Sitting with both knees on a padded chair
How did he get up there?
Breathing hot air
Squeezing gently her red nose
The clouds push together till it snows
Are you sure those are black crows?
The chair could use a stitch or eight
Before its too late
Come on finish your plate
Wondering how a wave could possibly be
It is round, I am certain it is not half a circle, making its way down like a ballon carrying heavy helium. The beams are shooting high up through the dense matter which is purely steam when you move through it. A tower of white bricks is blocking my view towards the left. The fluffy matter floats while leaving almost no traces. Under it a piece of fabric that is shaking in an uncontrolled way, making it impossible to read the message. To the right the constant changing randomness which possibly holds more then we like to imagine. The glowing of the circle gets more intense with each millimeter downwards. Four black dots change their coordinates with that unknown ease, like a paper plane landing under the table. Now the fine drawn black peaks have the chance to pierce the circle, they do and nothing changes. All of the sudden a rhythmic sound pushes into my ears forcing me to look to my right. I wait till it's gone, looking at the beams getting wider. Two towers move from left to right, slowly disappearing again. It is impossible to say what is fixed and what not, like a chameleon deciding to find more prey somewhere else.
Next thing I was sitting on a swing. It had a wooden, worn out seat hanging from perfectly knitted ropes.
My friend was about to push me so I could start swinging. His face was covered in a beard and his hair was combed straight back. His jeans were dirty, held up by a fine leather belt, his striped socks wouldn't show because his shoes were tightened too high.
He was speaking on the phone while he was standing right next to me, putting his arm around my head, holding me close to his side. He was wearing a warm sweater, like a sailor. It was made of soft and strong white wool, the waist band of his sweater displayed a winter scene in blue. If I would dare to open my eyes I would have had wool all around me. A sweet smell sneaked into my nose, reminding me of the smell of my cat after she'd been hugged by a person I would love to be around.
He dangled us slightly left and right while still being on the phone. His soothing dark voice would just make it through the thick wool into my ears. It felt super cosy. Then he started to push me on that swing back and forth, soon I swung very high up. He pushed me so hard that I could've looped-the-loop. I let my feet slow me down by brushing the wavy Persian rug on the floor. He warned me: "No, don't do it, only one person ever did it before, it doesn't turn out well."
But I did. Sliding off the swing, landing on my right foot first and turning
back towards a messy wardrobe, that cut a corner of the room. The wardrobe doors were wide open. My eyes followed the knitted ropes closely through a magnifying glass, leading me to the dusty top of the wardrobe. I was puzzled, only one rope was firmly secured, the other one was much longer and just lay in a coil on top. "What? All this time, it was only fixed like this? That's impossible."
The shade of happy we call relief.
For some reason I thought the hooks and screws were on this side of the lane, but instead I got lost between toilet seats and plastic pipes. I carried this little red basket, which I unfolded at the entrance, knowing I wont even need it. Purely for self-assurance, like standing at a rock-concert holding onto a drink. I think the 8mm hooks will do and I make my way back downstairs, but not before strolling through the sunny lamp department. Square shapes, balls, complicated geometric shapes, white, red, plastic, paper, glass, for the kitchen or next to the couch, anything that warms your heart and my ears at that moment.
I was excited to get home and put that extra window up on the wall, while I got onto that metal moving beast, which would bring me down slowly, very slow. The escalator, the moment of contemplation about what we took and what else we need or thinking about how nice it was yesterday. It is determined, once you are on it, there is no way back.
I passed three or four home builders till I had no one in front of me. I was all to myself enjoying the straight forward view, a view you breathe in after the effort of climbing to the top of a mountain. I was standing steady on both my feet enjoying the rhythmic shaking of the escalator. How often do we have the chance to get around without even moving.
All that moving stopped the moment I took one glance towards my left, the opposite lane that brings people up to get lost between paint buckets, brooms, cables, boxes and brushes.
