Passionate Soul

passionatesoul:

The Clink of the Coin (FLASH FICTION)

Inspired by the picture above, of a blind woman from Tlaquepaque, Mexico.

The clinking of coins spark her fiery smiles. She sings her songs, with her metal can ready in hand, hoping for that clink to reach her ears, for she cannot see with her eyes. Doña Elvia loves the sounds around her, the dirt scratching her toes, the taste of tortillas coupled with frijoles. Impervious to color and human faces from a young age, she got accustomed to keeping her eyes closed most of the time.

A red scarf circles her neck, keeping her throat warm while she bellows “Solamente una vez” to the passing figures in the frisky town of Tlaquepaque. Sitting on a rusty chair each morning, Doña Elvia listens to buyers prattle on about lamps and glass bowls near craft shops, to buses honking on busy streets, to birds fluttering up run-down rooftops. She enjoys their company.

The white streaks on her braid show her struggling age; the wrinkled brown hands a life-long wrestle to make ends meet. At home, silence encaptures her. Thoughts and dreams become her only companions. Still, the streets fill each morning, as steps echo in her ears. The buzzing town comes alive, as the suns rays warm Doña Elvia’s wrinkledface. Families walk along restaurants and shops. Life for them is ever changing; life for them is bright.

Tourists talk of compassion. People stare. Sight for Doña Elviais a far-fetched dream. Every morning she clutches her can, humming the tunes from her childhood with closed eyes. Cool, Mexican air funnels through her nostrils, and even through shudders she continues to sing “Aventurera.” Songs help brush aside the poverty, the pain. The unfair disability life decided to gift her with. Doña Elviasmiles when she feels someone approach. Her smile widens with the clink of the coin. “Dios te bendiga,” she says; God bless you. Still, her Loneliness is left Unbroken.

Picture credit: passionatesoul.tumblr.com© 

The Clink of the Coin (FLASH FICTION)

Inspired by the picture above, of a blind woman from Tlaquepaque, Mexico.

The clinking of coins spark her fiery smiles. She sings her songs, with her metal can ready in hand, hoping for that clink to reach her ears, for she cannot see with her eyes. Doña Elvia loves the sounds around her, the dirt scratching her toes, the taste of tortillas coupled with frijoles. Impervious to color and human faces from a young age, she got accustomed to keeping her eyes closed most of the time.

A red scarf circles her neck, keeping her throat warm while she bellows “Solamente una vez” to the passing figures in the frisky town of Tlaquepaque. Sitting on a rusty chair each morning, Doña Elvia listens to buyers prattle on about lamps and glass bowls near craft shops, to buses honking on busy streets, to birds fluttering up run-down rooftops. She enjoys their company.

The white streaks on her braid show her struggling age; the wrinkled brown hands a life-long wrestle to make ends meet. At home, silence encaptures her. Thoughts and dreams become her only companions. Still, the streets fill each morning, as steps echo in her ears. The buzzing town comes alive, as the suns rays warm Doña Elvia’s wrinkledface. Families walk along restaurants and shops. Life for them is ever changing; life for them is bright.

Tourists talk of compassion. People stare. Sight for Doña Elviais a far-fetched dream. Every morning she clutches her can, humming the tunes from her childhood with closed eyes. Cool, Mexican air funnels through her nostrils, and even through shudders she continues to sing “Aventurera.” Songs help brush aside the poverty, the pain. The unfair disability life decided to gift her with. Doña Elvia smiles when she feels someone approach. Her smile widens with the clink of the coin. “Dios te bendiga,” she says; God bless you. Still, her Loneliness is left unbroken.

Picture credit: passionatesoul.tumblr.com© 

Awwww!

Thanks David, I’m feelin’ the love :D

Whoever hasn’t seen David’s tumblr “thedailydoodles”, you just gotta go check it out, it is beyond amazing. Here is his link

A TREAT FOR MY FOLLOWERS: One of my pieces named “MEXICAN SMELLS” which was awarded a Silver Key from The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, was actually never posted on my TUMBLR…Finally for the first time, I decided to post it on here, and I did a few minutes ago. I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT SINCE IT IS A PIECE CLOSE TO MY HEART (It is how I see the reality of maids in Mexico).

To read “Mexican Smells” click here

*Thanks for all your support guys, I’m glad I finally decided to post this new piece :)

-Rocío

 Mexican Smells (FLASH FICTION)

            Black smoke swirls from behind the bus as it stops. Marta coughs lightly as a response, something she’s gotten used to every morning. She wraps her knit scarf around her throat and climbs inside the bus. She eyes Doña Pepa, the lady from the marketplace and decides to slide in next to her. Coming from Santa Anna, it’s not unusual to share a bus seat with a neighbor, or even a family member. She sighs as she remembers Armando’s floppy hair from that morning, how he quickly ate his quesadilla and left to tend to his Tejuino* stand. Marta’s eyes gleam out toward the awakened city of Guadalajara from the foggy bus window. Ese niño no para, she says to herself. “That boy does not know when to stop.” The bus thumps and wobbles to the side, as passengers hold on tighter to the slimy metal poles.

