Mag 60 - Allow me to introduce myself

Human beings were invented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another.

— Tom Robbins (Another Roadside Attraction)

Ms. Glass: It is customary, prior to consumption, to introduce yourself to the others who will share with                 you this segment of your individual journeys. Who wants to go first?

Drop #1: I am Akvo and can speak for all here, as I am international by nature. I am Esperanto.

Ms. Glass: That is kind of you to offer to speak for everyone, Akvo, but I would like to hear from others                 directly because none of you will pass this way again.

Drop #2: Excited to be here. By way of a cloud above Slovenia, where they called me Voda, I am known                 as d^wr in my native Wales.

Condensation crowd: I am Voda from Bulgaria! As am I, from Bosnia! I am Danish and am Voda! And I                 am Voda in Macedonian! From Russia and Serbia...Voda is our name, too! And we are                 known as Voda in Slovak and Slovenian! I am a Croatian known as Voda! Czech!--all of us                 Vodas are here.

Drop #3: My name is Catalan. Aigua.

Drop #4: In my native land, this land, please call me by my Cherokee name: Ama.

Drop #5: In Germany we say: Komm in. .. das Wasser ist in Ordnung.

Drop #6: That means in English: Come on in...the Water is fine!

Ms. Glass: I detect a slight accent, Water?

Drop #6: Oui. I am from Quebec, where my first language was French.

Drop #7: I am from France! Call me Eau.

Drop #8: You may not know that the language of Paraguay is Guarani. In that language they call me                 simply Y.

Drop #9: That is a short name, Y! Mine is fun because it is confusing.....in Malay you would know me
                as Air!

Drop #10: Hi.

Ms. Glass: Hello to you. Please tell us who you are.

Drop #10: Hi, my name is Hi! It is Chechen.

Ms. Glass: {smiles}

Everyone: {listening and glistening}

Drop #11: Happy to introduce myself in Chinese. Shouei.

Drop #12: I have two names. Long story. My Basque name is Ura. My Corsican name is Acqua.

Drop #13: Do you prefer one over the other? Just curious. Oh, and I am Djour from Armenia.

Drop #12: Actually, I would prefer to be called Jal, because the one I love is Bengali. She is a real little                 tiger {winks}!

Drop #13: In Hebrew my name is pronounced Mayim.

Drop #14: I am Finnish. Call me Vesi.

Drop #15: Nice name. I am Mool from Korea.

Ms. Glass: Is there anyone here from the African continent?

Drop #16: Thank you for asking this. I come originally from Mali, where Soninke is spoken. There I am                 called Dji.

Drop #17: Yes, from Kenya, where Swahili is the official language. My name is Maji.

Drop #18: I have visited your country two years ago. I am homesick for my own land. My Persian name                 sounds like âb.

Ms. Glass: We are nearly ready for departure. There is time for one more....

Drop #19: Good, because it all sounds Greek to me! I am Nero and I say, Let us stop fiddling around and                 get on our way!

Drop #20: Oh! Can I tag along if I add quickly that I am Tubig in Tagalog?

Ms. Glass: Yes, Tubig, of course. Ready, everyone? .....It is time to get drunk! Bon Voyage!

MLydiaM ~ April 2011

This work of fiction is inspired by the photo prompt (top of post) by Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales. Visit her blog to read more magpies by over 100 writers!

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Harper's bizarre afternoon

Since the divorce Harper spent her spare time reading magazines in the cafe at Border's. Initially, her visits to the bookstore were for self-help books. She bought a few and bought some novels, too, but settling down at home to read them was another story. Maybe in a few months her attention span would calibrate itself to adjust for such changes that came, that kept on coming, but now she sought refuge in the shallow company of glossy periodicals. She had, after all, been named for Harper's Bazaar and not for Harper Lee, as the bearded English teacher at Friday's speeddating event had hoped. He didn't impress her either.

The cafe was small, an intimate section tucked against the north wall of the big building. It "proudly" featured Seattle's Best coffee that gave the whole bookstore an intoxicating smell. A few years before the cafe had served comforting soups and spicy, herb stew but now only deli items were available. And sweet pastries she never tried. There was a lack of variety offered on the shelves inside the glass display, but Harper dutifully selected something in order to feel she was not taking advantage of table space in the dining area.

She carried the tray with her food, Vanity Fair tucked flat-not-folded under her arm in case she decided not to purchase it after lunch, and found a table in the center of the room. Although she felt somewhat on display out there in the open Harper preferred to leave the booths along the back wall for those using computers.

From her vantage point Harper noticed that teens and twentysomethings brazenly produced their own fare from their backpacks, purchasing only coffee from the cafe. The wanton disregard for what surely was Border's policy shocked, yet intrigued, her. There must be rules against bringing food into the cafe. What were the consequences if noticed? Should she ask the girl at the counter? .....She decided it really wasn't her business and should not be her concern. It was time to get over the fact that not everyone in this world respected boundaries and societal rules the way she did.

