#2.

Wet.

She was cold. It was not yet winter but it was the end of November. On her side of the world there was always an uncertainty in the way weather and climate worked. Even though it was half cold and half humid, she kept yearning for the wet coolness on her skin, the rain of mists of long-ago-winter-mornings or the wet coolness of spring shower which she enjoyed several times (when her grandmother was still quite young and as pitchy).

“let’s save the rain” they yelled… “let’s not tell anyone we killed the frog” they conspired.

Sometimes, she thought, her flesh felt like raw apparition of millions of diseases.

She remembered how easily humanity was taken into diluted perception even when she was eight. She tried hard to think of one innocent moment which she enjoyed as a child without causing another being any trouble or without hurting another—the time grandmother lost words while screaming at Auntie for being disobedient? No, it was funny before, but she felt guilty at laughing at something like that even when she was eight… she knew she didn’t want to laugh, but everyone else did when they analyzed grandmother’s age. Was being old funny, then?
She feared everything was turning back time—she feared that she would turn into the dead frog, why did she have to torture the innocent, repulsive looking thing? Why did she have to turn down the boy with a round face and kiss another’s hand in front of Roundface? Money? Love, perhaps?
She feared and remembered the time of the year and where she belonged- there would be no rain, no moisture to drain down her guilt and rinse her inside.
She stopped dreaming.

[285]

#1

she started laughing, slowly nimbly she stood up from the floor where she fell with a thud a while ago. she usually laughed at hurt—covered her physical and emotional agony like a melodramaqueen. but it was okay, right? she could take it.
she had long straight hair, she was dark and slender—attracted unquestionable attention. but somehow her essence as enormous it seemed was actually not worth a grain. we’ll not go into details. I don’t know how to. her character is dying inside my head.



let’s not talk of she.


I see Madelyn now. she is petite. she has the most unnoticeable face, broken nose-cartilage. she is bulky a bit more lipid and bags and pouches will make her podgy. but it’s okay, right? she can take it.
she tried to paint the ocean and she trembled every other second when she got too caught up into her painting. but it was in the morning, you have to know, cold mornings give her shiver that confuses your heart and all the gravity, force, pressure and density twirl inside your stomach.
Madelyn had round eyes. she lied in silence. she wanted to deny a lot of her humiliating truth to her husband, but she couldn’t. she just planned. she dreamed. and slowly she conceived the infant of all fears—paranoia—the seed and the mother of her moans.
now, just now she trembled. God, weird Madelyn. who wants to hear of her?
[243]

it doesn't look all that grand. since it's not all that grand.