It took a millisecond to recognize that face, a millisecond to take back my eyes looking down at the grey lane. I felt my heart beating way faster then that rhythmic shaking, an uncomfortable heat was rising from my throat up to my face. That slow heat taking over like stepping into the bathtub. Why didn't I stay behind the other people. Oh damn that escalator was moving so slow. Phone, in which pocket do I have my phone?! Basket?! Oh yes two hooks. The escalator set me free.
What would I have done without the basket.
The freezing morning lay a slippery, iced blue layer on the rooftop.
Up there, that's were we were. It got too cold staying up there, even though the angels were baking cookies, so we made a move to get down. He was steadying himself on a pipe along the bricked chimney, smiling (something he seem to do a lot). He was catching my hand to make sure. I was almost kneeling down with my chest towards the abyss and moved slowly on that iced ground, down the last bit of the roof, which was gradually sloping down towards the metal ladder. The ladder was freely leaning against the water pipe and wasn't too reassuring. I didn't care.
There I was at the very end of the roof putting my left shoe (the one without the glitter ribbon) on the first step of the ladder, leaving the other still on the roof.
All motion stopped, I looked up to him and he asked me with that smiling face: “Can we stay like this for a while?” I answered with a convinced “Yes”. So we did, looking at each other holding hands.
I dare to say we both had joy in our faces, having his question and my answer in our mind. At the other end of the ladder was a friend asking if he could help me out, I answered that everything is alright and that we were just having a moment right now and he left us to it. The next moment I realized that my foot was falling asleep and I let him know. This didn't change our uncomfortable romance, but at the same time asked for a change of action. So I took my hand back and turned around in my black furry coat. I made it down and so did he. How could this moment end so fast? Yes, it was cold.
I imagined how else I could have make myself forget that my foot was falling asleep.
I say to him, “Before I can stay with you like this for a while there are some things I need to ask you. Do you prefer multiple choice or straight forward questions?”
(of course I don't know what he would have chosen). I ask him:
“What is your favorite colour?”
“Do you go for walks alone?”
“Do you like to hold hands?”
“Do you like to cook?”
“Do you write down your thoughts?”
“Do you watch TV?”
“Are you seeing someone, except me right now?”
”Do you eat coriander?”
“Do you hold on to things?”
After that it would be the time to tell him that my foot is falling asleep.
Should I tell him that I believe that we didn't use this uncomfortable romantic moment to the fullest? That I have an idea how else this rooftop moment could have evolved? That I am willing to hear, maybe even be curious about his idea of the possible iced rooftop course. Or will we have to try it again and experience that nothing will be as we have imagined it to be.
This series is my contribution to the monthly text-battle 'The secret diary of somebody else' with artist Aino el Solh.
The rules for the battle are:
1. randomly picking a word for the month: Aino blindly moves her finger through a text and Sabrina says 'stop'
2. published on the 15th of each month
3. the text includes an image
'That one must have been here for more than a hundred years'.
While being boggled by the fact he wraps his arms around it for no transcendental reasons, scratching a bit of his chin on its fossil skin.
He is standing on his toes, which are safely covered in bulky shoes, to reach even further. Pulling the rope tight as he can, his fingers shake with force as he brunts two knots into one loop on both sides.
That soft piece of plastic-like fabric is stuffed in its own bag.
He is pulling it out to let it breathe into its full size, and if it could, it would head for the hills. The wind blows strong, but nothing much can stand against a hundred years of stoicism. There it flutters, tightly knotted, ready to do what it is meant to do. She pushes one side of the fabric down, balancing on her toes which are covered in old leather with a hole.
It ruffles against her bottom when she insistently forces it down to slide into the soft shell. Rolling her body to the left and right, moving her legs and arms like the beetle in Kafka's Metamorphosis.
It all ends with a soothing sigh.
'The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once.' (Albert Einstein)
The brown boxes cover half of the floor, open and empty. Standing there, cramped next to each other, waiting to be categorized. The exhausted window is opening and closing with a squeaky noise. It is pushing the black office chair along the rough corner of the table.
