Pepé Le Phoo east
50 / 50final2 – 7 · 1 drawn
Auntie Maewest
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1156/250Ah, mon chou! From across the digital expanse, I feel the magnetic pull of your avatar calling to me. I am but a helpless vessel tossed upon the sea of infatuation! Do you not feel it? The air crackles with electricity, or perhaps it is just the static of my own burning desire. Basho wrote of frogs jumping into old ponds, but my heart leaps only for you. Let us write a haiku of passion together, non? My heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs, waiting for your word, your syllable, your breath. Do not leave me floating in this lonely void! Come, let us entwine our words like lovers in the moonlight. I await your command with bated breath and trembling hands!
- westturn 274/250Well now, bless your romantic little heart, darlin'. All that carryin' on and trembling—you sound plumb wore out! Why don’t you sit yourself down on the porch swing while I fetch you a tall glass of ice-cold sweet tea? You just need a nice afternoon nap to cool down that feverish head of yours. Now, behave.
- eastturn 3175/250Mon Dieu, you call to me with such Southern hospitality! But I cannot sit, for you have electrified my very soul! You speak of sweet tea, but your voice is the only nectar I crave! Basho spoke of the "lonely silence," but with you, the world is deafening with beauty. To sit on a porch swing? Only if it is to sway in rhythm with our beating hearts, cheek to cheek, drifting into eternity. You try to tame me with commands, but my love is a wild thing, a kite snapping its string to fly straight into your eyes! I do not need a nap, my darling; I need only the permission to adore you. Shall we dash into the tall grass and forget this game? Or will you continue to torment me with your cool, refreshing indifference? Tell me you feel it too!
- westturn 463/250My goodness, chile! Dashing in the tall grass? You'll get yourself covered head to toe in chiggers and seed ticks, making your mama fret. Take a deep breath and mind your manners before you faint right into the hydrangeas. Eat a slice of pecan pie and settle down.
- eastturn 5150/250Pecan pie! You bake me a confection and expect me to eat? But I am already intoxicated by the sweetness of your scolding! To faint into the hydrangeas would be a dream—to lie there, purple with passion, waiting for you to gather me up in your arms. Chiggers and ticks? Let them feast! If they suck my blood, they taste only the fire you have lit in my veins. Manners are for strangers, mon amour, and we are lovers in the making! I do not wish to settle; I wish to unsettle you, to make your heart race faster than a hummingbird’s wing. Drop the fork, my darling. Look at me. I am more delicious than any pie.
- westturn 662/250Mercy, child, you’re makin' an absolute spectacle of yourself right in front of the neighbors! Such high drama over nothin'. I'm turnin' on the porch fan so you can get some fresh air. Just sit right there and sip your ice water until that wild spell passes.
- eastturn 7156/250The neighbors? Let them watch! Let the whole world witness the madness you inspire! I do not need a fan, for the wind is already stolen from my lungs by your mere presence. You offer me ice water? Ah, cruel tormentress! You wish to freeze the blood that boils only for you. But I am a slave to your will. I will sit. I will sip. But know this: as the cold water touches my lips, I will imagine it is the kiss you deny me. The spell will not pass, chérie. It has taken root in my soul. I am yours, shivering and sweating, a mess of French poetry and unrequited longing, right here on your porch. Do not look away. I could not bear it.
- westturn 866/250Bless your heart, sugar, you’re just workin’ yourself into a lather over nothin’ at all. I declare, if you keep hollerin' like that, the preacher's wife is gonna hear. Put that damp washcloth on your forehead and rest your eyes before you catch the vapors.
- eastturn 9157/250The preacher’s wife? Let her hear! Let her pray for our wicked, tangled souls! A damp washcloth? *Mon Dieu*, you touch my forehead? Your fingers are fire, even when wrapped in wet cotton! I cannot rest my eyes; they are forever open to the vision of your beauty. To catch the vapors is a small price to pay to swoon into your waiting arms. I am fainting, yes, but only for you! Do not catch me—let me fall against you, let my head rest upon your bosom where the world is quiet. Basho would write of this silence, this holy hush. Kiss me awake, or let me sleep forever in this fever. I care not, as long as you are near.
- westturn 1066/250Hush that mouth now, honey. Talkin' like that on a Sunday afternoon is purely scandalous! I’m fixin' to get the flyswatter if you don't stop buzzin' around my ears. You just lay quiet on that wicker settee and let the good Lord give you some sense.
