Prose texts by Lara Lambelet

Images: © Lara Lambelet.

Author: Lara Lambelet


I see a meadow full of light. We wander here and there, hand in hand, tracing the course of our lives. Your smile pierces me. This apparent joy, covering your face with two small dimples, inspires me deeply. The moment was long overdue, but you are here now. I won’t let you go. My fingers close even tighter against your palm. I feel your pulse racing as my lips draw closer to your mouth. Your breath caresses my face. Our eyes are one; immersed in each other, I lose myself in the infinity of your soul. My tongue runs greedily through your lower lip, then my teeth take over and bite it. You abandon yourself to me, in full confidence, with equal power and filled with love. Then we lie down among budding daisies. An aroma that is no stranger to me gets me drunk.  I let myself be rocked in your arms and close my eyes. Your skin is warm, as I remember. It emanates a familiar and reassuring smell. I huddle up against your chest. My hair tickles the tip of your nose. My head rises and falls as you breathe. It’s peaceful. Our hands haven’t separated. No one knows where the key is to the invisible handcuffs of desire, love and respect that unite us. I observe this complicity, this unique bond that, despite the pain, continues to grow between us. “I am here now. “, you whisper in my ear. I know that. I’ve always known it even though you didn’t believe in it anymore. My eyelids are opening to the light again. The return breaks my heart. But there’s a spark of hope in me. I know, this twilight reverie is only the beginning of our story.

Writing exercise with words

  • love
  • hope
  • bitch
  • water
  • pneumothorax
  • architecture

Even if you wished it, you can’t touch me. I am as subtle as the calm water of a river that pours into its vast ocean; trading, inconspicuously, tranquillity for power. Hope will blossom in you once you get to know me. My presence could take your breath away, like the terrible pain of a pneumothorax. Some of you may have the architecture to contain me so I’ll be able to flourish harmoniously. But one day, whatever your predisposition, you’ll come to the conclusion that I’m a real bitch. Who am I? My name is Love.

Paradigm shift

The frenetic rush, like a continuous wave ending its race against the rocks, which had formed in the local supermarket, reflected the magnitude of the situation.

The population threw themselves on the disinfectant gel

CHF 400 per liter: the story of the merchant who made his fortune on the back of the panic that ensued.

The “man-made virus” or how some people always find a way to build conspiracy upon conspiracy…

Huang Yang: the Chinese restaurant that forbids the entry to Chinese people

I was tired of those headlines. Grotesque. Gargantuan. Such euphoria projected onto a world, which, as we all remember, once knew pandemics of greater scope and severity. I fold up the newspaper, put it on the seat next to me. An old lady, wearing heavy make-up, looks at me intensely. “Do you want my picture?” I think, stunned by this rudeness. To my left, a handful of women and men of all ages had donned the newest fashion accessory. In bluish tones, sometimes white and even green, for the most highly rated people, the mask had its charm. I didn’t wear one. In this pre-apocalyptic atmosphere, I felt a sense of disobedience, a deliberate and assertive non-conformism. The face of the crowd, as usual, was pale. “Virus or not, it’s crazy how demoralizing people are,” I thought. Lausanne station. I gather my things and get tired of getting off the train, crowded with students, workers, and other passengers in a hurry for whatever destiny. Lost in my morning ruminations (to tell the truth, I am no better than these people whom I despise, as far as I can see), I finally arrive in front of my building. It is, more or less, deserted. I push the door of the sanitary facilities and begin my daily ritual: washing my hands with soap, after applying and soaping for thirty seconds, drying and using my personal gel. It’s a small thing, but I’m getting on with it. After all, I’ve always been a stickler for hygiene. Maniac. That’s when my phone rings to notify me of a new notification. I read: “Dear students, this week’s classes and seminars are cancelled. This cessation is of indefinite duration. In the meantime, we wish you a wonderful quarantine”.

Photograph of a window whose panes are covered in condensation, with houses and trees visible in the distance.
Quarantine’s Introspection

Quarantine’s introspection

All by myself. Don’t wanna be. All by myself. Anymore…

The needle transmitting the vibrations of the 33 rpm emits a gentle humming sound. I had taken my father’s record player out, then dusted off the shiny surface with a cloth. With its aquamarine colour, I take pleasure in contemplating the beauty of this object from another time. Under a subdued light, I imagine the shy arms of lovers waddling on a slow dance. The trembling hand of the young man struggles to grasp the hip of his dance partner. “Ah… what a beautiful time. “, I meditate. The mere sight of two people, body against body, gives me goose bumps. Two metres apart. One of the recommendations that keeps running through my head.  By the way, this word “recommendation”, can we talk about it? A small disillusioned smile appears on my face. A grin maybe. I don’t know if I have the desire or even the strength to express myself on this confinement. The needle ends its course along the vinyl. Silence dominates my thoughts. It’s crazy how time seems to widen day by day. The minutes are hours and the hours are flowing drop by drop. There’s a knock on the door. “Yes, what do you want? “I ask my roommate as politely as I can. James, whose stubbornness seems to me to be accentuated by the confinement, interrupts my sudden contemplation with the intention of suggesting a game of chess. “A game of chess? No, but would he have taken a single second to get to know me? “. I answer no with my head and look away. The sound of footsteps leaving the room relieves me. I get up and walk towards the window. The sun is already hanging high in the sky. It must certainly be noon. But then, I have no idea. Since the first day, my watch has been resting in the drawer of my bedside table. In fact, since this new paradigm, I’m gradually listening to my body even more. My stomach is gurgling. Noon. Yes, it is. He’s right. “Oh, you can wait a little longer,” I ask him calmly. To paint. I hurry in giant steps towards the glass closet in the living room. Facing it, my reflection blinds me. My hair is a mess. I suddenly grab the handle, take the first tubes and brushes and close the door. A yo-yo, going up and down indefinitely. That’s how I would describe my moods. “What did I want to do again? “. I stare at the canvas. A memory crosses my mind and floods the thick paper with pigmentation. Pistachio, emerald and persimmon: the shades unite and oppose each other. With the tip of the brush, I trace a scarlet massif. Before my eyes, a bucolic landscape tells its story. As my painting is about to come to life, my sense of smell is seized by a delicate perfume. The perfect blend of ginger and lemongrass. The smoke from the cup of tea, sneakily deposited by my roommate, mists my glasses. I am as if magnetized by the enchanting scent. My lips test the temperature of the water. “I wonder what he’s doing. Certainly, paperwork or settling a thousand and one management problems with panache.” I smile and see his gaze plunged into mine. His lips touching mine. His last words resonate with me: don’t forget me.

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