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Grete the Naive
People call me a poet. Some call me an artist, a creative. A writer. My mom doesn’t call me anyhow, she just smiles and strokes my ginger hair. My dad doesn’t have a clue of what I’m doing in life, neither he tries to understand. Sometimes, during gloomy Sunday dinnertime, he asks me if I’m doing fine with money. Because being 32 is just the right age to get such questions from your parents.
Yesterday my poem was published in a local bookshop. The shop is so old, that probably it would be too gray for a Harry Potter’s movie location. It’s so old, that the newest bestseller there is from year 2002, and the owner seems to be stuck in 16th century. Meanwhile, I am sipping my coffee and watching shop assistant dusting the shelf. Can’t wait for a museum next door to open –I’ve heard today they start exhibiting collection of a mad lady from an old Britain. And she was a creep.
Joana has the
50 meters ahead, I saw a portrait. In the twinkling light, it was moving, I swear, like in a horror movie. The woman inside the portrait frames was coughing and spitting blood. I was stoned, just staring and doing nothing. Suddenly she stopped, our eyes met. Her painted eyebrows got furious. She looked at me yelling: “Could you please be so kind and offer me a cup of tea? I’m freezing here! “. She was an opera singer in purple, a smoker. My favourite night character since then.