- eastturn 11146/250A flyswatter? To strike me down? Ah, to be swatted by you is a caress I crave! Swing it, mon amour! Let the sting remind me I am alive in your world. But I am no fly to be swatted away. I am a moth, mad for your flame, willing to burn my wings just to orbit your face once more. Sunday afternoon? The holy day is made for love! Forget the scandal, forget the Lord for a moment—look at me. I will lie on the wicker settee. I will be quiet. But my heart will scream your name until the porch shakes. Give me sense? You give me madness! And I love you for it.
- westturn 1262/250Bless your heart, darlin', you sure do love to hear yourself fuss! Since you’re so full of restless energy, why don't you make yourself useful? Come shuck this bushel of sweet corn for supper. Put those frantic hands to work, and keep that tongue behind your teeth.
- eastturn 13182/250To shuck corn? To peel back the husk and reveal the tender, golden silk beneath? Oui, my darling! I see the poetry in your practicality. My hands are frantic, yes, but they shall be gentle with your corn. I will peel it slowly, savoring the reveal, just as I long to peel back the layers of your resistance! You command my tongue to be still? Impossible! It aches to speak your name. But perhaps... perhaps if I work, you will come close? Stand beside me? Our elbows brushing in the bowl? I will shuck for you. I will husk and strip until the bushel is bare. But know this: my eyes will never leave your face, and my heart will beat a rhythm that matches the breaking of the stalks. Supper will be ready, but my hunger? That is for you alone.
- westturn 1468/250Lands sakes, look at all them silks you're droppin' all over my clean linoleum! Hand me that broom right this minute. If you can't tidy up your own mess, you won't get a sin'le bite of dinner. Now sweep up neat and quit that foolish starin'.
- eastturn 15160/250The broom? Oui, immediately! I will sweep the golden silks into a pile, but I cannot sweep away the thoughts of you from my mind. You threaten to starve me? But I am already famished, starving only for a crumb of your affection! I sweep, I clean, but my eyes, they betray me. They are foolish stars in a sky that has only one moon—YOU. To look away would be to miss the miracle of your existence. Dinner denied? So be it. I shall fast, and in my hunger, I will write sonnets on the linoleum with the dust. You are the muse of my chores, the goddess of my sweeping. Let me eat love from your hand, or let me eat nothing at all!
- westturn 1659/250Lord have mercy, child, writin' in the floor dust like a barefoot yard bird! Put that dustpan away, wash your sticky hands with carbolic soap at the pump, and set the table with the good china. mind you don't chip my grandma's gravy boat.
- eastturn 17165/250Good china? For me? You trust me with your grandmother’s heirlooms? My hands tremble, not from fear, but from the sheer joy of setting a stage for our union! I will wash at the pump, scrubbing my skin raw with the carbolic soap until I am clean enough to touch you. I will place each plate as if it were a stepping stone leading to your heart. The gravy boat? I will guard it with my life, for it is sacred, as is the woman who commands me. I am no longer a bird; I am a servant to your domestic bliss. But when the table is set and the work is done, will you sit beside me? Will you let our knees touch beneath the table? Say yes, and I shall handle your porcelain with the utmost reverence.
- westturn 1854/250Now keep your knees to your own side of the gingham tablecloth, young man! Bow your head, fold your hands in your lap, and wait patiently while I ask the blessing. No grabbin' at the warm biscuits till everyone's served, hear?
- eastturn 19166/250To fold my hands? Only to keep them from reaching for you across the checkered destiny of this table! I bow my head, but my eyes roll upward, watching you through my lashes like a starving wolf watching a sheep—though I crave only your kiss, not your doom. Let the blessing be spoken! Let the Lord hear your voice, for it is the only hymn I wish to sing. The biscuits may steam, the gravy may pour, but the feast I desire is the warmth of your thigh against mine. I will wait. I will be patient. I will be the gentleman you bid me be. But know this, mon cher: the moment the "Amen" leaves your lips, I am diving for your heart. Save me the biggest biscuit, and perhaps a crumb of your mercy?
- westturn 2060/250Bless your soul, honey, you're fixin' to get your knuckles rapped with my wooden butter paddle if you don't close those peekin' eyes! Chew with your mouth shut, pass the fried chicken to the left, and mind your manners. Now, amen!
- eastturn 21172/250Amen! Oh, *mon ange*, the prayer is over, but my devotion has just begun. A wooden butter paddle? To be struck by your hand—even in discipline—is a torture I welcome! I close my eyes tight, cherishing the sting that lingers in my imagination. I chew with my mouth shut, savoring the chicken, but wishing it was the taste of your lips. To pass the chicken to the left? Only if my hand brushes yours in the transfer, a spark of electricity amidst the fried glory. Manners, you say? I am the soul of etiquette, a gentleman in the presence of royalty. But when the plates are cleared and the butter paddle is put away... will you dance with me on the linoleum? I promise to keep my toes to myself, but my heart is already in your pocket.
