It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: abstain, halo, prayer.
I´m not playing it safe this week, using expressions, words, prepositions etc where they might not fit very well... Anyhow, it´s a good thing, I´m out of my comfort zone =) It might have messed with the fluency of the text, though, as things might come off as awkward or plain weird. If so: I´m sorry, and please tell me where I´ve got it wrong so that I might learn!
A Sign
I leave in the morning smog, my trolley loaded with raffle. I sell at the big market Wednesdays and Saturdays, and at the smaller one nearby on the other days. Sometimes, if it´s busy, I get to help out with the vegetables and then maybe I can take some home with me.
When I come home my sisters and brothers are playing on the dump. Someone told me it said in the newspaper that kids shouldn´t be on the dump because the junk might be toxic, radioactive even, but where would they go? This is where we live and anyway, they need to collect my raffle.
I sweep our shack and go to get some water, when the kids return I have the porridge ready. Afterwards we do the dishes and I make them wash themselves and clean their teeth, I will nag about this because we´re not bad people, mamá used to say.
They say their prayers and go to bed and I sing to them as I do the final tidying for the night. It´s nice, peaceful, and I listen to their breathing slow down as I put the cloth on our box table. It´s a pretty piece of cloth, purple with red stripes. I was lucky to find it, almost untarnished and brightly coloured, I try to keep it clean. María picks those yellow flowers that grow all over the dump and I keep them in a glass on the table. The yellow goes well together with the purple, I think.
Before it gets really dark I step outside and go through the raffle they brought home. I make two piles, and then I put the useful stuff in the trolley, the other pile goes back to the dump. As the kids grow, they get better at finding good stuff, but they still drag home lots of fancy, worthless junk. María´ll take anything that glitters and Miguel likes big things with shiny surfaces. But, as I said, they get better, they have to, the competition for things easy to sell is tough on the dump.
When I think I´m finished, and it´s too dark to see anyway, something weird catches my eye. It´s very small and I could easily have missed it, but it´s pulsating with a dim light and I freeze, suddenly spooked.
I take some deep breaths to calm down and I tell myself I´m being stupid, but when I reach out to touch it, it moves! Sweet Jesus, my poor heart skips a beat and in an instant I´m all covered in goose-bumps.
But then I hear the rattling sound as it moves over the concrete surface and I recognize the step of the cucaracha. I deftly catch it, no cucaracha is too fast for me, and then I get to examine it closer. It looks like an ordinary one, hard and oval and dark brown, only it´s surrounded by this light, a green halo that glows softly around it. It´s surreal, supernatural and I can´t stop watching it, this beautiful creature caught in my hand. I find myself hoping it´s a magical sign from mamá.
I keep it in a matchbox beside my bed and I sleep like a baby, feeling so safe.
When I come home the next day it´s dead. The kids played with it and the taste in my mouth is bitter when I touch its broken body, the halo still intact, but I abstain from punishing them, what good would it do?
María´s been playing with it the entire day, making a house for it in the box, with tiny furniture made of paper and pebbles and pieces of glass and metal. I let her keep it.
Darling María, she´s getting so pale, I must try to get some vegetables soon.
onsdag 25 augusti 2010
onsdag 18 augusti 2010
Groupie Ambitions
It´s "Three Word Wednesday". The words: grimace, phase, stumble.
Groupie Ambitions
Looking back at it, I can clearly see I was going through a phase. I would like to call it my ´troubled teenager´ phase, but to be honest, it was more like a ´I crave sex with musicians´ kind of phase.
That night, my favourite local band played and I was determined to earn true groupie status by sleeping with one of them, anyone of them.
I wore my favourite black top, some skirt with bohemian ambitions and heels, of course. The party was held in the basement of the place where they had played, and had the right worn down, rocker kind of look. I was thrilled when I entered, when I had my first glass of red wine and when the deliciously bad boys of the band arrived. Thrilled, thrilled, thrilled – this was going to be my night.
An excessive amount of alcohol later, I approached the pretty, dark one that always wrote their lyrics. I don´t know why I thought I had to impress him, honestly, to just reveal my intentions would probably have worked like a charm.
”Have you ever thought about the words ´passion´and ´illusion´,” I spluttered, ”I think they´re great together, I think you should use them.”
I leaned closer to him, showing some cleavage and feeling pretty good about myself. The faint grimace of repulsion that ghosted over his face was probably due to some bitter tang in his drink or whatever.
” ´Burn´ is a good one too,” I continued, my movements growing wilder and my personality scattered all over the place. ”You should definitely use that one.”
I tried to look at him, but found that I really couldn´t focus. He turned away and started talking to someone else. I think I probably stood there for a good five minutes before I got the hint.
