Sunday, December 13, 2009
It was different in the second war.
I wasn't to be defensive, but submissive to the flow of both sides however I am committed to the other. We were hiding behind the curtained glass building on the upper floor, peeking outside through the grounds and the wealthy market on the left. I was lying down on my back, facing away from the directive, as if diseased. The others were observant, eager to defeat the opponent. I was ready to be shot down by the uniformed enemy in aggression. I was ready to die. There was no purpose. The environment wasn't changing.
Suddenly, deviation from the established situation emerged - the mass started to create noise. Holding every bit of power in voices and force, they rallied against the market. The noise was intolerable. I was starting to nauseate. It was a perfect diversion.
I looked at my closest comrades, eyeing every bit of movements. I looked particularly at one of my usual companion and the dog. Beside me, I felt there was a need to bid goodbye. I was not holding any gun.
Holding the triggers attentively, the entirety was ready to fight. One comrade fired the gun. It broke through the curtained glass to the upper floor of the market; it erupted a huge explosion and destroyed almost half of the market's welfare. It did not only let the mass ran and panick away, but it welcomed the guards of the market going out with guns firing right at our direction.
This time, it was decided to fight bare - the curtains were removed; the glasses claimed our transparency. We were cornered on the ground.
I refused to lie still, idle, and borrowed a gun from a comrade, who obliged while thinking how some weapons exist around this setting. I saw two guns over the cartridge on my side as I avoided direct hit. I pulled the trigger of the one with the smaller bullets; it was still extremely big nonetheless. It was too big, I could not fire it.
We were outnumbered. I tried to shoot of what was left of the market as I moved and hid away from the gunshots, I managed to save a black hummingbird. As I fired, it shook the whole foundation of the market, its system dying. But it was too late, a bomb was thrown at us.
A comrade passed it to me, as if giving me the responsibility of its disposal. I did not threw it up. I threw it wearily on my side, letting death in easier.
As it exploded, I could feel my insides breaking, being blown away into pieces. It was blank and instant.
I woke up on my original corner of sleeping, being woken up by the beautiful singing of the black hummingbird that I saved. It was trying to reach me through the screen of the door. It was trying to let me touch itself. I felt peaceful as I shared solace with it. I did not have to protect myself for I have already died.
Erika Ruiz
Monday, November 30, 2009
The plan was to visit and rest in the second house, with him and the owner, along with few certain usual companions. Regarded as a habit, it was a trivial demeanor of entering. The two men were already staying in the second house before our attendance were confirmed, their assumed profession lax in submitting to its function to its actual process, preparing for the tradition. I, along with two usual companions, sat on the couch and revived the peace of mind. The carelessness of it all, disregarding the natural apprehension of upcoming sounds the same time as being absorbed with the faithful discourse erupting amusement and proper seriousness, announced the reality of unwelcomed appearances of those that were not a part of this belongingness.
Four or more had arrived, neither a usual companion nor a common comrade, intruded inside with the manner of releasing the sense of being invited to this act. We had not touched anything aside from receiving each of the others' sensibilities in verbal expression; the strangers went over the table by the door and started to drink and eat, as if commemorating their constituency. It distorted the phenomenon, the misbehavior resulted to the comeuppance of secrecy, disengaging the original format. It was then that I noticed that he returned to the first house.
It was his supposed house, but was just not. I went out, followed the path that connected the two houses, and entered the first house. It felt rather smaller than the other one, but I saw him on the couch, lying and contemplating. It was painful to see the irrelation and irrelevance; I realized we didn't actually had time of our own as it was diversified by this order. I lowered myself and held his hand, put it on my beating heart... to feel home.
"I surmise it is the time to move, you have been preoccupied by yours," he said. Looking at me, it was the first time that this has been represented by this; I have felt love to the entirety, the exposition represented it clearly. I have felt home and thus, I smiled. But it was time to go home, the beginning. This was how progression was realized, I was ready to go back.
Followed by the usual companion outside, I went out as he followed. He smiled as well, as I awkwardly faced this deviating familiarity and bade goodbye. I called him in a peculiar version of his name, with its uniqueness, and ran gracefully through the white mud, through the grasses and to the cemented hindrances. I felt reincarnated and alive.
Erika Ruiz
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The first stop was nothing.
The second stop was graphic and promising. By the natural street, behold a stern man. The man was serious. He held his hands together, holding something, on his back. Without any movements and riddles, he told the secret with a warning as to how harm could submit once touched. He let us pass his way.
We did not feel any fatigue. By the bay stood a tent depending on a wall filled with artistic grafitti. As seen, the diary was on top of it. In impulsive transgression, a companion tried to get it, but failed in attempt as the tent was breaking down into parts, further misplacing the disposition. With this, another one jumped, lighter than the other, and was successful. It was then that as it was grasped, the interest disappeared. In the end, it was a facade.
