Copies. How many copies are there? 7. I counted 7. The words. The words in each of them are the same. Drawings. The drawings on the front covers represent many styles. It all depends on when they were created. It’s the same, part of the same story.
Archive for February, 2012
Let it end differently this time. Please! I want a different ending. I read the book, but the protagonist doesn’t get the guy. She doesn’t get anything. A better outcome. I would like to see an outcome where the heroine does not have to shed tears or be told by a supporting character that things will be ok when they won’tEmpty words. Empty words can sound beautiful. The result is the same–it is cheap and it is useless.
I had an idea for a book some years ago. The title of the book is Different Flags now out on Kindle. I could not stop thinking about it and even when I tried to deny that I had to write it, I still knew that I would. The story is about Ani, a 26 and a half year old living inSan Francisco. She travels toArgentina, her native country, to take care of her Aunt and falls in love with a priest. The story might seem simple to some, but it has several layers. There is a need in Ani to finally belong somewhere, to love and be loved. And there is the cultural difference betweenArgentina and theU.S. and the way the people see Ani wheen she returns. It’s as if she was never born there. They see her as an American. And Ani, though she should be more mature, isn’t. Through her love for Padre Luis, she comes to know herself as a woman, a sexual woman. Eugenia Renskoff
Obsession. Maybe, but Inever fell in love again. Inever felt alive like I did when I loved that man long ago. For the first time in my life I was aware that I had a body. When I met him on the street as if by accident, I was happy. I blushed all over and I wanted the moment tonever end. If I could have stopped time from moving, I would have. We would have stayed in that time and place forever. The experience was not flawless, but it was a wonderful one.
She sat there, with her head down. She was the only person on the two-person subway seat. The woman wore a brown and mustard yeloow 3/4 coat. the smell coming from her made some straphangers look her way. It was strong and filled the entire subway car. The train stopped at a new station. Those coming in, glanced her way, smelled and looked in another direction.
Brand names, the more famous the better. Parada, Armani, Emanuel Ungaro. Someday even Chanel and Balenciaga. Got to have them. Got to have them at bargain prices. I walk by classy thrift shops and I can’t resist going in. Sometimes they have stuff for practically nothing. Really great stuff. I am hungry for pretty things—for beautiful things. I don’t need to wear them. I just want to own them and touch the soft, silky fabric, to know they are mine. I want to feel rich—like I don’t have to worry about money or get one penny here, one dime there until I get a dollar, maybe 2. I want to make believe that I’ll have an actual place to dress up for, a place to show myself in the best.
A brown face, very tired looking, a thin wool coat, white socks and dark half shoes. She walked towards the other passerby. “Please, she said.” I am hungry. I have no home. Could you buy me a slice of pizza?” The passerby shook her head and walked on. The woman stopped another person.He reached into his pocket and handed her a few coins. The passerby watched her from a distance. How can this be? She’s shivering. She walked towards the woman. “I don’t have much money because I am unemployed, but I’ll get you the slice of pizza.”The crossed the street on Washington Avenue, near Dekalb. “It’s there, the woman said pointing to a small place.” It’s that hole in the wall.” “One slice of cheese”, she told the man behind the counter. The passerby paid and the woman opened her mouth wide. “Let me stay here a little longer. It’s warm here.” The passerby nodded. And touched her on the arm. “ Good luck.”She went to the corner of Washington to wait for the light.
Even when he wasn’t my dog, he was my dog. When we were far apart from each other, sparated by an ocean and a continent or two, I ran into dogs similar to him. It wasn’t intentional. It just happened. Stopping for a minute to pet the other dogs brought me comfort, and I was with my own dog again even if I wasn’t. Just a few words, a question, maybe more than a question, something like: How old is he? What is his name? made me miss him a little bit less.
She has always felt by the edge of a precipice. She has always felt that she does not matter, doesn’t count. The feeling of being homeless has been her constant companion for the past several years. She has tried to shake it, get rid of it to no avail. Now someone wants to get rid of her. Now she feels that she is nowhere again.
6 Years Old
6 years old and that 1960 look. The big phones, the sharp grey suits worn by the men, the funny colors on the walls of houses andapts.1960 when bad things didn’t happen. 1960 when the world, while not rosy, was in a better mood for a small child. Ignorance was bliss in those days. It was better than—better than what came later.