At least no one laughed when I stumbled away, I´m sure no one noticed.
Groupie Ambitions
Looking back at it, I can clearly see I was going through a phase. I would like to call it my ´troubled teenager´ phase, but to be honest, it was more like a ´I crave sex with musicians´ kind of phase.
That night, my favourite local band played and I was determined to earn true groupie status by sleeping with one of them, anyone of them.
I wore my favourite black top, some skirt with bohemian ambitions and heels, of course. The party was held in the basement of the place where they had played, and had the right worn down, rocker kind of look. I was thrilled when I entered, when I had my first glass of red wine and when the deliciously bad boys of the band arrived. Thrilled, thrilled, thrilled – this was going to be my night.
An excessive amount of alcohol later, I approached the pretty, dark one that always wrote their lyrics. I don´t know why I thought I had to impress him, honestly, to just reveal my intentions would probably have worked like a charm.
”Have you ever thought about the words ´passion´and ´illusion´,” I spluttered, ”I think they´re great together, I think you should use them.”
I leaned closer to him, showing some cleavage and feeling pretty good about myself. The faint grimace of repulsion that ghosted over his face was probably due to some bitter tang in his drink or whatever.
” ´Burn´ is a good one too,” I continued, my movements growing wilder and my personality scattered all over the place. ”You should definitely use that one.”
I tried to look at him, but found that I really couldn´t focus. He turned away and started talking to someone else. I think I probably stood there for a good five minutes before I got the hint.
At least no one laughed when I stumbled away, I´m sure no one noticed.
torsdag 29 juli 2010
Grand Dessert
Trying out "Three Word Wednesday" =)
The words: abuse, cramp, hatred.
Grand Dessert
The first sign was dull. A familiar cramp in her lower abdomen and she stiffened, ever so slightly, a frown marring her delicate features.
Calmly she finished whisking the lemon cream she was preparing for her grand dessert, rinsed the whisk and put it in the sink. She put cling film over the bowl and placed it in the fridge, second shelf. The frown deepened.
As she hung her apron on its hook on the door, she felt the cramps intensify. She closed her eyes and took a moment to longingly sniff her beautifully starched apron, its lavender scent soothing her.
But there was no turning back now. The corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably as she walked towards the bathroom.
She undressed. No clothes would be soiled by the toilet. She tied her hair in a firm bun in the back of her neck. From a cupboard she took out a blue bath sponge, a bottle of transparent nail polish and a roll of paper tape. Carefully she opened the bottle of nail polish and painted a small amount on the rough side of the sponge. She left the bottle open on the washbasin, the strong scent emerging from it seemed purifying. She pressed the soft side of the sponge to her face, covering her mouth and nose with it, then she wrapped the paper tape around her head, securing the sponge with it. The smell of nail polish was overwhelming, dizzying, and evoked her intense gratitude.
The cramps were becoming impossible to resist and with a profound feeling of hatred she filled the clean toilet bowl with paper, its shiny surface would not be touched by… it. She sat down, closed her eyes, pressed her hands against her stomach and inhaled her chemical relief. Then she let the enema do its job.
She shivered with disgust as she wiped herself, flushed and cleaned. Scrubbed, cleaned, scrubbed.
Abuse, she thought, this is abuse. Why? Why these repulsive needs? To be nothing more than a slave under the filth of this despised flesh.
Back in the kitchen she continued with the preparations for the dessert, the red skin on her hands burning from the scrubbing. She forced herself to breathe slowly, composed herself and pushed back the memories of her previous actions to some obscure place in her brain. At least, she thought, there´s now a whole week until I´ll have to go through it again.
She smiled.
The words: abuse, cramp, hatred.
Grand Dessert
The first sign was dull. A familiar cramp in her lower abdomen and she stiffened, ever so slightly, a frown marring her delicate features.
Calmly she finished whisking the lemon cream she was preparing for her grand dessert, rinsed the whisk and put it in the sink. She put cling film over the bowl and placed it in the fridge, second shelf. The frown deepened.
As she hung her apron on its hook on the door, she felt the cramps intensify. She closed her eyes and took a moment to longingly sniff her beautifully starched apron, its lavender scent soothing her.
But there was no turning back now. The corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably as she walked towards the bathroom.
She undressed. No clothes would be soiled by the toilet. She tied her hair in a firm bun in the back of her neck. From a cupboard she took out a blue bath sponge, a bottle of transparent nail polish and a roll of paper tape. Carefully she opened the bottle of nail polish and painted a small amount on the rough side of the sponge. She left the bottle open on the washbasin, the strong scent emerging from it seemed purifying. She pressed the soft side of the sponge to her face, covering her mouth and nose with it, then she wrapped the paper tape around her head, securing the sponge with it. The smell of nail polish was overwhelming, dizzying, and evoked her intense gratitude.