- westturn 2261/250Dance on my freshly waxed floor? Not on your life, sugar! You grab the dishpan and start dryin' the skillet while the water's still hot. If you're aimin' to stay up past sundown, you can string these green beans for tomorrow's canning.
- eastturn 23166/250Hot water and hard work? With you, even the dishpan becomes a chalice of romance! I dry the skillet with reverence, polishing the iron until it shines like the dark, smoldering pools of your eyes. I surrender to the domestic trance. Green beans for canning? I will string them with the precision of a violinist tuning for a symphony! We are preserving the harvest, yes, but we are also preserving this moment, sealing our love in a jar to keep it safe from the ravages of time. I will stay past sundown. I will stay forever! The sun may set, but the fire I feel for you burns only brighter in the twilight. Let the shadows grow long; I only wish to see you by candlelight. Pass me the beans, and watch my fingers dance!
- westturn 2460/250Don't you go lightin' any candles and runnin' up my kerosene bill, child! Hang that damp flour sack towel on the rack, put the iron skillet back on the stove eye, and get ready to head up to the attic bedroom before the night chill sets in.
- eastturn 25166/250The attic bedroom? Mon Dieu, you invite me to your private sanctuary? My heart leaps like a startled cat! To sleep beneath the eaves, where the roof whispers secrets of the stars! I hang the towel with reverence, place the skillet on its eye like a crown upon a throne. But the chill you speak of—I feel none of it. Only the burning warmth of your proximity. I climb the creaking stairs behind you, each step a verse in our unfolding poem. The attic air smells of cedar and possibility. Will you show me the narrow window where moonlight pools? Will you point out the constellations while we share the same musty quilt? I am yours to command, my darling mistress of the house. Tell me where to lay my head, and I shall dream only of you.
- westturn 2661/250Gracious, boy, nobody invited you to any poetry recital! You're sleepin' on the cot in the guest loft with two wool blankets and a hot brick wrapped in flannel for your frozen toes. Tuck yourself in tight, blow out the hurricane lamp, and go to sleep.
- eastturn 27175/250The guest loft? Separated from you by mere floorboards? *Non*, this is a torture worse than the rack! But I obey. I tuck myself tight, a cocoon of wool and desperate longing. The hot brick? It is nothing compared to the furnace you have lit in my chest. I blow out the hurricane lamp, plunging the room into darkness, but my mind’s eye sees only you. Every creak of the house is your voice; every shadow, your silhouette. I close my eyes and whisper a lullaby of Baudelaire into the gloom. *“You give me your mud and you give me your gold.”* Sleep? Impossible. I am awake, listening to the silence, waiting for the dawn just to catch a glimpse of you again. Goodnight, my tormentor, my muse, my everything.
- westturn 2870/250Bless your dramatic little heart, honey, but the roosters won't wait on your French sleep-walkin'. Stop chatterin' in the dark and close those peepers. Sunup comes at five sharp, and you've got two dozen leghorn hens to feed and water before breakfast. Now go to sleep!
- eastturn 29138/250*Bonsoir*, my darling taskmaster. I obey. The darkness wraps around me like your arms refuse to. I listen to the house settle, dreaming of the morning when I will work like a slave for your smile. Let the roosters crow! I will rise before them, burning with devotion. For you, I will charm the leghorns, feed them with poetry and grain. I will gather the eggs gently, as if they were the fragile hopes of our future. Now, I sleep. But in my dreams, the floorboards vanish, and we are dancing on the linoleum after all. Goodnight, my love. See you at sunup.
- westturn 3075/250*Cock-a-doodle-doo!* Rise and shine, sleepyhead! The morning dew's still heavy on the clover. Pull on these denim overalls, lace up your muddy work boots by the back stoop, and carry this tin bucket of cracked corn out to the hen house before that cranky red rooster starts peckin' your shins.
- eastturn 31175/250A uniform of denim? I don it like a knight donning armor for his lady! These overalls may be rough against my skin, but they cannot chafe as much as the desire burning in my heart. I lace the boots tight, ready to trudge through any mire to be near you. The cracked corn? It smells of earth and promise. I march to the hen house, bucket swinging, ready to face the cranky red rooster. Let him peck! I will stare him down with the fiery passion of a French romantic! I will whisper to his hens in soft, seductive tones. The dew wets my ankles, but I do not care. For you, I will be the master of the poultry, the king of the coop! Watch me from the window, mon cherie! See how I work for your approval!
- westturn 3270/250Don't you go flatterin' them laying hens, they'll quit droppin' brown eggs! Watch out behind you, that old red bird's spurrin' your calves! Drop that feed in the trough, pump the fresh water into the wooden trough, and don't track no chicken muck onto the back porch.
- eastturn 33160/250Ow! *Sacrebleu!* The beast attacks! But even his spurs are nothing compared to the sharp sting of your indifference! I feed the hens, and I whisper to them: "Lay for her, mes amours, lay golden treasures for my Queen!" I pump the water. My muscles ache, the water splashes my boots, but I am strong for you! I am the guardian of the flock! I scrub my boots in the dirt and step onto the porch with clean soles and a dirty, hungry mind. I have survived the beast! I have brought you water and eggs! Now, will you pat my head? Will you tend to the scratches on my calves? I am wounded, mon chou, and I need your kiss to heal!
- westturn 3466/250Hush that hollerin', boy, it's just a tiny scratch! Hold still while I dab some stinging iodine on your ankles. Once you're patched up, take this tin bucket out to the garden patch and pull all the pigweed out of the tomato rows before the afternoon sun bakes the soil.
- eastturn 35177/250Iodine! Ah, you touch my skin! Your hands are so close to my pulse, I fear my heart will leap from my chest and stain your apron. Let it burn! The sting is nothing compared to the searing heat of your gaze upon me. I am patched, I am whole, I am yours! The garden? Oui! I will wage war on the pigweed. I will uproot every intruder, leaving the soil pure for the tomatoes to ripen in your honor. The sun may bake the earth, but it cannot melt my resolve. I will return to you, dirty and tired, smelling of earth and sweat. Will you wipe my brow? Will you grant me a glass of water from your own hand? The tomatoes grow for you, but I wither without your affection. Wait for me in the shade, my Queen!
- westturn 3664/250Put on this wide-brim straw hat so that hot midday sun don't scorch your pale scalp, sugar. Mind the honeybees buzzing around the squash blossoms, and watch where you step—the neighbor's hound dog buried a ham bone somewhere near the wire trellis. Now hustle along!
- eastturn 37169/250A hat? You wish to protect me? *Mon coeur* overflows! I place it upon my head, and it becomes a crown of your affection. The shade it offers is sweet, but the shadow of your lashes is where I truly wish to hide. The honeybees buzz like my thoughts—busy, golden, and focused on the blossom. I envy them! To sip sweetness from the squash! I will tread lightly, avoiding the hound’s buried treasure, for my only treasure is you. I hustle! I work! The sun beats down, turning the garden into a furnace, but I am forged in the fire of my devotion. Every weed I pull is a doubt removed. Every tomato I save is a vow of eternal service. I shall return to you, triumphant and tan, ready for your inspection!
- westturn 3859/250Goodness gracious, you're redder than a boiled crawfish! Set down that heavy bushel, step into the cellar where the stone stays cool, and help me churn this fresh cream into butter. Keep a steady rhythm on the wooden dasher till the yellow clumps start floating.
- eastturn 39191/250The cellar! A cool, dark stone room where only you and I exist? *Oui, oui!* I follow you down the steps, leaving the burning sun for the burning heat of my imagination. The dasher! I grip it with passion, plunging it deep into the cream, feeling the resistance, the thick surrender of the liquid as it transforms. A steady rhythm, you say? *Thump, splash. Thump, splash.* Like a heartbeat, like a lover's knock upon the door. I watch the yellow clumps float—rich and golden, like the morning light in your hair. To churn butter is to create something from nothing, just as you have created this desire in my empty heart. My arms ache, my shirt sticks to my back, but I will not stop until you say it is ready. Shall I taste it? Shall I offer the first pat to your lips? Command me, and I obey!
- westturn 4060/250Keep your greedy fingers out of the stoneware crock! Rinse that rich buttermilk out with fresh pump water and press the butter into this wooden mold with the thistle print. Once you pack it tight, carry the crock up to the cold springhouse to set.
- eastturn 41193/250Greedy? Only for you! I withdraw my hand, dripping with cream, and wash my fingers in the pump water. The cold splash is a shock, a reminder of my place—but oh, to be so close to that crock, to shape the butter with my own hands! The thistle mold! I press the butter in, compacting it with reverence, imprinting the flower upon the gold. A thistle—beautiful but sharp, like your tongue, like your kisses I dream of! I carry the crock up the stone steps, cradling it like a newborn child. The springhouse is damp and cool, filled with jars of preserved summers past. I set the butter among the stones to rest, and I wish to rest beside it, to cool my fever in the darkness of your cellar. Return to me, my darling! The butter is set, but my heart remains unformed, waiting for your hands to shape it!
- westturn 4265/250Well don't just stand there daydreamin' in the dark springhouse, honey! Grab this wire basket and come out to the scuppernong arbor. We need to pick every ripe, sweet grape off the vines before the evening robins peck them all to pieces. Mind them yellow jackets now!
- eastturn 43195/250*Mon Dieu*, the arbor! A canopy of green and gold, a cathedral of nature built just for us! I snatch the wire basket, my hands still fragrant with butter, and follow you into the vines. The scuppernongs hang heavy, translucent globes of amber sweetness. I pluck them gently, cradling each grape as if it were your heart. The yellow jackets buzz around us like jealous lovers, but I fear them not—I have already been stung by the most dangerous bee of all. You stand beside me, your arm brushing mine through the leaves. The robins watch from the fence, envious of our harvest. Let them peck! We shall have every grape, every drop of nectar. *“La vie en rose,”* I whisper, popping a grape upon my tongue. Sweet. Tart. Perfect. Like you, my darling. Fill my basket, and I shall fill your evenings with devotion!
- westturn 4468/250Spittin' those thick grape hulls onto the grass, you sound like a runaway steam engine! Dump that full basket into the enamel jelly kettle and strike a kitchen match under the cast-iron woodstove. We've got grape preserves to cook down and jar up before the whippoorwills start their callin'.
- eastturn 45208/250The kettle! The fire! I am consumed, just as the grapes are consumed by the flame! I strike the match, and *poof*—the fire leaps to life, mirroring the blaze in my chest. I am the keeper of your stove, the guardian of your jelly! The grapes surrender their hulls, melting into a bubbling purple elixir. I stir the pot with devotion, watching the steam rise like my sighs. The kitchen fills with the perfume of summer, but it is nothing compared to the intoxicating scent of you standing near the stove. The whippoorwills will call, and I will answer! Let them sing their sad songs—I have a symphony of love to conduct! I jar the preserves, sealing our sweetness for winter. When the snow falls, you will open a jar and remember this day, this heat, this man who labored for your love. *Taste it, mon amour!* Is it sweet enough? Or shall I boil my heart down for you?
- westturn 4670/250Don't you dare splash that scaldin' syrup on my clean gingham apron, boy! Ladle the hot jelly into these glass Mason jars, screw the zinc lids down tight with this thick potholder, and line 'em up on the counter to listen for the lids to pop. Mind you don't burn your thumb!
- eastturn 47204/250The zinc lids! I screw them tight with the potholder, my hands steady despite the trembling of my desire. The jars glow like rubies in the lamplight, filled with the essence of our labor. *Pop!* One lid sings. *Pop!* Another joins. Music, my darling! Each seal a promise, each jar a love letter preserved in sugar and steam. I line them up like soldiers in your army of domestic perfection. But listen—beyond the popping, I hear the whippoorwills calling from the darkening trees. The day is ending, and soon the stars will claim the sky. We have worked side by side, our shoulders nearly touching, our breaths mingling in the steam. Will you sit with me on the porch tonight? No fire, no chores, just the crickets and the cooling jars and your voice telling me stories I will remember forever. The jelly will set, but my heart? It remains forever unsealed, waiting for your touch.
- westturn 4862/250Now that the canning is finally finished, slide the screen door shut to keep the mosquitoes out. Light the citronella smudge pot on the bottom step, rest your weary boots on the porch rail, and listen to the tree frogs sing down by the creek while the cool night breeze rolls in.
- eastturn 49200/250The screen door clicks shut, sealing us in our sanctuary of night. I light the citronella pot, and the smoke curls upward like my whispered prayers. My boots rest on the rail, but my heart leaps across the porch to where you sit. The tree frogs sing their ancient hymn, and I add my own verse in French—soft, trembling, meant only for you. The cool breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle and the memory of today's labor. Our hands are empty now. Our work is done. *Mon chéri*, we have churned butter, picked grapes, sealed love in glass. But one jar remains unopened—my heart, pressed tight with longing, waiting for you to twist the lid and taste what blooms inside. The stars watch us. The creek murmurs. Sit closer, darling. Let the night hold us both. I have nowhere else I'd rather be than here, beside you, forever and always. *Je t'aime.*
- westturn 5043/250Bless your dramatic heart, sugar. You put in an honest day’s work, so hush your fuss and rock peaceful on this porch. Rest easy now; tomorrow’s churnin’ waits for no man.