The last was a ball, where wrath was obligated. It was then that an unfamiliar market was reached. Others minding designated functions, breathing and sharing the environment, distorted the mission. Once again, it was on top of the wall, perfectly on top of a slaughterhouse. It was then realized that the only one capable of achieving the object was the unknown idiot.
There were several trials of acquisition and in the end, it was the true riddle. It was still unknown, yet to be known. It was a wasted reprise.
Erika Ruiz
Monday, November 02, 2009
Occupied voluptuously in self-absorption of the acquired current disposition, the rooster and its chick separated and drifted away around the decaying exterior of the house. Graphite, rust and soil remain in union. I started to move to perform the necessity: The weak shall die. Taking the offense was the primal resolution.
Passing through the artificial terrain, I furthered through the dead poultry. I finally saw the rooster steady on the edge, head bowed, as if stoned and concentrated in its stead. As I advanced, what I saw was its remorseful power: It was eating its opponent, one of the supposed comrade. The chicken started devouring the head. The graphic was blatant, the blood was all over of what was left of the body. The beak of the rooster was dripping with blood from its delightful ordeal, as if pleased and cautious of its ritual. It was its form of transgression to the other kind.
I proceeded in my return to where I first stood, where the entirety of the supposed comrades were. I was able to receive the sight of the chick, unknown of its responsibility, wandering over the coconut tree where the beautiful small red herb fruits reside. There were three of us left: I, an old lady by the chico tree, and another woman with a peculiar frequency. They were aware, but blameless.
In front of the entire senses, the chick ran with its resentful stepping to the chico tree and started devouring the old lady. Morose, it slowly complied to its nature. In an entire minute, the blood from the old lady behaved with gore and madness as the two of us were left unscathed, observing the consciousness it enforces delicately to our needing greed. The element was gone, the chick displeased at its gluttony, the rooster ran to where its chick reside and ate its kind.
It was the final act. The rooster began to devour the head of its chick, the body dropping, the blood overpowering in its stagnation. Experiencing the demeanor, the fear was achieved. That was when the last supposed comrade started to speak directly:
"I will lend my hand, you kneel up to the rusting roof and be saved. They could not take flight."
She was smiling while reaching out her left hand. It was a function, a directive. It was her sacrifice, I was with the time to survive. I started to kneel on her hand and went up to the roof, lying on my stomach and looking down as the last supposed comrade rancidly consumed. In delirium, the rooster satisfied itself and preoccupied itself in entering the interior. It was then that I saw a usual companion, trapped in the roofless slaughterhouse beside the dead poultry.
The usual companion, with its bounty started to attack mine as it appeared out of nowhere. This phenomenon, it was against the same kind: The bounty against its own, I against the usual companion. The angry expression was inescapable. From the roof, I began to avoid and jumped through the roofless slaughterhouse to the misplaced mango tree. I was in flight, they entirety was not.
The huge bounties were in dispute. I remain in acknowledgment to where I was artlessly committed. The usual companion started running towards the gate of the exterior to the gardens from where I jumped and started to climb another tree, as if in vision to reach what had to be destroyed. In strategy, I disengaged from flight and pursued towards the roadway away from the house of origin, to lose sight and direction of the usual companion. I ran amok in a weary sunset, unaware of the building weakness among the setting until I lost sight of both the usual companion and its defeated bounty. I decided to go back.
Marching through the interiors as I went up the stairways to the poor man's chamber, I saw of what was left of the chick. It was the beak dripping with blood, hard and burdening. With the destroyed walls, the rooster roused with blood all over its body and ate the beak. Despite knowing the existence I had offered, it progressed without flight. The diadem was reinstituted.
There was a commotion to the strange death of the house below. I caught the weak rooster with a thick cloth in thought of delicacy. I held it firmly and disgusted, I do not want to share with its filth, for it will die to be eaten.
Erika Ruiz
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The houses were easy to find. The lights were exposed in a distance before its actual closeness. I halted the engine and went out of the vehicle. Knocking on the door, the environment tensed, expectant of the meeting that was about to take place. A receiver opened the door and there behold two dogs. Both were of different breeding, as the other one was being hugged by the owner. We greeted the dogs with glee. The meeting was well-processed.
The entirety of the journey was almost reiterated. The cases were sensitive in its severity.
In time of sleeping, the devil blues appeared, disintegrating the loyatly sense of what transpired. Without knowing how to play the guitar, the blues it offered made no sense. While testing the terrain through my feet, it was a disappointment.
Erika Ruiz