Lei e Taormina

 

taormina

Whatever evil may fall upon you, it must be respected. Only once it is respected can it be warded away by Cornicello. The symbol of The Horns sacred to the Old European Moongoddess alone can protect the bearer from ill fate and danger, Malocchio. For generations, fathers have passed the emblem down to their sons, should they have daughters, they are kept by the mothers in the imponderable place where mothers keep things, and passed on to their daughters sons.

Air rushed passed Nina’s face as her body ran against the way of the wind, yet she struggled to catch her breath. Satin cloths and basil leaf chains hanging from herb stalls flung up in flurry as she raced through the crowded streets of the marketplace. At five second intervals she glanced behind, eyes darting in and out of colors and people. She reached the fresh fruit stall where she had worked two years earlier, and slipped into saftey between its frames, its canopay roof cloaking her identity. Breathing heavily, she peered into the opening and glanced from left to right. There was no sign of them.
She had become very good at this, existing without being noticed, escaping without a trace, vanishing into thin air, so much so that she was slightly scared to admit to herself that she enjoyed the rush of it all. Clutching the tiny golden charm on the end of her necklace, Nina silently thanked Cornicello for keeping her safe. She tugged at the blonde wig that was now heavy on her head, stripped off her white cotton shirt and ditched both behind the boxes of uva and uncut anguira.

She started the walk to the edge of the market, where the court walls stop and the drop to the edge of the Sarema cliffs began. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a handful of fresh rosy cherries. At seven years old she had rationalized that pick pocketing was only a problem if you got caught. More often than not the sellers could afford to loose the small handful of fruit that would otherwise be left for the pigeons at the end of the day, and she could keep her reputation of being a good Catholic girl. She the sucked the juice out of the last one and threw the pip on the ground, hitting something metal. There it was. Her bike, right where she had left it three days earlier.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Lei e Taormina

Hey Guys – I’ve given myself a new project to work on, hopefully I can grow the original idea to see what happens. For my own protection I can’t post anymore content from Skies Over a Shanty Town but I hope you guys enjoyed where that went. Perhaps one day there will be possibility to read more!

Also I am off to Sicilia soon so I’m kinda fantasizing about it. I haven’t been back for the longest time and I wish I was on the plane now. Whenever I travel stories just happen in my head so hopefully this is gonna help, especially this thread, to take form and grow with new ideas. One thing I love about writing is that it’s possibilities are endless, the best fiction is stuff that doesn’t happen in everyday life, or every day life communicated in a way that no one has thought of before. It’s magical, and means you can be inspired by almost anything.

 

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

XIII. Memories

Before the Favela

Sometimes, when the weather were hot enough, Abia would take her siblings hiking up the mountain side. The trees were almost tropic-like up there, and some even bore fruit.
They would sip juice and fry fish all day long, and only start the journey home when first light left the sky.
But with every outing came a responsibility which hindered all the freedoms of childhood. At eleven years old she was half a parent to her brother Daniel, and the twins Ana and Natàlia.

Her father had waltzed in and out of her life until the year Daniel was born. He and the twins had never known him. In thoughts she only allowed herself to think in the secrecy of night, she likened him to the moon. Greeting her with fleeting visits that silently promised departure. Some days he would be there waiting for her when she came home from escuela (school). She would know only thirty seconds before reaching her porch, his rusty second hand Suzuki lent against the crumbling front wall, the smell of tobacco and stale alcohol lingering in the afternoon air. In all her feelings of excitement somewhere Abia felt anxious, unready. He would ask about her school work, her friends. He would eat the dinner that her mother cooked, sleep amongst the blankets and pillows laid out on the downstairs sofa, and he would leave before dawn. Abia, not enough to make him stay.

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