Words are sleepy. Put them all to sleep. Sing a lullaby, do whatever it takes. Wake them in a few days. Do not accept spoiled words: scratch them out. The exaggerated, let it live a little longer. Sometimes, exaggerations are acceptable. Needed.
Priscila Machado
Behind the bedroom window grilles hangs the never before contemplated landscape. An overcast sky: fuchsia, red and black, ready to collapse in tears. A dry lemon tree covers part of the view. Large black circles tilts of the thin, loose, leafless twigs. There, from afar, a light is coming. I would like to believe it's Christmas, but I'm not so sure.
Priscila Machado
Iauriel was 9 years old. She was plump and her pink cheeks were always covered with a thin layer of dirt. She loved the garden of her grandmother Joana. She wept copiously when the sun went down and she was forced to go to bathe. In protest, pulled roots and braided it on her hair, along with wet leaves, dead flowers and small insects. Her dream was to be the size of a beetle and able to live in the garden, hiding underground and drinking rainwater. Suddenly she grew: had nearly 30 years. Was secretary of a dental office, lived alone in an apartment and her garden was a plastic pot with a small ugly plant, bought at a hypermarket next door. Sometimes she gets up early, goes to the "garden" and rubs some dirt on her face. This reassures her. One day the neighbor of the front building was awake and saw. She did not care. Some habits don't change.
Priscila Machado
Short Stories
7
104
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Published:

Short Stories

Short Stories by Priscila Machado from her (not yet published) book "Mini Contos Ambulantes".
7
104
5
Published:

Creative Fields