***

When Marta first met Mrs. Castellanos she wore her long black hair in a bun, and her best white-laced apron. Her previous boss, Mrs. Gomez had moved to another state and had recommended Marta. Mrs. Castellanos showed Marta around. Three patios, two dining tables, one TV room, eight bedrooms, two living rooms and a terrace later Marta gasped, mouth wide open. Slowly but surely, Marta learned her way around the house, quickened her pace, and finished her duties in a flurry. She would always leave the bedrooms for last. She enjoyed admiring the teenagers’ rooms. La Señora had two adolescent children, whom she never cooked food for: Bernardo and Mariana.

Marta would make tasty mole: tortillas wrapped around chicken pieces topped with a chocolaty sauce, peppered with a hint of chipotle. Bernardo and Mariana would praise her for her meals. The only time they ever addressed her was at the kitchen when she served the food. Her communication stemmed from glances of approval pertaining to her spicy Mexican dishes, and her zesty flavors simmering inside Mrs. Castellanos kitchen pots.

During chilly autumn mornings Marta wished for Mrs. Castellanos’s life to be her own. For them, everything looked effortless, nothing brought up struggles. They had too many clothes to count, no dirty house to worry about, and no real fear of the world.

“Here, take these old clothes. We have no need for them anymore,” Mrs. Castellanos told her one afternoon, as she handed over a white plastic bag to Marta. She recalled telling Mrs. Castellanos that if she ever needed to get rid of something, to hand it over to her. She would get good use out of it.

Euphoria encircled Marta’s thoughts; these clothes would get her closer to moving forward in her life.            

Armando, her son, would have new t-shirts for school, and keep the old ones to wear under the scorching sun while he sold Tejuino in the hottest mornings. At home, Marta ripped the bag open, the plastic squeaking with every tear. As she analyzed every cloth piece, she noticed brands, brands, and more brands. Big words sewed onto each shirt reading fancy foreign names. To Marta, clothes were enough, not what label name was on them, as long as they served their purpose. Maybe the better life involved being too picky. Nevertheless, she wanted her life to be so much better.

Mariana spent endless hours on her computer, just staring at the glowing screen. Marta didn’t understand. Girls in her neighborhood played outside, kicked the ball on the soccer field with the boys, making the dirt on the field levitate with every kick. For Mariana it was just the click-clack from the keyboard. She just locked herself up in her room, and only went out at night to parties she would come back home drunk from. When Marta stayed over one night she heard Mariana’s footsteps, heard her barfing near the kitchen sink. But when a maid listens she keeps everything to herself.

Bernardo thumped away at his controller. His school bag never moved from that one corner in his room. Why does he even go to school then? Marta would muse. My son works extra hard for his grades, gets up extra early to roll through the streets selling drinks. Bernardo only worried about what type of Armani perfume he wore for his outings. Armando, on the other hand went to school in the evenings, his day always filled, having to balance work with schoolwork. Marta was proud of her son. When the sun rose, she would bless him by gesturing with her hands the Virgin’s blessing upon his face every day. He would come home to shower before school, his cinnamon skin beaded in sweat.

“Mami, I’ll see you tonight,” he would whisper, always looking forward to Marta’s kitchen smells.

Mrs. Castellanos did nothing to motivate her children. She wasn’t really there; although physically she was, her superficiality would overshadow any emotional connection with her children. Every morning she would go to hair salons, long breakfasts with her comadres, and get her nails done. Coming home with long white-tipped nails which enhanced her smooth hands; hands that Marta could never have. Hers were calloused and plain, hers were made for bleaching clothes and mopping floors. Oh if only she could be like La Señora. Her life would be so much better.

***

When Marta got her first raise, she felt like she was dipping her toes into the stream of prosperity. With the money she had saved over the years, including the short months working with Mrs. Castellanos, she was ready to ride the bus home and buy something special. Clothes? A big TV screen for Armando and herself? How about a new couch? Marta fidgeted in her seat, and flattened out her skirt in anticipation. As the bus stopped, and Doña Pepa scurried off toward the cobblestone roads of Santa Anna, Marta went straight to the market. Her nostrils flared as she smelled and decided what seasonings to purchase, and her pupils widened as she eyed freshly baked bread.

