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Showing posts from July, 2015

We never talk about it.

We never talk about it. We never even think about it. 
When we do think about it, we keep it to ourselves.  Daniel has an illness. It is a very physical illness and there is nothing strange going on inside his mind. 

It is not a mental illness. He simply had a very high fever as a child and now he still needs to take certain pills so that he doesn't get headaches.  Daniel is very normal. 

He was able to copy architectural drawings free-handed since he was four, amazingly well. You'd think he was a genius, but really he was just a very normal kid and the rest of us simply didn't try as hard.We didn't question that, and when we did, we knew nothing because we were just children and the adults knew better. 
Adults should never be questioned, for they know everything and when they lie, that is right too. But children they don't know right from wrong, so clever children keep quiet and never speak about things at home.  It was curious however, Daniel was clever, more so than …

My teacher, Ronaldo

You’d think that someone called Violet must be very nice and pretty, with such a feminine name… But my geography teacher was nothing like her name. She looked a bit like an ugly version of Ronaldo. With a 90’s style haircut, same protruding jawline, but older and not quite smiling as much. Maybe no one taught her to smile. . And so, she was stuck with the name Ronaldo.
Ronaldo was always grumpy. She would start shouting and spitting abuse at students before her voice could even reach them. Well, not quite shouting. She couldn’t do that. Her voice had eternal flu. She was in her 50’s and had been teaching for quite some time. I guess she also had been shouting for quite some time and that’s how she had lost her voice.
To make up for her lack of shouting power, Ronaldo carried a big, pointy stick with her everywhere she went and threatened to beat people up with it. But out of all the teachers we had that threatened something similar, she was the only one who never went through with i…

The Working Man

He has a half moon face. Not pale in colour. Pale in light. The restless fingers play nervously with his lips, as if something is hiding behind them. As if something is holding back. A vanishing moon, half lit with rage, and shame, and the constant sadness of poverty.
His shoes are ripped and glued back together. The weak material makes his feet warm and sweaty and widens the fake leather. Sick feet, sick soul.
His bony structure reveals a strength different from other men. A raging strength. Yes. But not like the angry boys that are ready to attack.
He has the raging strength of a man that has endured poverty and ignorance. A man who has received the attack with unbreakable bones. It is men like him, that scare me.
He quietly does what he is told. He speaks gently and politely, with half closed lips, still holding back.
He takes the beating like a good, unfortunate dog.
He doesn't bark.