Free Web Hosting Provider - Web Hosting - E-commerce - High Speed Internet - Free Web Page
Search the Web

Welcome!

Close

Would you like to make this site your homepage? It's fast and easy...

Yes, Please make this my home page!

No Thanks

  Don't show this to me again.

Close

Do your senses deceive you? Stop looking around like we're all spirits.
Sit down by the fire and rest a while. Then we'll get you to dance with us . . .

The gypsy camps seemed to have a life of their own. They sat just outside the main part of the town and yet wandering into them was like entering a world of the exotic and mysterious. These dark-skinned, dark haired people smiled warmly at you, their eyes as assessing as they were welcoming. Here a group wove music to caress the night air and there a raven haired, dark skinned gypsy danced with a grace that seemed somewhat inhuman... You took a seat by the fire and watched the people for a while.

Everyone welcomed you as if you were a part of the family. Immediately, you noticed a delicious aroma wafting from the direction of the main fire. You barely had a chance to sit down on one of the logs by the fire before a steaming plate of meat and vegetables was thrust into your hands. Thanking everyone, you suddenly noticed that all had gone quiet. From the shadows, you heard the soft clinking of finger cymbals and a low drum beat. Joining the drums was a lute and a mandolin, and out of the shadows stepped a gypsy clad in a flowing sky blue costume. The intricate beadwork reflected the firelight, and the color of the costume set off her startlingly silver eyes. Slowly the beat increased, and she began her dance. Everyone was completely enraptured with her delicate, flowing dance. She swayed her hips tantalizingly, and looked all the men directly in the eye, her arms and fingers weaving and swaying in a dance all their own. Her feet moved with precise, deliberate steps alternating exposing her well-toned legs. Her arms then moved to her flowing skirts, swirling them around like she was caught in a tornado. The music continued to increase in speed and intensity, and the dancer matched her pace to that of the musicians. It was a thrilling spectacle, and the music built to a crescendo. The dancer kept up her nearly inhuman pace, and then collapsed dramatically as the music stopped, ringing out the final chord over the evening breeze. Wild applause broke out, and you finally noticed that you had paused with a bite of food on its way to your mouth in order to watch the show. The dancer rose, brushed the dust from her costume, and walked towards you. She welcomed you warmly to the camp and offered you a place to stay should you ever need one.



~by Sylvin's writer

COPYRIGHT © Jonathon Earl Bowser "Desert Dancing" 1991

Having long ago abandoned her pastoral life, she takes the stage name Sylvin Bordeaux. But as much as she tries to escape, the memories still haunt her sleep. Growing up in the farmlands outside the charming town of Sevilla, she could never content herself with the farmlife her parents lived. So when a troupe of gypsies passed through Sevilla, she could hardly wait to see the unique brand of dance performance. When the thrilling spectacle ended, she approached the lead female dancer and begged to go with them to their next stop, Madrid. The woman agreed, and took Sylvin in to teach her the arts of gypsy dancing. Her lithe frame lent itself well to the athletic nature of the dances. Her well tanned skin and nearly raven tresses only set off her most prized feature, her starkly silvery-grey eyes. Her mother always told her that her great-grandmother had loved a Swedish man, and the silvery eyes were his legacy to his offspring. ::speaking with the slight lisp that marks her Andalusian heritage:: "El pasado actualmente occurió, la historia es lo que alguien escribió."

COPYRIGHT © Jonathon Earl Bowser, "Goddess of the Vale" 1992

They were repulsed when the Gypsies came to town. It meant the theives would be roaming their streets and the women would go crazy, venturing off to the Gyspy markets to buy useless brightly colored carpets and woven fabrics. The men would be entranced by the haunting beauty of the Gypsy women. When the caravans came, it meant complete chaos for the town. Yet, the curses of "Damn Gyps" and "Invading our towns" ceased when the moon rose and the fires roared to life. The intoxication began with the melonchaly wailing of the flutes and the forlorne beating of the drums - when the oranges and golds of the firelight became blue and grey, the flames dancing to life in eery, unreal colors. Gypsy magic or slight of hand? They called her "Leena of the Firelight". She was the one who wove legends with each step of her Dances. She was the one whose caramel skin glowed in a bath of haunting colors. It was her, who entranced the crowd. Gypsy dancer - when the final step was taken, and the multi-hued skirts fell lifelessly about her legs, they all dared not to move. Raven tresses spilled over bare shoulders as those wild, golden eyes rose to the townsfolk. Their sharp intake of breath and refusal to blink had told them she had invaded their thoughts and haunted their dreams. Careful - Dont Blink. You might miss something.

COPYRIGHT © Aegils @ deviantART, "Moonlight Sonata"

Wanderlust was a well known nature and way for the gypsy woman. Bred and born to be one with the sea & the shore her passion was a dark flame, her demeanor as unpredictable as the midnight tide. Rona was one who was claimed by the enticing, writhing dance of the flame to draw her body to dance for a crowd, just as much as the roar of the tide could beckon her to drift towards the sea. Still the woman was ever aware of the energy that coursed and sang in her veins like lightning and dark flame. A dark kiss that ever had tainted her soul and left her haunted. Nevertheless, this would not stop her... for she was determined, and as ever... proud... as her people were wont to be.

You were preparing to leave from the camp and return to your inn for the evening, when the gypsy named Leena beckoned you to come near. Mesmerized by her peculiar eyes and not wanting to disappoint your hosts, you obliged.

"The dead have a message for you," she intoned eerily. "Before the sun rises again, you must visit the cemetery."

Care to consult your ?

© 2000 Stormpoint Writers Guild
All rights reserved

Graphics on this page provided by: