She was left breathless, heavy, as if the world she had braved and grown to accept, deteriorated into a fine porous dust that slipped violently through her fingers. The reality was almost surreal at this moment, speechless yet screaming, as if all people around her moved methodically slow, almost caught in a replaying still that would continue timelessly until it was stopped on demand. Stopped, by a remote that she, unfortunately, did not have, nor would she ever control. Her mouth was parched, eyes tepidly were swollen, as her arms and fingers rang with a familiar weakness. Her shame and worthlessness began to choke her, as she questioned the triviality of her existence. She glanced around being sure to not be seen, and quickly repositioned her hijab, checking twice to be sure her neck and hair were covered.
The collection of moist crust that accumulated over the course of the evening prevents your eye from opening easily. So, you rub at it mindlessly, flicking the crumbs to the side of the bed. You arch your back, stretch your torso and extend your arms wide-reaching for imaginary apples hanging from the sides of your bed. With your arms outstretched, you lay there motionless, observing the blank wall, listening in on the dull silence of the morning. You shift your body to the left of the bed and come up to a seated position, you feel lazy, lethargic, then deeply slouch your back so much that you begin to feel a minor stretch along the back of your neck.
Mentally prepared, Neermala shifted her weight towards the branch to her left, reaching her arm out wide for the incaved hollow that stood before her. The hollow would normally allow her to hang freely, supporting her usual hobble-like leaps from one branch to the next. Though at that moment, as her arm stretched forward, her eyes distractedly caught a glimpse of a lusciously ripe green guava fruit, and for a spilt second, she forgot what she was doing. Instead of gripping hold of the hollow in the tree, her fingers violently grasped the air just below it. Her feet had presumptuously already shifted forwards towards the second branch. Though, this time, her feet were unexpectedly surprised by the fact that her fingers had missed the hollow. Thus, her descent towards the ground began.
I revel at this moment fictitious solace, as I peer out my window at the moving trees as they rhythmically dance to a tune of misplaced sorrow. The patio door is left ajar, as I listen to the echo of birds humming in the distance. A cool breeze travels through the small slit in the doorway and trails itself by weaving between the cracks of my toes, tickling the hairs on my feet, and ruffling slightly between the bottoms of my dark green sweats. I try not to think, but my mind rests heavy, unsettled, and perturbed. This moment proves to be fleeting, as the delicate wind passes by briefly and dissipates into the harsh tendril-like air of a true disordered unknown. This solace is false, fake, a performance it seems.
I was brought back to the memory as my niece took her first steps towards the stage. I remember how her braided corn rolls polished the reflection of the sun.
Adelína Moráles ruffled her fingers gently through her hair, and let out a sigh as she lay amid the wet soil of her family’s fields. The stalks of the maize plants that she had been tasked to harvest indefinitely shaded her body from the subordinating glare of the sun. The apertures up above in the leaves of the plants allowed for dapples of sifted light to perforate themselves onto her clothes. She glanced down toward her abdomen and noticed a Corn Flea Beetle resting upon her cattleya-tinged shirt. Gracefully, she hoisted the creature onto her fingers as she lifted her own self to a seated position. She examined the gold surface of its shell as it aimlessly crawled along her palm and up her forearm. She was astonished at how such a vibrant insect could cause devastation.
Well this has been a rather miserable day. May I begin by saying, that I do not understand why such random occurrences like this so often tend to follow me around. I truly must be some sort of Velcro that attracts crazy bull shit. Get this, one of the regulars at the Libiliem coffee shop this afternoon just fucking died. Literally, he looked at me, and then fell over. All right, there’s more to it than that, but whatever.
Bounded by a motionless state of solitude, Fjör found himself sitting cross-legged in the center of a meadow deep in the forests of the Selkirk mountains. The vast, empty yet open surroundings wisped him into a moment of reminiscence. A tiny crowned kinglet flew over his head and into the coniferous trees that surrounded him in a uniquely symmetrical circular fashion. This took him back to the moment when his mother had first brought him there.
