The cows of Littledale

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to write a piece that involves a celebration and a weather anomaly. 

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction. 

 

The cows of Littledale

(an Elsa Mon story)

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

created with Flux

Elsa Mon, beloved paranormal romance writer, was very excited.

It was a hot and sunny summer day and Elsa was the guest of honor at the literary festival in Littledale, a charming village nestled in the countryside, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The organizing committee had reserved the central pavilion for her: there was a large table and stacks of her novels, which she would sign smilingly for anyone who bought one.

“Wow! You look lovely! But won’t you be too warm?” Victor, her dentist and her beloved, told her as he saw her appear in a light-colored, elaborate dress that looked just like something out of a Bollywood film, but in something that looked like wool. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Elsa replied. “I chose this dress because it is like the one Jimela wears at her wedding. My seamstress only had wool in this pattern, though. I’ll endure, I’m too excited tocomplain.”

Jimela was the main character in Elsa’s last novel. An unprecedented success, it told of the adventures of the antelope woman who, after saving her village from the dangerous tiger men, gave up magic and settled down with her farrier, who had courted her relentlessly for four hundred pages, gifting her with increasingly richly decorated horseshoes until she was no longer able to resist the call of his love. 

 

Around noon, the sun was shining high above the central pavilion, where Elsa was smiling and signing copies of her book, The Horseshoe That Won Her Heart. Noticing that she was also sweating profusely under her Bollywood dress, Victor offered her ice water. 

“Thank you, dear,” she told him, stopping the signing but not the smiling so that she drooled. “I would also need a fan,” she said, pretending like nothing had happened. 

They looked at the sky: bright blue, cloudless as far as their eyes could see. The grass of the meadow on which the pavilion stood was still, the leaves of the nearest trees were motionless. No birds could be heard singing nor crickets chirping. Even the festival visitors appeared exhausted by the heat, their movements slow and measured, their chatter hushed. The only sound that could be heard was the mooing of cows coming from the farm not far away. 

Elsa continued to smile and resumed signing copies of her book, breathing in the smell of freshly printed paper.

Suddenly, something in the air changed. Before anyone could realize what was happening, an unpredictable, completely out-of-season snowstorm hit the festival pavilions. 

Within a short time, the lawn was covered with a white layer; the wind bent the pavilions and carried away the posters and flyers, scattering them all over the countryside. Elsa and Victor soon recovered from the disbelief and surprise and set about gathering the books as quickly as they could, trying to pack them safely into the boxes and under the table. 

They were almost finished—only a few copies of A Goblin’s Sweet Tooth remained on the table—when a noise drew their attention. Turning in the direction the sound came from, they stood frozen for a moment. Somehow, the cows had managed to escape from the farm and were now barreling toward the festival pavilions, charging them on one side while on the other side the wind was trying to rip them off the ground.

“Run, Elsa, run!” cried Victor, taking his beloved by the hand and heading as fast as he could toward the parking lot. His sweet writer, in the wet clothes of a Bollywood bride, tried to resist.

“My books!” she shouted. “I can't leave them behind for the snow and the cows to wreck!”

Seeing that Elsa was stumbling at every step in her soaked dress, Victor got her into the car despite her protests.

“Stay here,” he told her, quite chivalrously. “I’ll go and get your books.”

Elsa, as anxious about her beloved as she was about her books, stayed and watched from behind the fogged-up car window. What she saw—Victor running with a box full of books under his arm and a herd of cows chasing him in the snowstorm—immediately gave her inspiration for a new novel. 

 

“Moo-moo and Mistletoe,” she muttered to herself. “A Christmas story. The cows see the snow and hear the call of the Mistletoe Man. That’s a sort of Santa, but his sleigh is led by cows instead of reindeers. No, wait. This novel has a farm setting, the sleigh should be replaced by a cart. Or a barrow? Hm. No, no. I can’t picture cows maneuvering a barrow, no matter the amount of magic in play. A magic cart, then. And the Mistletoe Man only gifts book. Oh, yes, I like this! Only romance books? Perhaps that’s too much. Just books. But to be an Elsa Mon story, there must be romance. Let’s see… A cowgirl! Yes, at the Mistletoe Man’s farm there are cowgirls who tend to the cows, and Rina is the prettiest of them all. On Christmas Eve there’s a snowstorm and Rina helps the Mistletoe Man save the books, and that’s how they fall in love.” 

 

So lost in her inspiration flow, Elsa had not realized that Victor had come back, sat at the wheel, and driven them home. When she came out of her reverie, she realized they were parked in front of her house. 

“We’re home,” she said.

“Yes, we are,” her beloved confirmed with a smile. “And the snowstorm is over. See? The sun is shining again.”

“Oh,” she said. She was feeling a little disoriented. “Was I talking out loud? Have you heard me create my new story?”

“Yes, and yes,” Victor replied.

“And… what do you think? Will it work?”

Victor looked at Elsa. He loved the look she had in her eyes when she was in her own world. Despite her matted, wet hair, her melted make-up, and the out-of-season Bollywood dress clinging to her skin with odd creases, she was the one who filled his days with magic. 

“It will,” he said. “As long as Rina wears a dress like yours.”

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/