ACME
19-07-2014, 03:16 AM
http://www.saudienglish.net/upload/image32235.html
Here is the author reading her story
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndY8GUDYCxQ
Here is the text
/////
Stella, cold, cold, the coldness of hell. How they walked on the roads together, Rosa
with Magda curled. up between sore breasts, Magda wound up in the shawl. Sometimes
Stella carried Magda. But she was jealous of Magda. A thin girl of fourteen, too
sm·all, with thin breasts of her own, Stella wanted to be wrapped in a shawl, hidden
away, asleep, rocked by the march, a baby, a round infant in arms. Magda took Rosa's
nipple, and Rosa never stopped walking, a walking cradle. There was not enough
milk; sometimes Magda sucked air; then she screamed. Stella was ravenous. Her
knees were tumors on sticks, her elbows chicken bones.
~osa did not feel hunger; she felt light, not like someone walking but like someone
in a faint, in trance, arrested in a fit, someone who is already a floating angel, alert
and seeing everything, but in the air, not there, not touching the road. As if teetering
on the tips of her fingernails. She looked into Magda's face through a gap in the
shawl: a squirrel in a nest, safe, no one could reach her inside the little house of the
shawl's windings. The face, very round, a pocket mirror of a face: but it was not
Rosa's bleak complexion, dark like cholera, it was another kind of face altogether,
eyes blue as air, smooth feathers of hair nearly as yellow as the Star sewn into Rosa's
coat. You could think she was one of their babies.
Rosa, floating, dreamed of giving Magda away in one of the villages. She could
leave the line for a minute and push Magda into the hands of any woman on the side
of the road. But if she moved out of line they might shoot. And even if she fled the
line for half a second and pushed the shawl-bundle at a stranger, would the woman
take it? She might be surprised, or afraid; she might drop the shawl, and Magda
would fall out and strike her head and die. The little round head. Such a good child,
she gave up screaming, and sucked now only for the taste of the drying nipple itself.
The neat grip of the tiny gums. One mite of a tooth tip sticking up in the bottom
gum, how shining, an elfin tombstone of white marble gleaming there. Without complaining,
Magda relinquished Rosa's teats, first the left, then the right; both were
cracked, not a sniff ofmilk. The duct-crevice extinct, a dead volcano, blind eye, chill
hole, so Magda took the corner of the shawl and milked it instead. She sucked and
sucked, flooding threads with wetness. The shawl's good flavor, milk of linen.
It was a magic shawl, it could nourish an infant for three days and three nights.
Magda did not die, she stayed alive, although very quiet. A peculiar smell, of cinnamon
and almonds, lifted out of her mouth. She held her eyes open every moment,
forgetting how to blink or nap, and Rosa and sometimes Stella studied their blueness.
On the road they raised one burden of a leg after another and studied Magda's
face. "Aryan," Stella said, in a voice grown as thin as a string; and Rosa thought how
Stella gazed at Magda like a young cannibal. And the time that Stella said "Aryan,"
it sounded to Rosa as if Stella had really said "Let us devour het."
But Magda lived to walk. She lived that long, but she did not walk very well,
partly because she was only fifteen months old, and partly because the spindles of
her legs could not hold up her fat belly. It was fat with air, full and round. Rosa gave
almost all her food to Magda, Stella gave nothing; Stella was ravenous, a growing
child herself, but not growing much. Stella did not menstruate: Rosa did not menstruate.
Rosa was ravenous, but also not; she learned from Magda how to drink the
taste of a finger in one's mouth. They were in a place without pity, all pity was annihilated
in Rosa, she looked at Stella's bones without pity. She was sure that Stella was
waiting for Magda to die so she could put her teeth into the little thighs.
Rosa kne\v Magda was going to die very soon; she should have been dead already,
but she had been buried away deep inside the magic shawl, mistaken there for
the shivering n10und of Rosa's breasts; Rosa clung to the shawl as if it covered only
herself. No one took it away from her. Magda was mute. She never cried. Rosa hid
her in the barracks, under the shawl, but she knew that one day someone would inform;
or one day someone, not even Stella, would steal Magda to eat her. When
Magda began to walk Rosa knew that Magda was going to die very soon, something
would happen. She was afraid to fall asleep; she slept with the weight of her thigh on
Magda's body; she was afraid she would smother Magda under her thigh. The weight
of Rosa was becoming less and less; Rosa and Stella were slowly turning into air.
Magda was quiet, but her eyes were horribly alive, like blue tigers. She watched.
Sometimes she laughed-it seemed a laugh, but how could it be? Magda had nev<;E
seen anyone laugh. Still, Magda laughed at her shawl when the wind blewits corners,
the bad wind with pieces of black in it, that made Stella's and Rosa's eyes tear.
Magda's eyes were always clear and tearless. She watched like a tiger. She guarded
her shawl. Noone could touch it; only Rosa could touch it. Stella was not allowed.
