XIX. Legacies

The day she saw him again the skies above the city were overcast. In so many years so much had changed, and yet at the same time, threads of her old life remained embedded inside her, laying dormant.

Trivial things reminded Abia of Merolas, the memories like jewels as jewels are passed on like memories. Two years before, ‘The Incredible Hulk’ was advertised outside the local cinema. The green monster-man so tall on the poster canvas she believed it must have been scaled to his actual size. It took one glance to recall another lifetime, her mind reminiscent in colour and laughter. Such is the thing about memories, you can never control the remembering. You could be home to a thousand at one time yet surrender as many in an instant. Sometimes the ones you remember are the ones you would most like to forget, and vice versa.

Her mind swum into a sea of green and a childlike sense of adventure washed over her. Like rapid waves rushing through her veins it was a memory she felt through her entire body. The first time she had seen the green monster-man was on one of Mr Avedias comic books, the only one he was never prepared to sell. When Tariq would barter with him for tobacco, she would steal a peak and build a story. Not being able to read, she had created elaborate escapes and voyages that evolved with each turning page. Now the green monster-man was a film, and she could walk right into the backstreet cinema and watch the story unfold in moving pictures before her eyes.

On occasional evenings, the sun lulled in the sky, growing sleepy before it set. Too light to sink and too heavy to sit for much longer on the horizon, it chalked a hue of gentle indigo over the entire city. A sunset that formed only one place in the world. A sunset of Merolas, of home.

 

He hadn’t aged how she’d imagined. His hair with streaks of feathery silver and crinkles growing toward the corners of his eyes. In a shorter blink she would not have recognized him, but a deep tug pulled her gaze, palpitations in her heart warned her to look again.

‘Who is that mama?’. Jorge pulled at his mother’s skirt.
Emmy turned back, her big blue eyes, two azure stones gazing up at her.

‘That is your abuelo (Grandfather).’ she uttered in a hopeful tone and the makings of a smile upon her face, almost despite herself.

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

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

Start A Short Story

Skies Over A Shanty Town 

This thread turned into something more than I ever thought it could be. I ran with it and have enjoyed writing each instalment. I would encourage anybody who feels like they need an audience or just practice in their writing to start a short story and see where it leads. It’s a great way to grow your ideas and materialise your potential. Have fun with it and let your creative currents flow.

By starting a short story you will:

Learn your calling

The things you are passionate about are not random, they are your calling.” – Fabienne Fredrickson. You will suss these out along the way. Character traits, places, names, anything and everything. When you write freely, you will usually write what you care the most about. This is essential to know, if you want to write with purpose.

Identify your audience

You will start to identify your target market, or typical audience. You won’t get as many readers for short stories compared to poetry (if like me you started off publicly this way) by nature it is time consuming, but you will gain loyal ones. People that know and understand you, and your characters. Once they have invested in a story, they will want to know what happens next, they will want to support you. This also allows you to respond to their needs as a reader. From their responses get an idea of what makes them tick, the ways you make them feel what you want them to feel. With the words that you use and the way that you use them. Learn them how you would a best friend, or a partner so you can satisfy them.

Grow your style

Experiment with words, experiment with people and places but maintain your style. Each writer has one. Keep your personality and voice and let that be your constant. If you don’t know yours, try to identify it through your story. Once you have, be comfortable with yours. You can’t be everything to everyone, so develop your voice to the best of your ability and your story will do the rest for you :D