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Entries in Pure Fiction (37)

Saturday
Jun182005

Kuwait Roofball

At twilight the dirty soccer ball became hard to see. The boys abandoned the broken street full of junked cars and climbed to the roof where they'd have a clear shot.

Out west, past five striped water towers resembling a 'yield' sign standing as a national landmark in Kuwait, an orange ball of sun whirled down into desert night. To the east, dark aquamarine colors deepened across the Arabian Gulf. Bloated bodies danced on shorelines.

Two Palestinian boys kicked the ball around inside the walled roof. One held a black semiautomatic pistol in the air with the safety on while delicately managing the ball off his bare foot. His bored dark haired friend chipped away at dusty plaster walls with a broken stick. Discarded brown carpets decorated checkerboard tiles.

The roof was divided by a half-story high extended wall of broken windows and chipped stucco. A collection of bent antennas resembling insect arms searching for prey probed the sky. The boys played on the clean side.

The other side of the building extension was scattered debris. An upside down discarded sofa covered with a gray and red ripped and sandblasted fabric resigned to its fate, waved in a useless wind.

A tricycle with worn rubber tires lay stranded next to a rusty ladder. Piles of sand, rocks and an old chair formed a belt fed 60-caliber machine gun nest near neatly stacked metal ammunition cases in the corner overlooking a ring road.

A pair of open-backed sandals served as a goal, guarded by a tall youth in a fragmented gray sweat suit. The ball bounced off the wall well controlled by the younger player as they patiently waited for the sound of tanks and armored personnel carriers rumbling down from Iraq.

They were ready for a new game.

Monday
Jun132005

Push My Green Button Honey

-Push my green button to verify your selection, he laughed.
-You mean the green tree on your forehead?
-Yes, that’s the one. Go ahead. No fear. Push it.

She reached up touching the green evergreen tree with her right index finger. It was the symbol of the letter “A” in the middle of the word Grazalema on his black knit cap.
He felt her finger but her touch was too light to do any good to take her anywhere.
-No, go ahead and push it.

Her olive eyes were scared.
-I don’t know if I want to do this.
-You’ll never know unless you try. Be brave. Give the tree a solid shift.
-Ok here goes, pressing with renewed energy. Magic from the tree entered her and she disappeared.
He knew where she was, raised his finger, touched the woven tree thread and vanished.
Marsha was standing on cobblestones in the Plaza de Espana staring up at the Grand Penon dolomite mountains when I arrived. Her smile encompassed blue sky and she hugged me.

-What a great hug he said. -Welcome to Graz. He breathed clear air.

-Wow, she said, dancing in a circle. -Look at this place!

It felt sublime being back in Sierra de la Grazalema. The old Roman village hadn’t changed. Penon trees were decorated with streaming white icicle lights, dull pink and white edges of the municipal government buildings below the white round clock face looked fresh, metal cafe chairs were stacked next to a faded white chef billboard sign, heavy Moorish wooden Catholic church doors with hand shaped Arabic brass knockers were locked, battered brown maple leaves floated along the street, children played soccer in the open plaza between bolted green benches, widows in perpetual black scurried from shops to their white homes pausing to chat with friends, groups of unemployed Andalusian men mumbling in low tones stood near stone potable water faucets spitting water in weak winter sunlight, sparrows flitted to balconies for crumbs and eagle vultures drifted in high thermals.

-Shall we have a look around? he said.
-Sure, why not.
-Where would you like to go?

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