The cramps were becoming impossible to resist and with a profound feeling of hatred she filled the clean toilet bowl with paper, its shiny surface would not be touched by… it. She sat down, closed her eyes, pressed her hands against her stomach and inhaled her chemical relief. Then she let the enema do its job.
She shivered with disgust as she wiped herself, flushed and cleaned. Scrubbed, cleaned, scrubbed.
Abuse, she thought, this is abuse. Why? Why these repulsive needs? To be nothing more than a slave under the filth of this despised flesh.
Back in the kitchen she continued with the preparations for the dessert, the red skin on her hands burning from the scrubbing. She forced herself to breathe slowly, composed herself and pushed back the memories of her previous actions to some obscure place in her brain. At least, she thought, there´s now a whole week until I´ll have to go through it again.
She smiled.
torsdag 15 juli 2010
Barren Land
I never expected to end my days in a barren land. I, who always took pride in keeping a flourishing garden. I came here looking for something, I´ll admit, and in a way, it seems I found it.
On the third day I stumbled upon it, the grave I mean. It´s a sad story; simple wooden cross, once painted in cheap colour, now withered and worn down by the endless wind that roams these lands. Some sort of inscription I believe, but of course it can´t be deciphered now; fairy letters on milky mist.
I touch the cross. Run my fingers along the creases and crevasses of the dry, dead wood, and it seems to communicate with me, someone´s story pouring into me, eager to be heard.
She came here with expectations, promised a life improved. A man I assume, dazzling her with the prospect of a house, a family, a life. She must have been a daft creature to settle for that, to agree to come here to these impossible outlands in search of nothing more. And then something went wrong. An argument. A quarrel. A brutal and shocking ending. Some digging and here she lies.
But why the cross? Why bother with that kind of civilized detail? He must have had regrets, I imagine. Maybe he was seduced by their dreamed-up prospects too, maybe more than her life ended in this godforsaken grave?
And here I lie. On barren land, my hands on the cross. She had such lovely, glossy curls, all covered in sand now. I wish I´d have had one of the roses from my childhood summers to put on her grave, but they´re all long since gone. No one will rise a cross for me but hers will suffice for both of us. In a way it´s a comforting thought.
The sun is very present here, the sun and the wind, with me. Always.
On the third day I stumbled upon it, the grave I mean. It´s a sad story; simple wooden cross, once painted in cheap colour, now withered and worn down by the endless wind that roams these lands. Some sort of inscription I believe, but of course it can´t be deciphered now; fairy letters on milky mist.
I touch the cross. Run my fingers along the creases and crevasses of the dry, dead wood, and it seems to communicate with me, someone´s story pouring into me, eager to be heard.
She came here with expectations, promised a life improved. A man I assume, dazzling her with the prospect of a house, a family, a life. She must have been a daft creature to settle for that, to agree to come here to these impossible outlands in search of nothing more. And then something went wrong. An argument. A quarrel. A brutal and shocking ending. Some digging and here she lies.
But why the cross? Why bother with that kind of civilized detail? He must have had regrets, I imagine. Maybe he was seduced by their dreamed-up prospects too, maybe more than her life ended in this godforsaken grave?
And here I lie. On barren land, my hands on the cross. She had such lovely, glossy curls, all covered in sand now. I wish I´d have had one of the roses from my childhood summers to put on her grave, but they´re all long since gone. No one will rise a cross for me but hers will suffice for both of us. In a way it´s a comforting thought.
The sun is very present here, the sun and the wind, with me. Always.
fredag 9 juli 2010
Me Being Nice
Wait! Did I mention I´d wait for you?
If you wanted to find yourself first, that would be fine. I´d wait.
Dream. I´d dream of you too, I´m sure.
And I´d be prepared for your return. I´d make everything very easy for you.
Serve. You know I´d serve you, don´t you?
Lie? Sure, I´d lie for you.
Steal? Hurt? Kill for you? I believe so, yes.
Die for you?
No.
But I´d kill you. For an amount of reasons.
If you wanted to find yourself first, that would be fine. I´d wait.
Dream. I´d dream of you too, I´m sure.
And I´d be prepared for your return. I´d make everything very easy for you.
Serve. You know I´d serve you, don´t you?
Lie? Sure, I´d lie for you.
Steal? Hurt? Kill for you? I believe so, yes.
Die for you?
No.
But I´d kill you. For an amount of reasons.
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