The chair refuses to stay up and rolls on for no reason. Pushing towards the door, back to the window, to the dirty mirror, towards the shelve and back to the outdated counting machine. He is pausing in front of the plastic surface. Watching the pencils rearrange. They try hard to find their favorite neighboring color pen. Yellow, blue, green, brown, red, pink, purple and many shades of grey.
One rolls, all roll. The compass strives to interfere by spinning circles and hits the glowing box. The box that loves to duplicate pictures of underwear attached to a flag post, if the bulky printer is too lazy to swing its wire. The green brush is finishing the job after the eraser bounces through plenty of thin lines. So everyone can start anew.
If these brown boxes would have legs on their own they would not be pattering with joy, but instead stopped believing in it a while ago.
You astonish me over and over again.
The doors and curtains just closed and people squeezed next to each other on the floor.
The lights were dimmed and a tensed body was laying on the floor covered by an unframed painting of a woman. I remember these paintings so well, the soft dreamy like faces of reoccurring women, the beautiful red and blue and the wallpaper patterns. They used to hang on laundry wire in her studio, one behind another, filling the room with the smell of wet paint.
You put white gloves on and picked up another canvas, holding it up so it would not touch the ground. So fragile and massive at the same time. The body on the ground got covered by another painting and changed position according to the woman on the canvas. The smooth motion drew the total symbiosis and it was then, when that painted woman became alive, that all my cells felt the tragedy, that immense energy, the pain I was not able to protect you from. My skin shivers while I sat close to the ground, wiping my tears. The room was filled with jangling silence until your voice started to sing a lullaby. Anything else I felt became trifling and vain and I saw again the beaming person that you are. You truly inspire me. You are my family.
The Tabula Rasa prevailed a while ago, before it was folded like a paper plane. Each fold was marked by a stain and each fold made flying more and more achievable.
The plane explored the strong, bright red Swiss Army knife suspended from the doorway. The knife presented its sharp scissors, tried the stubborn bottle opener and used its defined nail file. The paper plane liberated itself from the complexity of the Swiss knife, and left with stringed flapping wings.
One option was to land on the kitchen table, a table with metal legs and a plasticised surface, standing in the center of the room and determined not to bent a leg. When the paper plane realised the vase with perfectly shaped flowers on top of the table, it maneuvered underneath, to be able to take the blow and ascent. It all happened in seconds, buckling the paper nose irreversibly.
It guardedly drifts, heading to the shelf near the clean window, right towards a sparkling spray bottle, with no label. Who could have known what was in the bottle. The air got all misty and acrid, while a sprinkling sound took over every bit of the room. The stained and heavily soaked paper wings just made it through the window.
"I am certainly not going back in there."
The manual for foam
The light shines through the blue fabric, that moves carelessly left and right.
It squeaks when you attempt a comfortable position and its colour is so intense, it turns the room into a deep sea. The strings are firmly tightened between the walls and shape the blue fabric,
like thick water running through little holes.
“If you lay diagonal the whole body is in a straight position, that's how they do it in Venezuela”.
He is wearing worn out grey jeans tightened with a stately brown belt and an off white shirt with rolled up sleeves. His short brown hair just had a haircut, looking like he came straight out of the shower. There he stands with his agile posture, awaiting the moment that was promised to him. His fine shaped mouth shows a smile that combines uneasiness with the pure excitement of the unknown.
He manages to rest his head on the green pillow, that curls like a caterpillar protecting itself from an enemy.
You can buy this pillow at the brand new shop that sells anything you would need for any sport, in 300m2. Cheap climbing shoes, small skateboards, modern swimsuits and all size yoga clothes.
His feet are bent over the void, heated by the approaching sun from around the corner.
The effective hammock is still swinging from left to right, while the white walls block the only view of the unfamiliar. The window in front of him interrupts it all and his eyes stare at the blue sky. He imagines the tubes, piercing the sky, being the chimneys of steam ships cruising this neighbourhood like enormous creatures that rove unnoticed with their silhouettes.
Only now, when his gleaming eyes caught the rooftops surrounded by cute and slightly dramatic flowing clouds, that he notices the music repeating an intangible melody.
