Stories - G&P
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Flies
Foot raised on the shoe-box, Senhor Osório sat at the entrance to the tavern enjoying the overdue shine. The question mark of his cane supported his thoughts as he rested his chin on the wrinkled knuckles clasping the wood. His gaze followed the blur of legs striding past. “Give it a good polish, Armando.” “Yes, Senhor.” Armando stopped, wiped the sweat under his beret and brought his wrinkled hand to his kidney, the gesture intending to readjust it to a tolerable position. The few coins in his vest pocket rattled their protest. Armando hoped there would be plenty of time for leisure in the grave, very soon. He sighed,…
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Not Written in Pencil
Arial and I weren’t bad people or nothing, just different spark plugs misfiring under the same hood. It’s like this. Arial lived for now. I lived for tomorrow’s bills. I‘m not thinking she exemplified a young case of Alzheimer’s or nothing. You might think she slipped to forgetful on her wedding vows, but I say no. No more forgetful than most if the scandal rags are anything to go by. She lived for the tic of every second. So much that she would forget details like coming back home at night. Now that I give it a proper think, Arial was a genuine Buddhist wearing all prayer bells and whistles…
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The Green and Purple Skin of the World
Dear B, Quinta da Garrida, courtyard three weeks The morning yawns and sighs in the lungs of the birds. I begin the day on the front steps, in my bathrobe, blowing soap bubbles. The birds’ harmonies melt the thin veil of frost covering the ground to reveal the green. You phoned last night to say you won’t be at Pearson airport to meet me. You’ll be in Victoria visiting your aunt. In this corner of Europe the sun shines through a winter blue. Oranges on the trees glow and kiwis shrivel on vines. All this fruit doesn’t tempt me to stay. Since my last visit my father has relocated…
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My Real Mother Would Never
From “My Real Mother Would Never” (The Green and Purple Skin of the World) by paulo da costa: I didn’t plan on running away. It happened. You stare at me from down the street, and when we cross paths, you turn and shake your head as I walk along, stuffed rabbit under my arm, rainbow-coloured sling bag bulging with my comfort blanket and my Anne of Green Gables book collection biting my shoulder. If you stop and talk to me I’ll tell you, “My real mother would never do such a thing.” I’m dead sure my mother isn’t my real mother. I’ve got eyes. I mean, look at us. I…
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Immortality
Vera rummaged in the wood crate overflowing with fluffy moss she and her brother had collected that morning in the pine woods behind her parents’ riverside home. The moss’s cool softness dampened her fingers. After careful inspection, she found a wide patch of greenery to cover the refuge of stacked pebbles and slate roof she had assembled on the fireplace mantle. The refuge, in reverence referred to as the Holy Cave by her mother, would shelter the clay figure of Baby Jesus in the manger, surrounded by Mary, Joseph and the cows. Through the moss an oak seedling thrust upward, lending a realistic touch to the miniature world Vera…
