I want to tell you the Story:
She was fifteen when she stopped caring for her stuffed bear. Instead, she held the weight of a man’s head on her breast. It was different, against her dreams, it was -God’s will. His is mightier: she laid quiet, white pearls for eyes. Her father, returned to the door ajar, agape. –Why did you cry? -Papa, it was useless for me to fight it. –To tell me this as you lie! She left with a dark cloak, believing herself slipped unseen into darkness.
She lived outside of town on a small path leading off the main. To live, she sold jewelry and fruit to passersby. When she needed to, she had the blacksmith buy food and cloth for her. She prepared everyday for the baby; with prayers of absolution, making clothes, a bed. She did not sleep well; her days were work, and nights were shared between twin brothers, the barber and the cobbler. She hated both men. The barber was a man-child, his brother vile; both pinchers of swollen breasts. One day, while succumbing finally to a mental lapse augured some place ago, she threw possessions outside her small squat, then, over a pile of leaves, she, abject with her teeth clenched, withdrew into unconsciousness.
The baby was not unhappy: Ycha, who at first came out silent, coughed softly, and she slapped him on the back as he dangled upsidedown. He cried loudly; she was already scared. She caressed his lips with her shell-like-fingernail and sang to him. The barber, just outside, listened. -Shhh...
…a crow sprang from a brown oak; the barber hummed sincerely towards town.
Now that Ycha was born, she drew late into the nights; uninterrupted by the twins. Using charcoal from the fire, she traced lines she imagined. Every night it was the face of a man; never a different angle, always the same face facing forward.
-One face? -Because it is the only face I know. -I have another face. –No, you do not. It has silence as punishment for the crimes it has witnessed. –Your hand is as flimsy as a branch in sway. –It is God’s, not yours. –Let us run away together. –With that, leave us alone. –It will be the best life. –From now on, you speak only foolishness. And then she said to Ycha, -boy, never listen to this man.
Ages passed, leaves turned over and back to green again, pastors turned to pastures, from sun to soon, moon to mud, and spring to sung. She continued making money, raising Ycha as best she could. But he was timid, especially when she screamed; his bravery diminished from something beyond his experience. However, the men she depended on were cowards; her hands were guilty for the shape of Ycha’s eventual manhood. All these hopes, when the future is daring and bold, were fulfilled every night in dream. She at least had Ycha by her side.
Suddenly: Ycha was collecting firewood when he heard shouting. Ycha had heard loud voices before, but this spittlevoice was exhausting. And then, grunts and feet shuffling, a flower vase crash, sharp, violent, another grunt and a scream, NoOoo, air bubbles gurgling as she gasped. Pots clanked and dishes scattered. The man, whose face he saw only from the side, set fire to the shanty. And then left.
A single portrait of his father was tacked to a nearby tree. He drew her face on the other side with charcoal from the fire. He placed a rock on top of it in front of the tree. He buried it with leaves and he knelt over the tomb. He stared at the grave and then drearily at the tree. He lost himself between the embracing smell of flowers and the abandoned trunk.
She was fifteen when she stopped caring for her stuffed bear. Instead, she held the weight of a man’s head on her breast. It was different, against her dreams, it was -God’s will. His is mightier: she laid quiet, white pearls for eyes. Her father, returned to the door ajar, agape. –Why did you cry? -Papa, it was useless for me to fight it. –To tell me this as you lie! She left with a dark cloak, believing herself slipped unseen into darkness.
She lived outside of town on a small path leading off the main. To live, she sold jewelry and fruit to passersby. When she needed to, she had the blacksmith buy food and cloth for her. She prepared everyday for the baby; with prayers of absolution, making clothes, a bed. She did not sleep well; her days were work, and nights were shared between twin brothers, the barber and the cobbler. She hated both men. The barber was a man-child, his brother vile; both pinchers of swollen breasts. One day, while succumbing finally to a mental lapse augured some place ago, she threw possessions outside her small squat, then, over a pile of leaves, she, abject with her teeth clenched, withdrew into unconsciousness.
The baby was not unhappy: Ycha, who at first came out silent, coughed softly, and she slapped him on the back as he dangled upsidedown. He cried loudly; she was already scared. She caressed his lips with her shell-like-fingernail and sang to him. The barber, just outside, listened. -Shhh...
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep.
Be good, baby, now go to sleep.
Do you know where your nurse
has gone?
Gone to her village across the
mountain far away.
Be good, baby, now go to sleep.
Do you know where your nurse
has gone?
Gone to her village across the
mountain far away.
…a crow sprang from a brown oak; the barber hummed sincerely towards town.
Now that Ycha was born, she drew late into the nights; uninterrupted by the twins. Using charcoal from the fire, she traced lines she imagined. Every night it was the face of a man; never a different angle, always the same face facing forward.
-One face? -Because it is the only face I know. -I have another face. –No, you do not. It has silence as punishment for the crimes it has witnessed. –Your hand is as flimsy as a branch in sway. –It is God’s, not yours. –Let us run away together. –With that, leave us alone. –It will be the best life. –From now on, you speak only foolishness. And then she said to Ycha, -boy, never listen to this man.
Ages passed, leaves turned over and back to green again, pastors turned to pastures, from sun to soon, moon to mud, and spring to sung. She continued making money, raising Ycha as best she could. But he was timid, especially when she screamed; his bravery diminished from something beyond his experience. However, the men she depended on were cowards; her hands were guilty for the shape of Ycha’s eventual manhood. All these hopes, when the future is daring and bold, were fulfilled every night in dream. She at least had Ycha by her side.
Suddenly: Ycha was collecting firewood when he heard shouting. Ycha had heard loud voices before, but this spittlevoice was exhausting. And then, grunts and feet shuffling, a flower vase crash, sharp, violent, another grunt and a scream, NoOoo, air bubbles gurgling as she gasped. Pots clanked and dishes scattered. The man, whose face he saw only from the side, set fire to the shanty. And then left.
A single portrait of his father was tacked to a nearby tree. He drew her face on the other side with charcoal from the fire. He placed a rock on top of it in front of the tree. He buried it with leaves and he knelt over the tomb. He stared at the grave and then drearily at the tree. He lost himself between the embracing smell of flowers and the abandoned trunk.
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