The rhythm is so far-reaching, it morphs everything, all ingredients become one.
It lasts fifteen minutes and will almost certainly never be repeated again.
Car lamps approaching at night.
A modern dentist chair turning in circles with no one on it.
The leather steering wheel looking blue in the dark.
The fake curly brown hair of a tangible puppet.
Wooden cute looking sticks along the road.
A flappy corner of the newspaper trembling in the wind.
A stiff golden bracelet made of thin ornaments with a red stone in the middle.
The trumpet fixed to a flagstaff.
A greenish white bag hanging over the saddle of a horse.
The arrow shooting into a piece of cloth or paper.
A savoury red rose, following each petal from the inside to the outside.
A perfect tornado turning into a roller coaster changing into piano keys,
the keys slide into a bucket of paint,
mixing the paint with a stick, turning white traces through the turquoise paint.
When ever I close my eyes to play this game, first thing I always see is a ladybug.
Aino, what a troublesome title this time!
I spill the beans, I used some tricks to avoid a deeper written thought on some of our titles through this adventurous year: being so busy simply not able to write a story, writing quite a short poem, just transcribing a dream or the excuse that there is too many memorable moments to choose from that would undoubtedly fit a title… Men…
I find them charming once in a while.
So sexy when they do what they are good at and pretty adorable when life just happens to them, when they least expect it. We both talk a lot about them and it is not really helping. That is why I only came up with a subtitle 'so far'.
'Three dyslexic brothers working together in the library.'
I know this is asking for more but since germans are known for their splendid humour this will be a quicky and I better end it right here.
Solid as a rock.
'I want to induce, as I am moving. I have contemplated on the options, working with the possessions that I carried along, summing them up and creating a whole effect in parallel.
Objects and situations have lost their effect simply in detail by superficiality, thou changed in their totality, they display a great heaping impact.'
They are progressing with a calmness like no other. As if the time and the number of things that could be done, do not exist. These breeze-less movements explore the area. More will not be disclosed, not a little thing, any millimeter or even smaller. You are able to rotate and stretch like something that is spit out. It begs the question as if they still have time to explore the total or only a granular part. Instead it is me that directs this question. Why should they? Why should I? It is the ease without destroying that impresses me the most.
Evian spelled backwards.
He swayed slightly on his feet while whispering into her ears. His left hand moves from her neck up through her hair, pulling each single hair, causing goosebumps on her right arm. Many times.
She loves to solve it all, riddles, relationships, knots, problems, a broken picture frame, a wooden chair with one leg left rotting outside in the rain, the world plastic issue by fitting bananas and all other grocery into one thin transparent rolled up free of charge plastic bag at the vegetable display or the double sided tape that relentlessly got stuck to the scissors that were meant to only cut fabric. As long as it has nothing to do with herself or anything that dangles behind her suitcase. Both his hands hold her head, carefully, when she has to admit that there is no sky like this dutch sky.
Two heads are bent closely above a small rocky table, whispering in each other's ears,
his head moves away from her, swinging, similar to a muscle contraction he can not control.
But that was quite a while ago.
Something that missed out on a possible symbiosis?
Something that works perfectly in parallel.
I am sure if I would flaunt my sweater he would want to grab underneath it and a feeling rises within me like water up to my ankles. I swim with the birds, dance on the bottom layer and reappear.
I bite the loose skin on my red lipstick lips and hear him breath persistently
while he climbs from one room into the next, a castle, it seems endless, so I wait.
She just so changed her bar stool and since everything is more radiant in reality,
he is able to apprehend how everything just happens to him.
The kiss was a waist of time, their tongues would move monotonously without any clue of rhythm. The air is smokey and he sits perceptively and in an undiscerning manner on the couch that barely shows any of the colour it use to have. Musing about the particleboards (more I can not reveal), while she is hankering for passion by changing to another bar stool once again. He had told her that all words are feminine as hell to him, but I guess she simply got consumed by the structures of apparent randomness.
No, she was unqualified.
A happy yellow face.
