prose

Cold hearted arrogance
She stood at the bus stop. Designer jeans hugging her firm shapely body. A bright shopping bag in one of her hands. Long blonde hair and big blue eyes. Empty pistachio shells were landing everywhere around her on the sidewalk. As soon as yet another shell fell a couple of pigeons rushed to it. Their beads of eyes stared with misunderstanding at those hard empty things. Things they thought were edible. Nevertheless, as soon as another shell dropped, the birds inspected it as well. And then another. And another. She never saw the commotion. She was only waiting for her bus.

Headache
Thick, pasty layers kept forming inside her scull. Soon they were pushing on the inner part of her eyes. She was tempted to shut her eyelids closed in order to balance out the pressure. But she knew it was not possible. Her eyes were fixed on the dark strip of hiway, which seemed to stretch out faster and faster, so she kept pressing the gas pedal to keep up with it.

Ruthlessness
A mouse was obviously injured and disoriented. Oily beads of small eyes stared painfully right at Vika. Her big brown eyes trembled for a moment before she came to a decision. Slowly she lifted her foot dressed in a white stoking and a black middle heeled shoe and accurately put it right on top of baby mouse's' head. When she lifted her foot, poor critter was staring at the sky in amazement, its oily eyes unblinking. Where a second ago was nose there been bright pink mashed substance...

Racism
The doorbell rung unsteadily. When he opened the door he had to look down to see the visitor. Countless braids surrounded dark shiny face. He recognized her for a child of those neighbors who had 3 or 4 kids and lived couple houses down the block.
"Can Mary come out and play?"-Asked the girl.
"Oh, she went shopping with her mom. Maybe another time." He closed the door before his daughter peeked out of her room.
"Daddy, who was it?"
"Oh, no one important. One of those people who try to sell you stuff."

The life of a tourist

I am a tourist. Always has been. At least always felt like I was. "How do you enjoy tour trip so far?" I'd ask myself once in awhile. The trip in question is called my life. Very often I get bored and start wondering if this trip ever going to end… But often I am simply fascinated by the sights.
"Pardon me, can I get thru to the door?" This particular question always sounds so tourist-like on the inside of the overstuffed muni bus. And "they" silently move aside. "They"- the aborigines. Very slight movement that it. As in "We'll let you thru, you are only a tourist after all."
I am standing in the middle of the noisy-busy-with-their-lives-go-about-the-business aborigine crown. What had stopped me and jerked my chin up and squeezed all the oxygen and smog out of my lungs? Trans American pyramid. Once again. "Tourists," hisses middle aged Caucasian woman. She storms almost thru me-gotta get that bus! Or what? Is she going to be late? I think that she is already late. When we become "aborigines" we are all late.

The fear
I lay motionless. For over an hour now. The boundaries of my bed do not seem small enough to be comforting. I intently had turned my back towards the window, which looms over my bedside. The thin cotton window coverings fail to prevent the white moonlight from shining thru. Dark nights are much better. The white eye is blindly staring at my crouched under thin blanket body. I can feel it with my back. Purple shadows of tangled branches of trees creep in. They lay on the old windowsill. They stalk over the bare walls. They entangle with the carpet's short hide. They cannot get in on a dark night. On a dark night everything is dark. And then I can fall asleep. Because I feel in control. I know there is no real control, but there's nothing to suggest otherwise either. On the moonlit nights my sleeping mechanism is paralyzed. I am trying to push a childhood memory out of the range of my sight. But I know it's hopeless. On the moonlit nights the same vision comes to me again. Just because it is predictable it is not less frightening. A pair of yellow glowing eyes stares at me thru the thin single glass of a small window. Black fur of the creature gleams like silver in the moonlight.
"It's just a cat", said my mother many years ago. Till this day I am not sure she was right.

Mexico as I saw it

Golden dust is everywhere. It has formed shaggy clouds in the turquoise sky-far above the ignorant domes of catholic cathedrals, which has toppled the Aztecs pyramids in vain attempt to float above the millennial religions and superstitions. Golden dust is shielding the intimacy of every tangled maze from the strangers' eye. If you were able to suspend yourself far above the copper colored ground and keep the company to the golden dust-you'd see tight hives of the human settlements surrounded by viridian craziness of forest and -above all that frozen mountain tops with occasional smoke of a volcano that has forgotten that this century does not awe at the sight of nature's force but rather despises it.

Describing the age

Before leaving the apartment she always made sure her hair frames the face in such a manner as to hide small lines beginning to develop across her forehead. She still remembered those mornings when the mirror reflected flawless porcelain doll face back at her and when that face smiled, there were no "geese feet marks" in the corner of her shining eyes.

Julia found it absolutely out of her gamut to walk at a normal human pace; most of the time she was imitating the grasshopper to the dismay of her mother who couldn't catch up with her. She'd always open her bright green eyes in amazement and say in a clear and persistent voice: "I am sorry, mommy" whenever caught in a moment of committing the crime of drawing a nice stripy tiger on the white surface of the leather couch or making monkey faces in a mirror of a department store.