A group of seven mixed race, mixed sex, mixed-up sex kids were talking in the corner. Harper wasn't watching them, wouldn't even have paid attention to them if it had not been for their occasional eruptions of booming laughter. Where do they find all that black clothing?-she wondered, because she didn't see those clothes in any stores where she shopped. Harper thought they looked morbid with their hair dyed to match the black swatches of cloth and leather draped on the guys and seemingly taped onto the girls. The only color among them was an elaborate tatooed dragon on the arm of one of the boys. Oh, they all had tattoos but the rest were all inky black. Their interests and their humor are dark -- it doesn't seem they have much soul and certainly little awareness of anything but themselves.....but it wasn't any of her business and they weren't seeking her concern.

Harper retreated back into the unreal glitz of the magazine, and almost immediately began comparing her 37-year-old body with the images on the pages before her. She took a bite of her dry croissant, a too-large bite as it turned out, because in that moment when her mouth was full of a fat flaky triangle she became aware of a breech of her temporary private space and, glancing over her right shoulder, she found Nick looming there - all bronzed 6' 5" of him wearing one of his signature Tommy Bahama long-sleeve shirts and light linen pants.

This wasn't supposed to happen, should not be happening, not even in a public place. Faced for the first time in six months with actual contact with her ex, and realizing her purse copy of the restraining order was of little protection at this point, she swallowed a chunk of her food and sputtered the remainder as her mind raced, her dark eyes darted frantically around the room for non-existent security staff, and her body froze.
Nick moved directly to her side and stared down at her. What is he up to? What is he going to do next? He did not speak. Without turning her head Harper moved her eyes to the side to gauge the angle of a possible jab where the defense class had practiced. But she couldn't move. She thought, Scream! - but her throat closed around words, muting her.


Before her next shallow breath was fully exhaled in staccato whimpers she had company at the table. Two loping youth were close behind the one who got to the empty metal chair first. One, in a long black cotton coat, stood behind his friend. The other stood at the left between them and Harper. They greeted Harper as if they were more-than-casual acquaintances, asking if she wanted another latte because she bought the last round as they squared their shoulders in unison and all three stared at Nick.

You finished here, Man. It was not a question, but a statement of utter fact spoken by the black kid to a slumping Nick, who amazingly retreated quickly afterward.

The boys comforted Harper as she shakily accepted their offers to move over to their booth in the corner. She whispered Thank You dozens of times while crossing the room and again to each as they introduced themselves once all were seated. The boy with the dragon tattoo set her bent Vanity Fair in front of her. A girl named Shanti, who had the blackest of eyes, plucked an apple from a pouch in her pack and placed it on top of the magazine. Harper took a bite out of the beautiful thing then began answering their questions.

MLydiaM, September, 2010

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To read over a hundred (!) more vignettes and poems resulting from this week's Magpie Tales prompt click here. 


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My first magpie is Mag 29

[This work of fiction is my foray in joining the creative writing community of MAGPIE TALES. 
I am grateful for the opportunity.]

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The last fight I had with Mom was about the hummingbird feeder in the hickory tree out front. All for show. Typical.

"All they need to attract them is a little red on the feeders. The dye is bad for them," I said for the hundredth time, and she screamed back that she had "heard that a hundred times." Then she said something else that really hurt.

We went a few verbal rounds about the pros and cons of additives in hummingbird nectar when, as she always argued, "it hasn't yet been proven-beyond-any-doubt that it's harmful." But there are lots of things that seem right or look good that actually hurt.

"And it's just totally wrong to spray that poison in the flower beds and on the cobblestones where other birds peck for worms....and for gravel to help digest their food. They eat that crap you spray. Remember the house finches with those creepy head deformities two summers ago? My God, don't you know there are garden products that do the job without the poison?" She's a bird lover, my ass, I thought, as she jerked around to face me, hissing that I'd damn well better not call her "a bird lover in a sarcastic tone."

People pass by this place that I'm saying goodbye to now and they're all: "Wow, what a charming home. Beautiful landscaping....does this place have curb appeal or what?" I've heard them when I'm outside in my favorite spot, sitting on the concrete-and-colored-tile bench beside the moss garden next to the potting shed. No one can see me from the path and when the cottage catches their eye I get to hear all sorts of ideas they have about what kind of perfect home it is.

Onlookers love the little windows and arches cut into the stucco walls, what they can see of them anyway, because most of the windows are covered by close-up shrubbery and trees. They think "cozy" and "charming" but if they only knew the secrets that I've shared with the birds.

Maybe some day I will close my eyes and not be able to even picture the wrought iron porch railing with fancy grill work that always looked like question marks to me, the railing my six-year-old bottom used as a slide long ago. Right now I still see myself there on the hard walkway crying for help. I still see her peering out from one of the small windows, faintly smiling as I "learned a good lesson." My blood on the cobblestones was as red as the concoction she puts out for the hummingbirds. It pooled at first, then found cracks that led away to the curb.

MLydiaM, September, 2010





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