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Argon Argon is offline
Psych
Default Unamed Story   #1  
This is a story I started writing once, I don't know why, also it was never finished. And it contains some spanish.

It was the darkest night and the grass stirred softly. So softly that its slurred lullaby had put all the men and women to sleep. No one moved, no one talked. They all simply laid there, staring with wide eyes at the burning stars. And as the earth reclaimed these men and women, a bright blue flower swayed sweetly in the air.

|||||||||||||||||

The rattles of a typical Sunday morning rang through the heavy stones and soft, mushy ground. It had rained all night and the earth smelled of the perfume of grass and leaves. People were scattered around the plaza, idly chatting while their children ran around in merriment. A bell somewhere rung three times and all the Sunday ants lined up and filed into the church. Quite a magnificent building really. It ate up all the people, all those men and women dressed in their cleanest shoes and starched dresses and shirts. They marched with a certain dignity, refined with set shoulders and heads held high.

And one hour later it spat them all back out, with those smiles of pride erased. Truly miraculous. People began to clump, hugging and kissing cheeks. Tiny bells chimed and colorful children stuffed their hungry mouths with avocado ice cream and flavored shaved-ice. By noon the street vendors had set up their flimsy tents and were now luring customers in.

The vendor nearest to the kiosk was selling caged birds, and the one by the stairs to the church waved colorful scarfs in the air. Juanito detached his hand from his mother and went to see what one old woman was selling. Her puesto was the flimsiest of them all, with a canvas roof with more holes than actual canvas. A patterned quilt was laid out on the moist ground, with tiny pots, big pots, and all kinds of flower pots shining brightly. They were hand made and were painted with birds and flowers and flowing blue rivers.

The vendor was a woman who had hair like a nest of serpents bunched up at their tails and flailing wildly in anger. Dozens of beaded collars hung from her wrinkled neck. She cracked a crooked smile when the small boy approached her wares. “Mijo, mira que macetas tan bonitas.” Juanito crouched to see them closer, staining his best Sunday pants with mud. The little boy picked the pots up, turned them almost expertly on his tiny hands, and then, slowly, with the utmost reverence, put them back down. “Señora, no tiene flores?” he asked, having seen flower pots but no flowers to put in.

The old lady scratched her mud-brown face, and with one giant green eye, stared intently at the boy. “Flores? Pues.... tengo una flor, muy especial.” She hacked into a kerchief and from a wooden box produced a dark shape. With a flourish she revealed a beautiful, bright blue flower. It had five petals, like a delicate star, that swayed softly with the Sunday breeze. Its stalk was a deep yellow and its pollen tinted silver. Thin gray veins ran through its leaves. Juanito gasped, surely in awe, at the picturesque plant.

“Y cuanto cuesta esa flor? Se la compro. Mire, mi mama me dio diez pesos.” Said the boy as he handed the woman a ten pesos coin, hard and shiny and cold. The old thing eyed the coin, then gave it back. She coughed again and took the plant and dropped it in a bright pot. “No mijo, llevate la gratis.” The boy smiled and ran off with his new little treasure.

Juanito bounced up and down every time the pick up truck hit a bump on the dirt road. His tiny hands held onto the earthen pot, like a safety net, just in case anything should happen to his prized plant. His mother smiled and ran her long fingers over a velvet petal. She scooted closer to her son. The truck hit another bump and everyone on the bed of the truck bounced again. “Mijo, nomas llegamos a la casa y vamos a plantar esta floresita. Hay que regarla tambien, para que crezca,” her hands embraced her child again.

The little small child nodded, or perhaps it was another bump. The truck pulled up an even bumpier hill, and rested under the dirty shade of a nopal.
Old Posted 10-03-2010, 07:23 PM Reply With Quote  
Default   #2   Sadrain Sadrain is offline
Resident ghost caracal
Oh, I am certainly interested by this story, I would love to read some more! Though, maybe for the text parts... add the underline comments with translations? ^^
~ Hello, I am Sadrain, a ghost Caracal, but you can call me Rainy.
Nice to meet you. =^-^= ~
~Questing: Yearlies, RIGs, Lot of MIs, RUNES (always), Aurum
Shop: Selling MOST EIs | NOT updated buying thread ~


|~ Status:
Questing so much things I don't know where to start ~|

~Manning Crow's Nest on Haunted Galleon under Captain Lawtan's rule ~
Old Posted 10-04-2010, 06:15 PM Reply With Quote  
Argon Argon is offline
Psych
Default   #3  
Yeah I was going to do that, but I got lazy XP I will continue it writing when I have more time ^0^
Old Posted 10-04-2010, 09:52 PM Reply With Quote  
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