He finally made his body to sit down somewhere in middle of a route 30 muni bus. Semi transparency of a wax paper of his skin couldn't conceal the blue veins weakly pulsating inside of his hands. Fisheye distortion of the world, projected thru the lenses of his glasses was long a norm for his pupils. He has dyed his thinning hair black just this morning, unfortunately missing the batch on the very back of his head.

Excersise on telling lies convincingly (one of these stories is true, guess which one?:)

When I was around 18 years of age I had a bad case of appendicitis. Nothing really foretold the incident; there were no signs of an infection nestled deep inside my belly. One fine and sunny Sunday morning I just lost my usually robust appetite. Later I've developed a fever. By the end of the day my body temperature threatened to send me into a seizure, that's when my sister, whom I was visiting at the time, summoned paramedics. The diagnosis was inconclusive and I was left at the hospital overnight for observation. My sister was sure in for a surprise when the next morning she came by to pick me up and learned that I had just undergone surgery! But the most amazing thing was- my mother, who lived some three thousand kilometers away, had to leave from work that very morning because of a sudden and unexplainable pain in the abdomen! I've learned that later that week when speaking to my family on the phone.

Growing up we were the two members of a neighborhood gang of boys. We were girls though, my sister and me. Not only we participated in a war-like games initiated by our young male friends but quite often we were the "great criminal brain" behind many actions of the gang. So it came as no surprise to anyone when we concocted a plan of abducting a two-year old baby-girl of just moved-in family. We thought it'd be a great idea to scare the parents and then return the baby claiming we had just found it crawling outside. Needless to say, after just half an hour of this improvised "babysitting" our gang gave up on attempts to pacify the wailing baby. After the brief discussion our chief captain Jenka said we have to return the baby. And so we did. We just put it back into the playpen in our neighbors' backyard where we'd stolen it. To our amazement, no one seemed to notice the disappearance of a baby!

About two years ago I got caught up in the Internet existence. As soon as I get home I'd jump on my computer and dive into the cyber space. I had set up several chatting engines- icq, yahoo messenger, and msn messenger. And I'd just talk to anyone who wanted to talk. Topics varied. I wasn't picky-I was having conversations about opera performers and modern art, sports and politics, psychology and religion, relationships and sex. Sometimes I'd assume a role of "femme fatale" and play games with presumably male opponents. As soon as they were "defeated" I'd choose another target. Among my targets there was one very intriguing-I couldn't make him obsessed with my persona no matter what I did. Eventually I became a victim in my own game - he was the only thing I could think of day and night. Finally, after 3 months of elusive conversations, we agreed to meet in person. I was astonished to learn that the person I was so obsessed with was no other but my former husband.

The chicken

3rd person
By the time Jezebel got out of the car her 6-year-old son was eagerly jumping down the narrow walkway that led to the farm. "Mike, stop running or you're going to fall!"- Yelled Jezebel and started after him.
She was almost out of breath as she finally collared her kicking child. "I am warning you for the last time, Michael!"-Shrieked she- "If you continue to misbehave, I'll lock you up in a car and go see grandma all on my own! You won't get to see the animals then!"
Silence. 'Did you hear what I said?"-Insisted Jezebel. A pair of dark shining eyes stared at her face: "Fine, lets go".
"Oh, Mickie, lookie here!"-Jezebel held out a tiny ball of yellow fluff. It had two red legs and a pair of tiny eyes and was shivering in the middle of Jezebel's palm. "It's a baby chicken, Mike!"-And, almost immediately-"You may not touch it!" "But why, mom?"
She was afraid that her hyper active son might hurt this fragile bird." Because I said so!"-Replied she in a tone that did not leave any room for negotiations. As she was about to put the chicken back into it's cage, Mike thrust his small hand quicker than lightning and grabbed the fluffy ball. He squeezed this hot pulsating ball until it became wet and stopped moving. Then he held it out for his mom to see-"There, now you won't have to worry that someone will hurt it! Not anymore!"

