Short Fiction: Anna and her stories
I present a work of short fiction by me. I picked a very short one because I don't really like the posting over several posts thing
I hope you like it. It's my child. My gift.
Anna and her stories.
My world is dark with occasional bands of light. My world is the softest murmurs and moans. The wood walls are like aged wine
Sometimes the door would open. It was winter outside. There were green fields and there was mud. They would bring us food and water. Sometimes I would see faces of those that exist in the dark with me, in those moments bathed in the light, but I would try not to look at them too hard.
In the beginning, hands reached out and held firm warm flesh. There was not much talking. Somebody in the far end used to cry constantly but I learned not to hear him. We all did. Sometimes.... And it is very difficult thing to say. And my mother would always tell me. Anna, you know that pride is a sin, don't you? Don’t you know Anna, she would ask while she had her hands resting on the hips. Now, in my memory her hands are always covered in flour. I don’t remember her not baking some treat. As I said, its a difficult thing. And I am too proud. On some nights. I would cry too. But I would not let anybody hear me. Maybe you will find that stupid of me? And how strange I share something so intimate with you who are far in time and in space. And we don’t know each other at all. Or maybe we will meet someday. And I will be embarrassed and you could put your hand on your hips, like mother, and say that I am too full of pride.
I told my stories to the trembling hands in the dark. Because, as I said, there was not much talking. And truth to tell I hated the silence. And I was scared. I have always told the stories. When I was young I used to make up stories. They would be about giants. I loved giants. We lived in the countryside on a farm. It was not a big farm. The land around was full of hills and I believed that giants lived in those hills. I would tell my stories about giants to the other children, to my mother, my father, the cats, dogs, sheep, pigs, cows, horses and anybody that would listen to me.
One day when the town gathered for the elections of the government in the big town hall. I told a story to everybody, and they clapped. I was so happy and proud of myself. Such a sinful child. Did I tell you that they said I was too proud?
I became an old woman, I would tell stories to the grandchildren that flocked around my skirts. They would all come running. Grandma, Grandma, please tell us a story! I would smile and tell them of coarse. I would tell them about the old days because you have to know where you come from to know where you are going. I would tell the children about our people because it’s important to know who you are. And sometimes, I would tell them stories about the giants.
So I talked in the darkness to the warm hands. They listened. Though nobody clapped me, but we all felt better.
I remember the first time the door opened to the winter world and he stood there. Michelangelo could have carved him with his very own hands from the finest, smoothest, whitest of marble stone. He had handsome blue eyes. And he asked me that I was the one that told stories. I was very slow to answer, but I said yes. And what else could I have done? So he asked me to tell him. About the old days. About giants. About everything and he listened. He never said anything but a smile would break out on his lips when I was done and it was time for him to go. He would thank me. Then he would leave. And so it would go.
Now he says soon our time together is at an end. He has asked me to write down my stories for him. And how could I say no? So. And here I am with this fine pen and this luxurious paper in my hand. The paper smells good and is rough between my fingers. It’s strange that I am here. Like a flower, pressed and preserved, between the pages of a book. Here is me. Anna. Preserved between lines and the words. I will always be here.
He says our time now will soon be at an end and I don’t like the thing I see in his eyes. He tells me our destination will soon be reached. His smile has become a facade. A lie. And, I have to wonder if I will tell many more stories now.
I don’t like the feel of the word, our destination, this Auschwitz.
THE END.
I present a work of short fiction by me. I picked a very short one because I don't really like the posting over several posts thing
I hope you like it. It's my child. My gift. Anna and her stories.
My world is dark with occasional bands of light. My world is the softest murmurs and moans. The wood walls are like aged wine
Sometimes the door would open. It was winter outside. There were green fields and there was mud. They would bring us food and water. Sometimes I would see faces of those that exist in the dark with me, in those moments bathed in the light, but I would try not to look at them too hard.
In the beginning, hands reached out and held firm warm flesh. There was not much talking. Somebody in the far end used to cry constantly but I learned not to hear him. We all did. Sometimes.... And it is very difficult thing to say. And my mother would always tell me. Anna, you know that pride is a sin, don't you? Don’t you know Anna, she would ask while she had her hands resting on the hips. Now, in my memory her hands are always covered in flour. I don’t remember her not baking some treat. As I said, its a difficult thing. And I am too proud. On some nights. I would cry too. But I would not let anybody hear me. Maybe you will find that stupid of me? And how strange I share something so intimate with you who are far in time and in space. And we don’t know each other at all. Or maybe we will meet someday. And I will be embarrassed and you could put your hand on your hips, like mother, and say that I am too full of pride.
I told my stories to the trembling hands in the dark. Because, as I said, there was not much talking. And truth to tell I hated the silence. And I was scared. I have always told the stories. When I was young I used to make up stories. They would be about giants. I loved giants. We lived in the countryside on a farm. It was not a big farm. The land around was full of hills and I believed that giants lived in those hills. I would tell my stories about giants to the other children, to my mother, my father, the cats, dogs, sheep, pigs, cows, horses and anybody that would listen to me.
One day when the town gathered for the elections of the government in the big town hall. I told a story to everybody, and they clapped. I was so happy and proud of myself. Such a sinful child. Did I tell you that they said I was too proud?
I became an old woman, I would tell stories to the grandchildren that flocked around my skirts. They would all come running. Grandma, Grandma, please tell us a story! I would smile and tell them of coarse. I would tell them about the old days because you have to know where you come from to know where you are going. I would tell the children about our people because it’s important to know who you are. And sometimes, I would tell them stories about the giants.
So I talked in the darkness to the warm hands. They listened. Though nobody clapped me, but we all felt better.
I remember the first time the door opened to the winter world and he stood there. Michelangelo could have carved him with his very own hands from the finest, smoothest, whitest of marble stone. He had handsome blue eyes. And he asked me that I was the one that told stories. I was very slow to answer, but I said yes. And what else could I have done? So he asked me to tell him. About the old days. About giants. About everything and he listened. He never said anything but a smile would break out on his lips when I was done and it was time for him to go. He would thank me. Then he would leave. And so it would go.
Now he says soon our time together is at an end. He has asked me to write down my stories for him. And how could I say no? So. And here I am with this fine pen and this luxurious paper in my hand. The paper smells good and is rough between my fingers. It’s strange that I am here. Like a flower, pressed and preserved, between the pages of a book. Here is me. Anna. Preserved between lines and the words. I will always be here.
He says our time now will soon be at an end and I don’t like the thing I see in his eyes. He tells me our destination will soon be reached. His smile has become a facade. A lie. And, I have to wonder if I will tell many more stories now.
I don’t like the feel of the word, our destination, this Auschwitz.
THE END.