A (blue) thumb.
Blushing cheeks and two gibbous moons on their belly.
He admits: 'You are beautifully tired', when she replies: 'and you are one of the two.'
I declare it's clear as mud, but you continue to walk on soft tarmac. So I describe the sky as beamingly clear, matching a recently cleaned metallic surface of a fitted kitchen, while the sun leaves me shivering every 5 min. Modelling clay or your soothing hand descending into a bag of dried beans, are two totally different things and I should shut the hatch of my cloud, but then again disagreement is especially delightful.
As you go on wheels through the supermarket I pursue not to move, alike fragile clay fresh out of the oven.
He noticed the puddle on the road together with the first fine rays coming from the hot sun, making the air slightly opaque. It looks pretty happy, he assumes.
I can hear the sparrows smacking, not for the first time and the windmill is chasing them leftwards. I reach for the glue for broken hearts.
He remains within the car with only a flashing red light.
' The arts my dear tend to go faster then nature.'
There he sits, up on the crumbling chimney, with his thin pin-legs
he is squeaking with such an effort, like his life would depend on it, which isn't far fetched.
The first sunbeams were present before I noticed them
they are pushing through the cloud, similar to a sting through the mattress.
Thou I mentioned this sky plenty of times.
He takes my hand and does not let it off, briefly.
A voluminous sound arrives with a denuded force
Vigorous and determined to reach the other side of the river.
The echo is forgotten, after the first charge reached the waves.
Any heartbeat would adjust to this mastery of precision, simply giving up your existence,
or rather sharing the certainty of the next resonance.
The vibration is so punctual, it makes the very last chime a mistake.
If he had known this was the last beat, he would have made it peal most sublime. I am certain.
She moves in circles alike the ballerina in a wooden music box,
the numb glitter around her shoulders is sparkling towards the ceiling or any other direction.
The zombies are out
her own is hiding under the glitter, as if no one would notice.
Assuming she would resemble an ant, she would be stuck under a leaf, for the mushroom to survive
But she is walking in circles instead, repeating herself while the rhythm creates any continuation
'No need to maintain, tell, reveal, express, render or rap this again and again'.
She got no imbued acre to dig up, but rather enough time to lay with a half awaken head
under the blankets. Her belly aches and still does.
She declares herself queen of the empty acres.
The walls are reaching high, made of orange bricks, covered with wheels, the fine music crawls up the rickety stairs and the carpets are just soft.
She is laying on that compliant golden corduroy couch,
around her all these moments.
Blowing through each others minds like a vivacious lightning 'how could I have known'
The radiation of trust, the welcoming care, like a sliding blind pass over the blue line.
The joyful rapper bracketing away, from lawns to churches
A verbal whirlwind that knows who teaches swing in this town
Most charming compliments that only a Swedish girl could misunderstand
A sardine that swims with hands and feet
The bastion of calm, out of the blue that holds you tight
The endless room, at the end a tree, is empty and filled with the most beautiful music.
Possibly something great will be purchased after she left.
The taxi drives towards the growing sun, her flip-flops still glued to the dance-floor,
she walks up 5240 and opens the door, a smell of defined koffie is saturating the air,
from far a French birthday song is recited while she passes by an abstract drawing of a tropical island. Hermann the lobster is spreading his wings on the kitchen table, he is just very straight forward. She pushes through the pile of cat hair towards the balcony, deciding to take some home in her suitcase to make her own cat. Just as she is walking barefoot over Rummykub stones spread systematically on the floor, the eager popcorn hit the bottom of the checkered pillow.
She loves her car subscriptions and anything that relates to these trips. These junctures, even if its simply the very first Poutine, make her heart grow, it is aching a bit, maybe a little bit more then that. The sodden green of a mountain can indeed make you feel small, saying to herself, 'thank you for letting me see your new home, so I can still relate to your life.'
She is closing the sketchbook and all sit down to a magnificently made meal, made with so
much dedication, like music in your mouth.
The paper is white, standard thickness and arranged most horizontal.
