Archive for the ‘My Writing’ Category

Rubio’s River

April 18, 2018

It was all over—the great big puddle. It went from one end of the kitchen to the other. He didn’t mean it; he didn’t do it on purpose. It was his body’s fault. The yellow liquid inside him couldn’t be repressed any longer. Out it had come with a need never before known. The dog looked up at his owner, his brown eyes open and guilty. She took off her shoes. “It is fine. It is fine.” She walked over to him in the middle of the kitchen. “You are ill. The doctor will make you better again. You’ll see.” She didn’t believe a word she was saying. The dog’s illness had progressed too far for that. “Nothing can hurt you. I will not let that happen.”

 

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The Robe

April 7, 2018

The Robe

A harsh to the touch robe—it is dark red and too big for her. Somebody gave it to her as a gift long ago. It is wrapped around her toothpick body like a kind protector. She sits by the stove, the electric stove in the tiny kitchen. The robe is her friend. She looks down at the pockets, at the belt. Wearing the robe makes her feel she has a home—a real home at last.

 

 

 

 

Unhappiness

April 5, 2018

Unhappiness

It is an unhappiness that will not go away. It stays around and loiters, like an intruder in a building. The unhappiness does not express itself. It has no exact words to describe what it feels like. It eats away, little by little, someone’s spirit. It makes people restless and angry. The anger doesn’t show. Nobody sees it. All that people see are white teeth and a permanent grin.

 

 

 

The Rain

March 29, 2018

The Rain

It was the rain. The rain was the worst part of it all. When it hit, the face and the body had no chance of escape. There was nowhere to hide from the rain. On hot summer nights the rain resembled a traitor; it was a most unwelcome surprise, the worst possible slap.  The water had to be put up even without thunder. Doorways were no help. The feet got wet and there was nowhere to dry them. There was nowhere to dry the clothes on one’s back. All the thoughts went to a place with a cup of hot tea, somewhere to take away the taste of wet poverty.

 

 

 

On My Own

March 29, 2018

On My Own

It was Hell—it is Hell and I have lived through it on my own, my very own. All these years—over 10 of them—I have felt like a soldier naked before the enemy. I have seen the defeat of all my dreams, my most cherished dreams. I have looked the other way; I have pretended that it doesn’t matter if none of these dreams have come true. I have done this in order to survive, so that I could open my eyes one more morning. I have seen the tragedies in other people’s lives and stood powerless, not knowing or not having the resources to help them. In most of the tragedies pretty words meant nothing. I have spoken them realizing that actions that are beyond my power were needed. I was strong but it was Hell. The pain continues and will never go away. The pain is so intense that it will follow me to my grave.

 

The Wind

March 16, 2018

The Wind

This is how I feel—this is exactly how I feel. The wind is hard; it is harsh and it is striking my face. The woman had these thoughts in her head as she thought about the new crisis in her life. She was threatened with homelessness, with sleeping on the street again after having been inside in a cramped apt. The apt. was the roof over her head, the only roof she had, the only roof available. She listened to the heavy duty traffic. This is just what I need, she said to herself as she smiled. All this mirrors my mood. This chaos, this nightmare that I have inside is the new problem. It is the so hard to solve problem. I hate it! I hate myself for not having the solution to it. A new gust of wind struck her face. Enough! This is enough! What to do now. I need to concentrate on that and that only. My life—what will happen to my life from now on and beyond. I have to live it until I die—but how and where?

 

 

The Bags

March 14, 2018

The Bags

There were one, two and three bags. She was behind them; her body shivered and her eyes stared at the sidewalk. Hundreds of people had gone by that morning. She had tried to forget that she was by the corner of a bustling street in a large city. She didn’t want to know. Once or twice her head went up. So many of them; she saw so many strangers all at once. They were busy (or pretended to be busy) with their own affairs. She put her hands on her knees. The veins stood out; the skin had begun to wrinkle a year or two ago. Hand lotion didn’t disguise the passing of the years for very long. She put her arms around her chest. The legs obeyed her thoughts. Getting up was a challenge. She made it across the street—safety was hers at last.

 

 

Raw Storm Scene

March 7, 2018

Raw Storm Scene

White, white and more even white falls on the sidewalk, the streets, everywhere. People and their umbrellas caught by the wind stumble, then keep on walking. They skip the black ice areas if they can; most walk as fast as possible. At one end of a street, a man sits on a piece of cardboard. A large black umbrella covers his head. At the other end, someone is sitting on three United Post office crates, the kind that postal workers use. The person looks up at the sky; the shoulders first, then the head shake. She looks towards the man. That we should be out on such a day! We would rather be nice and cozy somewhere, not here in the wild of the storm. People hand her single dollar bills. She looks at their hands. Thank you. Thank you very much. The snow has turned her black pants white. Her fingers shake it off.

 

 

 

 

The Sidewalk Stiff

March 6, 2018

Sidewalk Stiff

She sits with an empty white coffee cup next to her. She looks up at the passers -by and she waits. She waits 1, 2, 3, sometimes 4 or more hours. The street is noisy and crowded. She keeps waiting, sometimes looking up, sometimes making believe she is reading the free morning paper. None of this matter she would say if she could; what she is doing is an eccentric person’s hobby. She doesn’t need the money that she is not getting. There are no results; she came to the site early for nothing. She attempts to get up from her milk crate. Her hand holds on to the car by the curb. Her legs feel stiff. One movement forward and another and then another movement to the corner—she does this slowly. The light changes. It is just in time; now she can get herself feel normal. She is who she once was.

 

 

 

Ham and Pickles

March 5, 2018

Ham and Pickles

The sandwich—it looked very good inside the clear plastic container. Ham and cheese panini, a fancy term for a plain old ham and cheese sandwich. Someone had left it by a phone booth. The street was busy, with hundreds of people going by. No one would notice, no one would care if she took it. It was lunchtime and her stomach growled. She tried to do something about it, but that was often hard. She looked behind her; no one was looking. Her hand put the container in her large bag.