The Writers' Collective

sing it loud people!!!! – ON THE NINTH DAY OF WRITEMAS MY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME

A WONDERFUL POSTCARD STORY FROM HILARY FRIESEN!!!!!!

- singing it louder makes me feel energetic!

ok so leaving behind the other Collective, we now return to our regularly scheduled programming of this Writers Collective…. with a lovely postcard story from the uber lovely Hilary Friesen. (technically, it’s a postcard story without the postcard but i don’t really feel the postcard is neccessary to the postcard story – just an opinion).

I have no bio for Hilary – but according to her facebook she likes graphic novels, The Princess Bride and The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency – all good things by me!… not that anyone’s asking by me.

The City is Ours

She kneels on the edge of the lamplight, the hiss of the aerosol can cutting through the murmur from the cafés and bars.  The wet paint glistens on the cobblestones.

“The city is ours.”

I wonder who they are, to scrawl their claim so boldly, in a foreign language, across the indifferent street. I have been wandering for an hour or more, for weeks, searching for a toehold in these inscrutable walls, their blank windows blinking back the lights from the street.

Halfway down the block, a young man sits in a second-storey window (he would call it the first floor).  His right hand dangles in the cool night air, his left holds a wine glass.  He is gesturing with his glass, talking to another man and a woman.  His voice falls on my ears in meaningless syllables.

The city is his, I think.  He knows these streets not just by name but by a thousand memories.  He speaks to people in shops without hesitation, he smiles at overheard conversations.

The girl under the streetlight sits back on her hot-pink stiletto heels and admires her handiwork.  She crosses her wrists over her knees, the spray can dangling from her fingers.  She laughs.

I cross the street to her, look down into blue eyes framed by black lashes and pink eyeshadow.

“Hallo.  Excuse me – what is that for?”

She blinks at me.  “Es tut mir leid.”  She smiles.  “I’m sorry.  I speak not much English.  Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

“Nein.”

She reaches into her purse and hands me a palm-sized flyer.  I glance down at the glossy paper.  MTV Deutschland.

“Danke schoen.”

“Bitte.”  She smiles.

I smile and turn back into the winding streets, slipping on the cobblestones.

Katherena Vermette