They hit the dirt and their rinds split, cracked like clay pots, and from the cracks came a thick dark red. Blood flowed out and pooled around the fruit, it kept pooling, it filled the grove like a flood, I grew afraid of it –
“Give me some valley deep in America, something that freezes over in winter and smells of rotten flesh in summer, or a prairie by a lake, in Romania, a naïve little fishermen’s village where you don’t speak the language, and all the fish have died and the fishermen have gone to work in the nearest city…”
We are the walls who have stood for one hundred years and we will stand for one hundred more at the discretion of God, the weather, and those who reside inside of us. We have stood regardless of the scurryings of rodents on our backs and the people who painted our faces anew.
I don’t know if you remember that first night you closed my chest and opened yours, but it was wet and dark.
The fields have been drained, and it is only a matter of time now until the fields can dry no more and are ready for harvest.
On the first day of our last week at Camp Lookout, when the summer was coming to an end, and the nights were colder, and every time we sang “Way Up in Northern Michigan” we felt like crying, the counselors decided to do a joint survival expedition.
I’m a bad person and Mr. Bondad is such a good person. I hope he forgives me. Mr. Bondad opens the door and I freeze. I stare at his dark birthmark. He smiles at me and says come on in.
I think creative writing can’t be taught, and so does Clare, probably. And probably so does every well-established writer in Buenos Aires.