Etiqueta: Tale

  • Roots 2



    Published in this blog December 19th, 2020
    Translated September 2023

    Continuation and part 2 of 3. Tear it apart.

    Roots 2




    The light coloured tile floor and the «welcome» rug over a weird shine of the spotless tiles. He goes out to the noon sun, crosses the cobbled path between the house and the fence in exactly 7 steps.

    The jeans become a straight Mediterranean nose, curly black hair brushed backwards in a gel excess and tunnel eyes. Dark, mysterious and lighted at the bottom by life vitality that swallows breath down (for pragmatic effects, the video camera goes up panning from the legs to the face, please).

    —Hi. Ready for hard work? — shining stars among tulips in a VIP smile, inviting, magical.
    —Kome… in… Please. Would you like a glass of water? — composed poker face, ancient. He comes forward to open the house door, knightly, as she crosses through the fence door/bashes her black lashes over a green light of eyes.

    —Of course! Thank you.

    She’s wonderful. A prized cactus before dawn. But first he has to lure her so she comes back.

    The white fingers contrast against the red plastic and the ice; a hand takes the dissected fingers along the rest of the arm on a cutting board. The hand works with its twin to cut following the bone and retire this from the meat. Besides other parts that aren’t worth the effort; the cut out hands will end up in the grinder. The fleshy meat will be cut and refrigerated to use when needed. He might need 4 to 5 more people.

    She, black hair in a pony tail, washes her hands and smiles pleased; before taking the glass of water being given.
    —To your orchids! — It’s him now whom smiles, dunking his nose in the glass… Eureka!
    —Guld… You like to.. co… Come? To the inaugural day? Guld you open the tab? — The tinted in doubt tone of someone who knows his poor hand.
    —Shall we have the first today…? — puckered face— I have to keep working —guilt/reproach tone — tomorrow?

    A negation gesture, he goes around the bath (in the first story) with his eyes fixed to the tiles, to where she has sat on the edge. He caresses the bath’s edge as if he couldn’t see her and takes her face, closes his and whispers to her ear:

    —I must prepare the loam: weed off the grass and leave it drying. Mis bebés (In English in the original)… These orchids come from the dezert and are more difficult than any ofher…

    He, in sun shades and long sleeved plus the exotic addition of a fishing hat, weeds off the grass a garden area connected to the bath’s plumbing. If you top preparing the loam with carrying it in buckets, it is a bother. He reminds the first time he saw them. White as spells under moonlight, in a corner of his wife’s favourite garden. He does remember too his wife with her lover… Actually he only remembers the moans. —Haaa haa— He pulls the grass with more strength than before. And smiles in the middle of his frenzied activity.

    —In her flesh I found beauty

    He takes out about 20 centimeters of soil in an area of about 5 X 5 meters. The sun is a debt on a bank account minus the job but he, keeps till he finishes the task. He fills with sand…this is one of the few times we can see his eyes shine in a bridled excitement some would call passion and others madness.


    «They always have orchids, I really hate that» Very unkind thoughts coming from a powdered «perroquet» nose (a little bit hooky but small and graceful)[1]— Oh, thank you! — Sweetened tone whilst the hands belonging to this nose take a white porcelain cup of tea up to the lips. The round table has two bamboo little carpets on it and on them a tea set on a tray. A glass pitch with white orchids of a single red petal[2] separate her from another nose. A tanned and freckled nose straight from the bottom and that looks very determined. This nose owns a pair of thin straight lips glossed up with glitter.


    [1] For a more effective description towards a nice imaginative exercise, you can imagine this was video recorded at nose height and panning down

    [2] Orchids posses three sepals and three petals. One of said petals looks different and is called labellum.


    —I can’t believe these are from your green house!
    —These aren’t mine — Mysterious smile.
    — Oh, can I ask where did you get them?

    TO BE CONTINUED

  • Roots


    Published December 19th, 2020
    Translated September 2023




    This tale I wrote it first like in 2015.  It didn’t have an ending first time. Second time it was this version. I’ll be boring you with this tale for the following three or four Wednesdays. Afterwards, I’ll publish the bettered version. I hope you can learn something out of it. Because between this and the second one there’s a different universe in between.

    NOTE: It is highly possible that the translation gets better than the Spanish original.

    clear glass terrarium with white petaled flowers
    Photo by Katarzyna Modrzejewska on Pexels.com



    ROOTS 1



    Beating in the darkness there’s a blooming red rose. Each petal oozes enough life to light itself and nothing more in a flickering spark. It won’t last much before before falling; among the excited voices from the shadows of the darkness around; at ground touch it flattens against it. A thick drop of a vibrating liquid boiling before freezing into snow.

    A roof under a sad sky. It is a green house annex to the store. Flowers and other plants are shown in metallic shelves to outdoors temperatures. There are more shelves  with resting tools on them around.

    A young man, his body about to swim inside a turtle neck sweater; exits the automatic door. Manure, white gloves, a pair of Wellingtons in his cart. Besides the garden, it seems the drainage needs fixing. He has a check list on his hand, 3 and a ¼» PVC tubes. Coples and copper plumbing are better, is the advice of the area expert in an orange mono. They even suggests an additional payment for installing it. A little expensive but worthy, he has no idea of plumbing or tubes. Plus, the expert seems to be a looker. Given the embarrassed smile he allowed himself.

    The dust sweeps the wind over the only green garden among dry grass lots. It takes rest a second on the white van with an orange logo and it’s driver. She gets off the vehicle methodically, opens the trunk, downloads a light carrier cart that can be used as vertical wheelbarrow. She places the tubes, the wielder and the tools she can’t carry on the ranch work belt she wears on the suggested  curve of her hips.

    She walks in a flexible but stiff swinging in her blue denim pants —special clients, special services * Women can decide to do the same as  some men who don the good suit to business when the client is specially charming. Don’t blame me. Women can perfectly decide when, where and with whom to flirt. The opposite can happen too. * — Thinks her in a blink-smile-moment.

    The Victorian house, whited, has a floral ring bell in the front fence.

    And their bombs and their guns.
    In your head, in your head, they are dying…
    In your head, in your head,
    Zombie, zombie, zombie,
    Hey, hey, hey. What’s in your head,
    In your head,
    Zombie, zombie, zombie?

    Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, oh, oh,
    Oh, oh, oh, oh, hey, oh, ya, ya-a…

    Open eyes and big pupils look at the metallic bath where her soul is leaking into. Neither her eyes, dead ones, neither ours could see it. We shall content with the drops, an out of service tap, falling. Falling. Aaaall night long; to understand what’s coming down her wound, chin, face. Her bound hands behind the back and  her body weight ankle hung from a hook (a hook part of a hoist). Her feet, torn apart.

    Little by little the drops stop falling. They get dry over the already rusted hemocytes on the still soft flesh. Later, the flesh and blood will sustain a different kind of beauty. A slit of light peeks in, the door ajars and we can see 5 cylinder bundles.  We can’t see them really well but we can perceive the love they have been placed there with.

    Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, dou, dou, dou, dou, dou…
    Another mother’s breakin’,
    Heart is taking over.
    When the vi’lence causes silence,
    We must be mistaken.
    It’s the same old theme since nineteen-sixteen.
    In your head, in your head they’re still fighting,
    za zi da di da da pin
    za zi da di da da pin
    With their tanks and their bombs,
    And their bombs and their guns.
    In your head, in your head, they are dying…
    za zi da di da da pin

    The long fingered hand slides the i-pod to the back pocket and stops the song. The blue faded jeans with the dark knees, loam and green spots, cross a hall of falling apart furniture, yet spotless as transparent dust grains.

    TO BE CONTINUED