On it a rectangular, made of fine black lines, with a noticeable distance,
parallel to the outlines of the paper.
The rectangular is divided in three parts, of which the middle one is the widest.
'In the following situation:' is written underlined in the upper left corner of the first block,
under it 'Place'.
Then two lines nothing.
Which is followed by three words in one row, divided by a comma.
'When, Date, Time'.
Six lines nothing.
'What was before?'
The paper is blank till the end of this block. (maybe eighteen lines).
The middle block has seven written lines, of which two are underlined,
creating two sections.
'Then I think:'
Next line says 'Shortly before'
Six lines nothing.
Another six likes blank.
Six lines blank.
'Then I feel:'
Right under it 'Before'
Six lines unwritten.
'After' is almost touching the lower line of the rectangular, leaving no empty space.
The most right sided block has three written parts that are all underlined ending each with a colon.
Almost twelve lines blank.
'The effect was'
Two lines of white paper.
About fourteen lines nothing till the end of the block.
She has been quite busy lately.
The word 'meeting' played a minor part in her agenda until not so long ago. Never before would she know what she would do on a Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evening. Her therapist thou believes that she is on the right road. That kind of road that would lead to pass a tank-station or a
highway-diner with names like Decent-Thursday or Well done-Tuesday.
She steps on her bike, wondering if he left the window open for the fumes to escape.
It is indeed getting cold and the trees on the left side of her street lost all leafs completely.
Why do I loose my winter hat every time, Maybe he is still in the climbing gym, I wonder if they agree to my offer, There it is - I do like breast-hair on men.
The window is open, she smells the food in the backyard and quiet jazz music is brushing her
ears. The dishes rattle in the sink and she looks at the light shining warm through the window.
A smile slinks onto her face.
It feels like ages ago, the time that she catches herself hoping in vain that he would be home
before her, equally feeling pressured to make it work.
Next time better? Some relations pull things in us we didn't know we had, others we run after
for a bit too long, or some are just too good to be working. She just started to feel fine
alone. The recurring ambivalent combination of thoughts and feelings bring her up the stairs.
The door is left ajar,
All her senses are enabled and she can't wait to get inside. His curly head peeks around the corner
with a kitchen towel in his hands.'I cooked savoy cabbage for us.'
His leather shoes were once shining like an apple that was buffed with a woolen sweater.
He has shoes for each day, standing in no relation to possible occasions.
The socks are striped, some thinly knitted and others so warm inside, it would even pop a chicken out of an unfertilized egg.
His trousers are made of jeans, slightly wider then his legs are round, which are long and standing straight like the trees along the canal.
The black belt is fixed with a perfect knot, that would falsely change his total posture to
look like an feeble man, if it were not around his waist.
His t-shirt is made of a dark green color and a bit too short, so I can get a glimpse of his belly. Right in the middle of the shirt two unicorns are making love under a well-shaped rainbow. His shoulders are widely apart, forcing the two bones under his throat onto each
other, resembling an arm wrestling contest. (Not sure what part the few breast hairs would
play in this.)
The jacket is as red as the raincoat that unfolds out of its own pocket.
The arms are strong as if they always were and will be, solely seen when they're needed.
His left hand is wearing a seal ring, the nails are short and the fingers not too long with skin similar to the cover page of a well read book, simply able to hold a basketball in one's
His head. The hair is unhesitatingly curly, which used to be forced down with coconut oil.
It is dark brown with an umbrage of grey, alike some sort of a marble cake.
His nose, in the shape of a parrot beak, is dividing his face perfectly, starting right between his eyes. Blue eyes as the polar ice caps, luminous as a kaleidoscope, wanting to understand what they see.
His ears hear the words as they are said and meant at the same time, shaped to its detail, resembling some unknown ancient code. There is a minor idea of a beard, but it could as well just be the shadow of a passing seagull.
The lips master the kiss, melting everything that comes close, the words spoken through this mouth accompany any movement in perfect symbiosis, it is the cherry or the icing on the cake, the salt in the salad, the milk in the coffee, the power button on a mixer, the bell on the bike, the brooch on the blouse, the inner sleeve of vinyl, the lint behind the glass of a frame, or more.
