XVII. Dreaming Hour

His bedroom sat five shelters high above Rainbow. A window to the world. He would shove his arms through the slated wood and light a cigarette (Mr Avedias finest). Sunrise reminded him of Abia. Calming, sensually sweet but by nature naive, always posing questions and always desiring answers.

Tariq had lived life long enough to know that not all questions were answered. Why was pana with seeds and nutmeg cheaper than plain bread? How did they fit those tiny boats in tiny bottles? Why is it that we hurt most those we love?

Before bright light awoke the world Tariq would feel most settled. A population silenced in slumber, this was his dreaming hour. His thoughts free to run and all possibilities unrestrained. The golden hues quietened his internal quarrels, blinded his pride and flooded his ego. Only the days tasks lay before him, which he had learned to be a lot easier for a man lightened of such terminal traits.

This morning, the sky rose in blackened tones and reality dawned upon Tariq. His eyes dipped into a murky pit of purple his thoughts would not settle, and he found no ease.  He had known this day would come, when explanation would surpass him and instead, the complexity of change would attain a voice all of it’s own. His own held at ransom.

Deep in his chest he could feel it, rising and falling with urge to burst out and duty to stay hidden. A secret he had kept, a truth he had buried.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town

XVI. Home Sweet Home

Abia remembered places how she tasted sweets. Sour and sweet, sour and sweet. The ones that were delightfully ordinary and ones that were treats. Cities like candy in a powdered box they were there to relish, to reminisce.
Nova Fribrugo was high up in the mountains. It carried mist through it’s air and whistles in it’s winds. Her childhood home was like a dark chocolate humbug, or a sea salted caramel. It oozed with tradition, with sweetness and familiarity, but left an aftertaste of indifference.
Merolas was a sugar coated fruit cube. Covered in snowy sweetness it was soft to touch, full of flavour and adventure. But it’s taste was ambiguous if you did not let it settle on your tongue, too sharp if left there for too long, too much in one mouthful and you might choke.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town

XIV. Lined

Before the Favela 

Her mother would tell her, as if like bedtime stories, anecdotes about her father. Abia could always see him in details if she closed her eyes. Thick dark hair with eyes wide like hazelnuts, glistening in the sun. But she liked to hear him spoken aloud, given presence with words. So even when he was gone he was there.
Her father belonged to no one, but her memories of him belonged to her.

Her favorite tale, one she could not decide was a recollection or a wish, (of both her and her mother), was the one she learned to ride a bike.
They had practiced every evening start to finish of sundown. Up and down their street, the wind through their hair and gliding feet, until Abia did not need her fathers hand to steady her, or his eyes to guide her.

She could listen to stories, she could sink into memories.
She could wish and she could dream.
But she wouldn’t ask why he had left. She couldn’t ask why he wouldn’t stay.

Such was Abia’s life. There were lines she could cross and ones that she couldn’t. There were lines she would cross and ones that she wouldn’t. Lines drawn as shapes in the sand, ones drawn in the stars that shaped her destiny.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town