When the stars popped up through the sky, Marta laid out her newly bought tablecloths on the tables outside her humble home. As pots bubbled, and salt was sprinkled, smells and steam traveled through the town, calling her family and friends to the table. Chiles rellenos, mole, tortas ahogadas, tacos, quesadillas, gringas, and beans were only but a few of the dishes Marta had managed to make for her neighborhood. Armando finished his shower and ran to the kitchen, hunting the strong smell of chiles.

“Mother, what is all this?” he asked, astonished. As he asked this, Doña Pepa entered the house.

“It’s been too long since a family reunion.” Marta answered. “Doña Pepa, call the townspeople, tell them supper is ready.” Swarms of life-long friends and family members served themselves and smiled. They all shared the warmth, and the flavor of real Mexican unity. Her life was so much better.

*Tejuino: A cold beverage made from fermented corn popularly drunk in the Mexican state of Jalisco. It is often served with a scoop of shaved ice.

Wow you guys, I just got my Scholastic Art and Writing Awards in the mail. I’m still in disbelief that out of 200,000 works submitted by teenagers I received international regional recognition.

To check out my winning Gold Key piece “COCONUTS” click here

Thanks for your support!

passionatesoul:

Just Like Any Other Day for a Bookworm

Raindrops squiggle down the window, like small worms trying to find their way through muddy paths. The hot steam from my coffee rises, and as it warms my cheeks I shudder, revitalized from the palpable cold whiffs permeating from the outside. Then, I crisscross my arms to hug my shoulders—a reflex to the sudden weather change caused by the rain.  I’ve always said my perfect afternoon scenario is watching raindrops dot windows, hearing the constant rhythm it evokes, and breathe in the cold air. But most of all: the smell. The smell of rain once I step outside.

The busy coffee shop is active yet peaceful. The sound of blenders, the smell of roasted coffee beans, and chocolate syrup fills the air. A smirk creeps into my face as I drink it all in, and put my book away. But for a moment, my attention goes elsewhere.

Scruffy short black hair. Mild freckles. Eyes on paper. Coffee to his right. This guy must be my age I reflect, analyzing his features and original clothe pieces. Just like him, I have come here to enjoy a good read, adding atmosphere by coming to a coffee shop, mixing concentrated sight with delectable smells. I reflect upon my newly walled-up confinement to find myself again. This week my enjoyable loneliness has crossed the line and grown.  I have secluded myself from my once-filled social agenda. I decided I needed at least a week for myself, with so many things going on one tends to lose oneself. But I decide enough is enough.

“Whatcha reading?” I bravely ask, hoping not to sound too pushy.

“A Clockwork Orange” he says, staring up from his book. Recalling the title, I engage further.

“Oh, I’ve heard of it. Loads of people have recommended it to me. It’s still in the growing heap of unread books on my desk” I say casually, guessing the conversation will probably end there, as he seems so focused on his book. To my surprise he puts the book down.

 “I see… you have one two. I hate those. I keep buying books even though there are loads I have yet to take off the shelf. So the pile just grows.” I manage to let out a giggle and take a sip from my coffee.

“Yeah, I can tell we both hate books. We just wanna toss them all into the fire like in Farhrenheit 451. Who needs them right?” I say sarcastically. He smiles back, accepts the comment as a good conversation starter.

            “I’d be just like Montag, going against society and all. Rebelling, to save literature and the power of words.” He says using his hands, and throwing a wink my way.

“Well Montag…” I begin with a different tone of voice. “In that case I’d be Juliet from Romeo and Juliet, easily swayed by well-crafted words, just not impetuous. What’s your name in the real world?” My question makes him laugh now. Or is it my question? My Juliet comment maybe?

“Yep, she was pretty impetuous, just went off with a guy she met in a couple of days and got married. Name’s Cameron. And you?” Just as I’m about to answer, a quick breeze brushes my cheeks, and my legs feel tangled. I blink. My balcony stands before me, my legs entangled in warm sheets.

A dream, I think to myself. Of course. I take the sheets off with a groan.

Just like any other day for a bookworm. Making up unrealistic stories even in my dreams, with smart, quirky characters, and entertaining dialogue that flows perfectly, in situations only possible in books. A thought quickly crosses my mind. Well, not always impossible. I look on my bedside table, and eye a crumpled sheet of paper. I open it, only to find a number and name: Guy Montag…a.k.a. Cameron. I bite my lip, ecstatic.

NERVES

I have my debate final today…My debate team competed against the private schools in Jalisco, Mexico, throughout the year, and we have been victorious so far.

Today is the FINAL, and it’s my school vs. TEC of Monterrey. Man am I nervous. If we won first place it would be the icing on the cake for my senior year.

The debate will be in the presidential building on a special wing for debates…wow

WISH ME LUCK <3