I gave him the keys, I left my computer with him, he is wearing my comfy-trouser.
The last toilsome piece of wood to move down to the basement?
The last fizzy beer to do the eclectic dance?
The last gloomy tunnel ride to neglect you at the muted crossing?
The last skinny ocean dip to finish this?
The last noise performance to fall out of the window (not so deep)?
The last cut of lethargic hair to tell the agonizing truth?
The last time inside to value the heat being wasted outside?
The last vernissage to blame me?
The last joyous turn to hold him for the very first time?
The last Shuto-Uke in full grace?
The last picture taken to make that international call with a wooden mobile phone?
The last round of Mejuffrouw Muis to slide into dodo land?
The last night in a caravan to put up with rebellious gnats?
The last painting to pack into rasping bubble foil?
Or simply the last day of summer
She changes her glasses and folds the newspaper most convenient.
A wall of my thoughts is breaking in pieces and muddles the air, but thats nothing unusual.
I am standing still in a huge room filled with loneliness.
The air combs through her hair, realizing the gears need a fix.
She rolls the dice down the padded chair, encouraging the little guy to stretch his arms to the fullest.
So many impressions that I could whisper, that could leave my body before I even understand them.
She is the most lovely person
She gets excited about new things
She is loyal
She is very loving and
I feel numb. 'mom, I just can't let loose, I can not open up.'
The inflatable mattress is squeaking and I just can't fall asleep.
The umbrella is folded while moments rain on my head.
The push of the tip of the shoe into the gravel, moving it from left to right, drawing half a circle, while
inhaling the dust that ascends.
The path cleaned meticulously, resembling the bird of paradise tidying his dance floor for convincing
The hat protects the eyes from the sunbeams,
the shirt is in need of no sleeves and
the trousers were dirty before.
The square cloth hanging limply out of the pants back-pocket, possibly moving methodically from one hand
to the other, a while later laying on the park bench, consequently back into the left hand and therefor round in
to the back-pocket.
The slow and determined crouch down, with the target-line in the mind's eye.
Residing an instant, to splurge with the power of concentration.
Once more up for one of the plenty strike mannerisms
The Fakir (Player of the snake)
The position of the hand not in use and the pose of the whole body are not only determined by the inevitable.
The short correcting glance, a keen blow into the empty fist, holding her up high as
she could resemble a diamond and the pitter-patter of the dusted shoes just before the attack.
Ensuing the silence, so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Lifting her up with a bit of a shake, then turning the hand, bending of the knees,
eye's screw up, tension in the other arm, exhaling once and finally releasing her with an appropriate velocity.
The metallic sound spreading over each field, the synchronous incipient movement immediately afterwards.
One foot measuring the distance that otherwise could be spotted in seconds from far by a professional
glimpse. A few trained arms are folded behind the back while the toe establishes the winner and the long-
time residents do not even need to waste any look.
The occasional laugh and alternating handshake, the carefree applauding and the rattling of some polished bullets across the square, make me spend hours on this bench.
When the sun is shining.
“I am known for exaggeration, everything I say, they say, you better divide it by two.”
The tradition was to cover the whole city with balloons, thousands of helium
No cloud could keep up with this carpet of dots.
People from all the neighbouring places would leave their houses and march for days to be blown away by this stunning festivity.
The balloons would be delivered all mixed up, hours before.
There would be pink balloons next to red ones, brown next to yellow ones.
Screaming colours next to each other with their strings possibly permanently entangled.
The light striking the ground through the balloons would make any flower close
its petals. The strings were so messed up, not a single one had the same length.
The few tall citizens, living in this city, would wear sticky gloves, trying to
arrange the balloons by colour and pull the strings straight. Finally, the
amount of balloons stacked on top of each other would bend down to the ground, one balloon would manage to fly off and the carpet would collapse. To this day,
not one person has confirmed to have seen a single balloon since.
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Stories from 2014-2016