Pine trees.
Old fashioned CD players.

Hey, everything's gonna be okay.  No matter what, you are LOVED.  Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not.  Because, my dear, He is holding you.  Always.
Even if this life is a perpetual fight, know that you are always loved.  You are worth it all.  
It's okay to say no and be told no.
It's okay to be afraid (we all are inside).
It's okay to care.
It's okay to forget what they said.
It's okay to humble yourself and forgive.
It's okay to be imperfect.
It's okay to be awkward.

It's okay because we're all in this together.  We're all equals.  YOU ARE SO LOVED.
Everything's gonna be okay.  Promise.
I'm here to let you know it's okay to let go.

Let's live, not just survive.

a nice song.

Picasso Exhibit // buffalo albright-knox

Dark Blooms

April 18, 2017

"I'm a rare occurence.  You don't meet people like me every day.  I'm not something you can replace.  I'm unlike anything you've ever had and I'll always be something you won't forget."
- r.h. Sin
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