Short stories, that aren't  

swingerman1875 41M
4 posts
6/29/2006 1:29 am

Last Read:
7/4/2006 5:05 pm

Short stories, that aren't


So, I've decided to do something different with my blog entries for a while. From now on, I shall be writing short stories in this blog for your reading amusement. They will not be edited properly, but will rather be what I could get out of me that particular day. Perhaps another time, I will edit and publish. For now, they are simply practice.

Portugese Man O'War

Imagined his fingers a whir, plucking the strings in perfect rhythm, he stops and dazzles a smile at the beautiful gypsy I've only seen in dreams. The sax and horns in the foreground, a man brushes the cymbals in the background, right there front and center is where he stands. A man with bronzed perfect skin, fabulous jet black hair, gleaming white perfect teeth, a crooked smile and laughing eyes.
The gypsy woman with the perfect body and eyes that steal souls begins to slink to the music. Grace flows with each movement, there is no need for formal training here, she is the music. The pace of the music increases and he just keeps strumming and plucking away, all the while his eyes focused on the woman he will marry. He flashes a wink in her direction, and skips nothing. She acknowledges him with the slightest wave, and a twist of long flowing locks.
They are in India, even at night the heat is inescapable, especially in a crowded nightclub. Sweat flows freely down their bodies, drenching their clothes. The band, the dancers the audience the drunks, all appear to have just gone swimming. Little puddles formed on his Bass, a steady stream going down his forearm and tickling his hands, swiftly moving across the bass strings, fingers a frenzy. She sighs, the tune escalates, her hair sticking to her face and shoulders now, an Amazon mist as she waves it away.
Faster and faster, the frenzied rhythm goes across the crowded, the crowded city, the crowded country. The humidity is being beaten back by the horns, the sax and the bass players fingers. A single drop rolls down his hand as a note is getting ready to burst into existence. The drop hits the impossible target of the string in constant motion. He pushes down on it hard, and slides.
The music stops. He looks at her and winks. They start back up again.

Spanish Gypsy Requiem

She rides horses through out the pregnancies. She won't stop dancing, she won't stop loving life. All 3 daughters, all 3 born with the same eyes. Eyes that can suck the life out of a soul, eyes that can make a person think that there is nothing more important in the entire world. The took a picture of her, just one. Her hair perfect, her smile amazing, her eyes alive in the black and white celluloid, telling you of secrets from a different time.
She knows exactly why he is never around. The smell of Johnny Walker Red Label enters the room.
"We haven't eaten in days!" She screams.
He laughs, the crooked smile isn't charming any more. He goes to find another woman to take care of his needs, dropping a few coins in his wake. The children manage to eat.
Johnny Walker teaches him to beat her, to hurt her. It is easier that way, he has failed, she is longing for her freedom. As time passes, she eats less and less. A few years pass, and there is nothing left except the celluloid.

The Wicked Dream

His plan was simple. Sell the 3 girls to the local whore house. Yes, that would be his meal ticket out of this sad part of New Delhi. He knows now that he never should have come to this place. Hot, sweaty and poverty ridden. He awakens with his friend Johnny in the gutter every morning. Two boiled eggs in the morning is his diet of champions, followed by 3 full bottles of the man with the red label.
The children scream and cry, they don't have the manners of their mother. A good woman will teach them everything they need to know. They will be independent, and never have to rely on a loser like him. He talks to his friends, the men who call him the gutter dweller. The meeting is set, tomorrow the 3 little runts will be out of his life. He can bring the whores back to his dwelling on a regular basis again, with out shame.
He passes out.
The screams of anguish coming from her are horrifying. Her eyes, manic and crazy, depraved and full of hate. She shows him his future, a banshee following him for the rest of his long tortured life. Every day, every hour, every minute, screams of terror, the ravings of a mad woman. Horrors he could never have envisioned, all apparent in those hateful eyes. Those eyes that could suck a mans soul out with just a glance.
The next day they arrive at an Italian Nun run convent. St Anthony's in New Delhi. There is a welcoming adobe colored statue of the patron in the courtyard. It is a well run place, filled with orphan girls, all striving to do more with their lives.
He leaves the 3 of them there, his last words being "The gypsy told me to do this, and now she will leave me alone."

He was a traveling musician from Portugal. Tony Gonzalwez, I never heard him play, but he did offer me a drink once. He was my Grandfather, he left Europe for India during World War 2. She was Yvonne, and I don't know her last name; my gypsy mother. I've only seen one picture and I know that she was happy at least for a short while. She left Europe because the Nazis were exterminating her kind. Her kind is alive and well, and trying to tell the only stories they know.

Copyright Gypsy GrandChild

DefBiWifie 38F

6/30/2006 12:33 am

WOW!!!!

Very moving, I wish I could write like that.


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