1st person.
I couldn't fall asleep for the longest time. Tomorrow! My mom promised! We will go and visit grandma on the farm, and I can see and even pet the animals! If I behave, that is. My mom always has this condition-if I behave. So I decided to be the best child in the world! I wanted to pet the animals.
In the morning I woke up earlier than anyone in the house and I got dressed and started waiting. It took forever for my mom to get dressed and pack some snacks and I was bored out of my mind by the time our old car started rumbling down the dusty road. As soon as the car stopped, I thrust the door open and hurried towards the farm. My mother was yelling something, but I couldn't hear her. My heart was thumping too loud. I wanted to see the horse! And the cow! "I am warning you for the last time" finally I heard my mom's voice surprisingly close to my ear. I assumed a resentful position and said calmly "Let's go". I was behaving, really! But instead going to the yard we went into the house, where my mom and my grandma started talking and talking... I felt we'd never go outside again when finally I saw my mom getting up.
When I saw it I knew right now and then that I must hold it or I'll surely die! It was bright yellow and very soft. A baby chicken, explained my mom. I'd never seen one before. It was so small and helpless-I will be very gentle! But as I extended my hand trying to reach it, my mom raised her voice:"No, you may not touch it!" "But why, mom?"
"Because I said so!" I felt the treacherous taste of tears in my mouth. No, she won't see me cry. I am not a baby. But she always treated me as such. I will not tolerate it any longer. I'll just do what adults always do- take what I want! Without further hesitation I reached out and grabbed the chicken. I just wanted to hold it and was afraid my mom will take it from me so I squeezed with all my strength.

Frights of St. Petersburg

Gray stone molecularized and filled the hot air. Closeness of Neva River existed only inside of my knowledge nestled somewhere at the back part of the almost melted skull. Taking a shortcut thru the autumn park was still nicer than being canned inside the belly of a tram monster. It is necessity to eat that prompts me to expose myself to this City again. The nearest grocery store is at least a mile away, on Petrogradskaya storona. My entity knows the end of trip is close. But. A crowd ahead. And they are not waiting for a bus. Or tram. They are being entertained. She's wearing a silly house dress. Black and stained with large bright flowers. One leg is probing the wall as though checking it for sturdiness. Long brown hair spilled over the salty dust of concrete walkway. The damned sun! Checking its whorey reflection in the puddle of red. Thick and shiny. Where is the ambulance? One out of twenty blind window-eyes of the apartment building is open. Fifth floor. Silly girl, this City won't cry. Never does.

Childhood memories.
Snejana.

I was a teenager about 12 years old. Our family had long since moved to this 5 story apartment building. We lived at one end of it, on the 3rd floor, the 5 of us. On the other of the same building on the 1st floor there lived another family. It wasn't as big as ours. Girl Snejana (what kind of name is that? - liked to exclaim my bourgeois minded mother) of my age and her parents. Snejana was skinny and tall and kept her back hunched, as though she was ashamed that her unattractive pale face floats too high above the ground. I have heard that her father was a disabled person-he had lost one of his legs after the accident on a military duty, and he walked using the crutches. I never knew anything of her mother. And so the following events struck me as a horror that rarely happens in such a small town as ours. One day her father was heading for the kitchen and apparently held a glass or cup in one of his hands. Near the kitchen door he slipped and fell-right thru the glass. Shards of that glass severed his midsection and burrowed deep into the intestines. There was much blood. The ambulance arrived shortly, and it turned out the nurse didn't have adequate materials to stop the bleeding or even make a decent bandage. Snejana's father died of the blood loss on his way to the hospital.
I had often imagined how this tragedy could have influenced Snejana. She was rather sulky and not very social even before her father's death. Poor girl. I never had a chance to play with her, partially because I was just as sulky and self-contained as her, partially because my mother disliked her and I always tried to please my mother. Every time I met Snejana on the street, my ears were beginning to burn with shame. Yet I had never conquered the fear of consequences of me getting acquainted with her.
Later she had become a symbol of my helplessness and lack of strong will. I often think of what might have become of her? I imagine her working as a pediatrician or veterinarian and being unhappily married to an alcoholic husband. I don't think she'll have any kids, or, if she will, they will be spoiled little egoists.

Driving on a Sunday morning

My wipers barely have time to wipe off the wetness on my windshield, the sea of taillights is stalled ahead, I'm getting drowsy and bored; but anxious honking brings me back to the reality of the rainy road, that silver Corvette is trying to squeeze in between faded Honda and glittering Ford. Balding ahead of his time, disappointed, bitter inhabitant of Corvette is hurrying to escape a memory of yet another date gone awry; she was rather good looking, dyed blonde hair and his all-time favorite blue eyes, well, not really, rather pale gray; she said she liked intelligent men, and that's exactly what he was, but she was not serious about her real taste or why else she'd leave before the morning came and leave the door in a middle priced hotel room ajar?
The inner space of Ford is jammed, three kids of various ages, two boys and a girl, rather cute and bored as well, stick their tongues at Corvette inhabitant; they have already got a promise of being grounded as soon as home, so why pretend to behave now, during this boring ride after a disappointing awakening to lead-gray sky?
Dark green color of Honda shows that the owner is a conservative natured woman; she contracts her lips for the purpose of not letting a sly shy happy smile to crawl outside; she called her husband half an hour ago telling him that she just left the house of her girlfriend; indeed, she'd left a house, but of someone else; that wet smile slips out again; he's got curly hair and blue eyes; but she is a conservative woman, so they meet only twice a month.
My wipers have no strength to wipe the rainfall off my windshield and I am driving, as casually as I can - smiling to the liquid road-into nowhere.