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.
Daisy wants to be a monk
My name is Daisy. Like a flower. I look like a flower; I have bright color hair and face, and my smile is so white it looks like a daisy’s blossom. I feel beautiful.
I remember these moments of us having funny Chinese food through tears and laughter. Until he confessed there’s something he needs to tell me. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t believe the prince I waited for so many years is too weird for a pink-lips princess. In fact, I couldn’t stand myself. And this is why I shut the door and left to the mountains, where I am now. Looking towards the empty horizon through a tiny old monastery’s window.
William the cat-talker
I always wear forest green sweater. It goes well with my grey hair and blue eyes. My skin is so white, that my roommate says I will make it dirty by washing greasy dishes in our old kitchen sink. I love washing dishes. I love Steve, he’s my roommate.
I find superpower crucial to every human being. How otherwise do you identify yourself? How do you survive? What can you do for others? You must have some sort of superpower.
Mark Twain has once said that whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to stop and reflect. What the words, what the words…I’ve always been a minority in a whole majority. The only one who had grey hair at the age of 15, the only one who knew the answer before the question was even raised, the only one who had a superpower. And it took time to perceive this as an advantage.