Candle: Candlelope

Sanaoliopuisto:
Kynttilooppi (Gazella candelae)

Kynttiloopit ovat siroja, 60-80 cm pitkiä otuksia, jotka koostuvat palavista kynttilöistä. Ne ovat yöeläimiä, jotka aamunkoitteessa vetäytyvät luoliin lepäämään. Kynttiloopit viihtyvät kivikoissa ja muilla seuduilla, joilla kasvillisuus on niukkaa. Kynttiloopit ovat erittäin haavoittuvaisia ja elävät korkeintaan muutaman viikon vanhoiksi. Ne lisääntyvät kerran vuorokaudessa sytyttämällä viisitoista uutta kynttilää. Kynttiloopit käyttävät ravinnokseen maassa vipeltäviä pikkuolioita, kuten transpäästäistejä. Voisi luulla, että kynttiloopit ovat nopeita juoksijoita, mutta palavat kynttilät hidastavat niiden vauhtia: sillä jos yli 20% kynttiloopin kynttilöistä sammuu, kynttilooppi
katoaa.

Week 30: Snow: Three Pictures

I

White everywhere. My roof is white, my walls are white, my floor is white. It's all so bright I see colours, blue sparkling, green twinkling, violet flashing. They move with my pupils, run along the white of my eye. I need to entertain myself not to be struck by panic. Listening to the beep in my ears form a melody, see the colorful stripes on the snow. I went skiing and was left under an avalanche.

II

I press my nose against the cold windowpanes. Outside, big fluffy snowflakes paint the road all white, landing lightly on the carriage and its hunchback driver. My breath leaves a stain on the glass and looking through it the street is blurry, covered in a soft quilt of white. I am Oliver and my tea awaits me.

III

Far away, over distant, vast areas of nothingness, we found a frozen globe. The plains lay under white coats of snow, the lakes were icy, stainless and untouched. The planet must have drifted away from warmer regions, originally not far from our home, and been lost in this territory of merciless cold. We can't survive here, we have to send some pioneer robots when spring arrives.

Week 29: Mangrove: The Forest

Damp swamp. The words must have been born together, as a pair. These trees won't drown. I've been wandering for days, climbing on dented roots, my shoes wet and slippery. I don't dare to think about my toes, bruised and cold, and with brown, sweaty fingers I grab the trees, the heat beats my forehead and my hair sticks to my neck. The forest doesn't seem to end, as if I've been born here, like I've never seen anything else than these high trunks over winding roots stuck in knee-high water.
Then suddenly the air gets fresh, like lighter to breathe, the rotten smell vanishes and small waves bob up and down against the bark. I realize I've reached the bay, the water is turquoise and small, colorful fish seem to float over intricately towering coral reeves. I sit down on the last roots, in the sunshine, pull off my shoes and let my bare, suffering feet drop into the warm, salty water. The dirt is gently washed away and I know I'll always stay here.