She was left breathless, heavy, as if the world she had braved and grown to accept, deteriorated into a fine porous dust that slipped violently through her fingers. The reality was almost surreal at this moment, speechless yet screaming, as if all people around her moved methodically slow, almost caught in a replaying still that would continue timelessly until it was stopped on demand. Stopped, by a remote that she, unfortunately, did not have, nor would she ever control. Her mouth was parched, eyes tepidly were swollen, as her arms and fingers rang with a familiar weakness. Her shame and worthlessness began to choke her, as she questioned the triviality of her existence. She glanced around being sure to not be seen, and quickly repositioned her hijab, checking twice to be sure her neck and hair were covered.
The collection of moist crust that accumulated over the course of the evening prevents your eye from opening easily. So, you rub at it mindlessly, flicking the crumbs to the side of the bed. You arch your back, stretch your torso and extend your arms wide-reaching for imaginary apples hanging from the sides of your bed. With your arms outstretched, you lay there motionless, observing the blank wall, listening in on the dull silence of the morning. You shift your body to the left of the bed and come up to a seated position, you feel lazy, lethargic, then deeply slouch your back so much that you begin to feel a minor stretch along the back of your neck.
Mentally prepared, Neermala shifted her weight towards the branch to her left, reaching her arm out wide for the incaved hollow that stood before her. The hollow would normally allow her to hang freely, supporting her usual hobble-like leaps from one branch to the next. Though at that moment, as her arm stretched forward, her eyes distractedly caught a glimpse of a lusciously ripe green guava fruit, and for a spilt second, she forgot what she was doing. Instead of gripping hold of the hollow in the tree, her fingers violently grasped the air just below it. Her feet had presumptuously already shifted forwards towards the second branch. Though, this time, her feet were unexpectedly surprised by the fact that her fingers had missed the hollow. Thus, her descent towards the ground began.
I revel at this moment fictitious solace, as I peer out my window at the moving trees as they rhythmically dance to a tune of misplaced sorrow. The patio door is left ajar, as I listen to the echo of birds humming in the distance. A cool breeze travels through the small slit in the doorway and trails itself by weaving between the cracks of my toes, tickling the hairs on my feet, and ruffling slightly between the bottoms of my dark green sweats. I try not to think, but my mind rests heavy, unsettled, and perturbed. This moment proves to be fleeting, as the delicate wind passes by briefly and dissipates into the harsh tendril-like air of a true disordered unknown. This solace is false, fake, a performance it seems.
I was brought back to the memory as my niece took her first steps towards the stage. I remember how her braided corn rolls polished the reflection of the sun.
Adelína Moráles ruffled her fingers gently through her hair, and let out a sigh as she lay amid the wet soil of her family’s fields. The stalks of the maize plants that she had been tasked to harvest indefinitely shaded her body from the subordinating glare of the sun. The apertures up above in the leaves of the plants allowed for dapples of sifted light to perforate themselves onto her clothes. She glanced down toward her abdomen and noticed a Corn Flea Beetle resting upon her cattleya-tinged shirt. Gracefully, she hoisted the creature onto her fingers as she lifted her own self to a seated position. She examined the gold surface of its shell as it aimlessly crawled along her palm and up her forearm. She was astonished at how such a vibrant insect could cause devastation.
Well this has been a rather miserable day. May I begin by saying, that I do not understand why such random occurrences like this so often tend to follow me around. I truly must be some sort of Velcro that attracts crazy bull shit. Get this, one of the regulars at the Libiliem coffee shop this afternoon just fucking died. Literally, he looked at me, and then fell over. All right, there’s more to it than that, but whatever.
Bounded by a motionless state of solitude, Fjör found himself sitting cross-legged in the center of a meadow deep in the forests of the Selkirk mountains. The vast, empty yet open surroundings wisped him into a moment of reminiscence. A tiny crowned kinglet flew over his head and into the coniferous trees that surrounded him in a uniquely symmetrical circular fashion. This took him back to the moment when his mother had first brought him there.