Ontario Cost Gum Grafting

Valery Meynadier

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The cry of vuvuzuelas

by Valery Meynadier, Sunday, September 19, 2010, at 19:17. Published Gazette de Montpellier, No. 1150, 1st to July 7, 2010

"Football is loved. Why is he like? I'll tell you. Because it has no truth "replied Michel Platini Marguerite Duras

Hive in the head, he pushes the padded door of his suite, suites of rooms with bathroom, kitchen, living room, connected by a dense corridor. Dead tired, he returned to his tomb, he will rise again tomorrow. Silence sizzles. What a game! It grows with great difficulty, it's hard to back down. His smile broke flat windshield a moment in the air. It reviews everything: grass yellowed by the cold, the 130 decibels of vuvuzuelas, the opposing team ... it's like to feel the loneliness, twin sister of the universe, spreading into the infinity of stars. The ball sometimes it seems so far away, the lawn so black, the public so tiny, that remains the burning of the effort he gives. The yellow card back to him, he grabbed. Then the decisive pass, goal! Scream rock. He walked on the moon.
He wraps himself in his shroud of brocade. What a room! When the Venetian mirror with its decor and inseparable silver lily hands him his face deep into his eye: a mass of scars, nose vine dead ... This is not a top athlete.
It emerges suddenly from the bedspread, he ran to open the window. He can no longer walk normally. In his dreams, he ran again, he releases the ball, fake, dribble, he dives, penalty ... His dreams mimic reality. He lost gallons of water on the stage. In the locker room, they are scarves. Buzz under his skin.
The sky is low, gray ash so heavy. And he plunged into the Indian Ocean? Subject to constant monitoring. What he eats, he drinks, her hormone levels, how time, he sleeps, how long he stays awake. His birthday fell on the public square. Soon his thoughts. That he saw in the mirror witch: a dead man. He thinks about his children, the youngest of his plays, to down the cheek of her child, my angel dust. They are trying to kill his family. Sea spray carried by the wind stole his tears. He wanted to scream. What a farce! He understands, he understands everything! The
vuvuzuelas are there to cover the screams, cries all the world ... War, orgasm, a billion condoms cover the World Cup, he must know, the cries of madness, everything is known, the cries of shame, forty thousand whores are swaying, swaying, the cries of patients: one in ten South African AIDS and its areas of trade restriction to a mile or two around the stadiums, small traders are driven out of their street and crying foul! Even the lawn will begin to cry, some stages will now be partially made of synthetic turf!
They broke his childhood dream.

Tomorrow he buys his little Vuvuzuelas and slams the door.

Valery Meynadier





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Are There Any Free Medieval Games

Flowers of the Good, paintings Joelle Gicquel

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1 The flowers of Good and Gabriel oil painting, 73 x 92 cm

2 Flowers of Good and Raphael, oil paint, 73 x 92 cm

3 The flowers I Raziel, Oil Painting, 65 x 81 cm

4 flowers Raziel II, Oil Painting, 53 x 73 cm

very original flowers, flowers of flesh on which can not put a label! Membranes with blood, set with a severe geometry of stained glass, was exacerbated in points trailing fire burning! Matrices firmly planted softly swollen, sheltering in their heart poppy reminiscent of Renaissance. A dissertation subtle lived flow of vibrant life ...
Marie-Lydie Joffre



Learn more about the art of
Joelle Gicquel









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Servier Spondylitis For Dogs

infidelity, text by Françoise Renaud

So it was Well?

The creaking of the door has betrayed her when she came. It was there, hands in pockets, hostile. He watched.

- Oh, a little classic for me!

- Annie And she loved?

- in fact she did not come, his little patient, you know ...

She walks to the couch to put down his bag, then puts his season ticket at the theater. When she returns, she sees that he looks at her insistence - found nothing else to do.

- But what do you have?

When she crosses its path, it initiates the arm to the wall to interfere.

Around them, the city has expanded, organized, creeping. The lamps cast their white circles on the floor of the room in disorder, as in places of perdition.

She remains motionless for a moment, the challenge.

--If you like, let me pass, I'm tired.

In its latest move, he looked at her bust and he smelled her smell, her hair smelled. From his side, she saw her face very close, a face she does not recognize. Something indefinable that seeped into him for some time until distort his mouth, something that surely comes from his past and has strengthened since it made its decision and that confidence has changed.

He knows, he feels.

And it's true that it is not the same since that famous night when the other had placed his hand against his neck.

She said

- I'm sorry.

Yes, that night - even more than the other night - she apologizes for the pain that filled her with a terrifying point and rises in him like a storm. But she can not give detailed explanations on what is happening to her. The attraction of novelty, this fiery body, that act which empty of all thought and throws it on a bed of hot sand ... and the silence that follows.

This total oblivion to itself.

He retired to a corner of the room. He said in a barely audible voice:

- So, everything is finished?

- I do not know.

On the dresser, near the lamp, there is a photograph of a child, a boy of seven or eight years. Just next door, a bouquet of white flowers.

Françoise Renaud

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Evolves fidelity!

text and ink in symbiosis play the partition separating the dark corners of the soul, the vacuum suspended from the indefinable!

text, concise, delves into the beginnings of a breakdown, ignores lyricism to simply focus on the severity of deprivation with simple words, close, intimate. Spared upstream miasma of hate, the story stands as a statement of inevitability when words are silent in the delta of a new journey. Something pure modesty as flush as the pain of growing up, burning desire of the desert, unknown star of curiosity ...

There remains only the dynamics things, which makes the leaves fall in autumn, to win. Gone are the downside of suspicion, the Light bursts at a crossroads! At the window, clear, swipes the destiny of black sky white sky, and the tightrope is stretched to the tightrope!

Marie-Lydie Joffre

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