Photo by Kane HsiehVisit his blog - Crimson-G-B
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Suggested prompt...
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Write a poem or story that has a street vendor in it.
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Monday to Friday he gathers his stock. Saturday he sets up his stall in the "Epicurean World" Street Market.
Monday to Friday he visits flats in slums. Dirt-filled parvements, cracked and unkempt beneath his boots. Landlords who take cash from their tenants, but give little in return.
He answers the desperate pleas of the slum dwellers 'This place is crawling with roaches. Please come and get rid of them.'
Like a magician in reverse, he magics away their problem. Leaving with a bulging, wriggling sack.
At home, he lights the gas under the pot of oil every night. As the smoke begins to rise he tips in the contents of the sack. The hiss, and bubbling soon subsides.
He fishes out the contents, and sprinkles them with seasoned salt. Soon, his cotton-lined baskets are full.
Saturday morning, bright and early, he sets out his stall. He has an awning to protect his wares. He whisks the covers off his baskets, and awaits the eager buyers.
Freshly fried cockroaches. One man's problem, another man's delicacy.
christine
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6 comments:
Just an ordinary guy,
filling his day,
calling out his specials,
hoping that one day,
that blushing girl,
would stop and ask
for another peach.
they think of nothing but veggies and clams
swirls of steam cloud their minds
the sizzle of the stove snaps them from a trance.
Giovanni's flowers were the best. And he knew it. On my way to Piazza del Popolo each week, I would stop and smell them. He would smile and tell me how beautiful I was. I would laugh.
A girl could get used to Italian men constantly telling her how beautiful she is. I can't figure out if they are seriously infatuated with all female figures, or if they are the most brown-nosing men in the world. Either way, I never got tired of hearing it.
Sometimes, Giovanni would put a daisy in my blond hair, always reminding me how lucky I was to have "cappelli biondi."
On the Festa delle Donna, he showered me with mimosas.
Today, I need him. I pull on my black dress and wipe my tear-stained cheeks. I walk to that little flower stand near the entrance to Villa Borghese. He takes one look at me. "Ciao, bella! Bella in nero!"
I stare at my shoes. "Giovanni..."
"Signorina, volete un fiore? Un bel fiore per una bella signirina."
"Giovanni, ho una domanda."
He stops. I have never asked him a question before.
I look him in the eyes and say somberly, "In Italia, Che tipo di fiori sono normale per portare ai funerali?"
A tear rolls down Giovanni's cheek as he understands. "Ah, bella, un funerale... mi dispiace."
Monday to Friday he gathers his stock. Saturday he sets up his stall in the "Epicurean World" Street Market.
Monday to Friday he visits flats in slums. Dirt-filled parvements, cracked and unkempt beneath his boots. Landlords who take cash from their tenants, but give little in return.
He answers the desperate pleas of the slum dwellers 'This place is crawling with roaches. Please come and get rid of them.'
Like a magician in reverse, he magics away their problem. Leaving with a bulging, wriggling sack.
At home, he lights the gas under the pot of oil every night. As the smoke begins to rise he tips in the contents of the sack. The hiss, and bubbling soon subsides.
He fishes out the contents, and sprinkles them with seasoned salt. Soon, his cotton-lined baskets are full.
Saturday morning, bright and early, he sets out his stall. He has an awning to protect his wares. He whisks the covers off his baskets, and awaits the eager buyers.
Freshly fried cockroaches. One man's problem, another man's delicacy.
Great blog
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