The sha\vl was Magda's own baby, her pet, her little sister. She tangled herself up in
it and sucked on one of the corners when she wanted to be very still.
Then Stella took the shawl away and made Magda die.
Afterward Stella said: "I was cold. "
And afterward she was always cold, always. The cold went into her heart: Rosa
saw that Stella's heart was cold. Magda flopped onward with her little pencil legs
scribbling this way and that, in search of the shawl; the pencils faltered at the barracks
opening, where the light began. Rosa saw and pursued. But already Magda was
in the square outside the barracks, in the jolly light. It was the roll-call arena. Every
morning Rosa had to conceal Magda under the shawl against a wall of the barracks
and go out and stand in the arena with Stella and hundreds of others, sometimes for
hours, and Magda, deserted, was quiet under the shawl, sucking on her corner. Every
day Magda was silent, and so she did not ~asaw that today Magda was going
to die, and at the same time a fearful joy ran in Rosa's two palms, her fingers were on
fire, she was astonished, febrile: Magda, in the sunlight, swaying on her pencil legs,
was ~ Ever since the drying up of Rosa's nipples, ever since Magda's last
scream on the road, Magda had been devoid of any syllable; Magda was a mute. Rosa
believed that something had gone wrong with her vocal cords, with her windpipe,
with the cave of her larynx; Magda was defective, without a voice; perhaps she was
deaf; there might be something amiss with her intelligence; Magda was dumb. Even
the laugh that came when the ash-stippled wind made a clown out of Magda's shawl
was only the air-blown showing of her teeth. Even when the lice, head lice and body
lice, crazed her so that she became as wild as one of the big rats that plundered the
barracks at daybreak looking for carrion, she rubbed and scratched and kicked and
bit and rolled without a whimper. But now Magda's mouth was spilling a long viscous
ro'pe of clamor.
"Maaaa-"
It~he first noise Magda had ever sent out from her throat since the drying
up of Rosa's nipples.
"Maaaa ... aaa! "
Agiiin! Magda waswavering in the perilous sunlight of the arena, scribbling on
such pitiful little bent shins. Rosa saw. She saw that Magda was grieving for the loss
of her shawl, she saw that Magda was going to die. A tide of commands hammered
in Rosa's nipples: Fetch, get, bring! But she did not know which to go after first,
Magda or the shawl. If she jumped out into the arena to snatch Magda up, the howling
would not stop, because Magda would still not have the shawl; but if she ran back
into the barracks to find the shawl, and if she found it, and if she came after Magda
holding it and shaking it, then she would get Magda back, Magda would put the
shawl in her mouth and turn dumb again.
Rosa enteredthe dark. It was easyto discover the shawl. Stella was heaped under
it, asleep in her thin bone~. Rosa tore the shawl free and flew-she could fly, she
was0nly air-into the arena. The sunheat murmured of another life, of butterflies in
summer. The light was placid, mellow. On the other side of the steel fence, far away,
there were green meadows speckled with dandelions and deep-colored violets; beyond
them, even farther, innocent tiger lilies, tall, lifting their orange bonnets. In the
barracks they spoke of "flowers," of "rain": excrement, thick turd-braids, and the
slow stinking maroon waterfall that slunk down from the upper bunks, the stink
mixed with a bitter fatty floating smoke that greased Rosa's skin. She stood for an instant
at the margin of the arena. Sometimes the electricity inside the fence would
seem to hum; even Stella said it was only an imagining, but Rosa heard real sounds in
the wire; grainy sad voicrs. The farther she was from the fence, the more clearly the
voices crowded at her. The lamenting voices strummed so convincingly, so passionately,
it was impossible to suspect them of being phantoms. The voices told her to
h9ld up the shawl, high; the voices told her to shake it, to whip with it, to unfurl it
like a flag. Rosa lifted, shook, whipped, unfurled. Far off, very far, Magda leaned
across her air-fed belly, reaching out with the rods of her arms. She was high up, elevated,
riding someone's shoulder. But the shoulder that carried Magda was not coming
toward Rosa and the shawl, it was drifting away, the speck of Magda was moving
more and more into the smoky distance. Above the shoulder a helmet glinted. The
light tapped the helmet and sparkled it into a goblet. Below the helmet a black body
like a domino and a pair of black boots hurled themselves in the direction of the electrified
fence. The electric voices began to chatter wildly. "Maamaa, maaamaaa," they
all hummed together. How far Magda was from Rosa now, across the whole square,
past a dozen barracks, all the wayan the other side! She was no bigger than a moth.
All at once Magda was swimming through the air. The whole of Magda traveled
through loftiness. She looked like a butterfly touching a silver vine. And the moment
Magda's feathered round head and her pencil legs and balloonish belly and zigzag
arms splashed against the fence, the steel voices went mad in their growling, urging
Rosa to run and run to the spot where Magda had fallen from her flight against the
electrified fence; but of course Rosa did not obey them. She only stood, because if
she ran they would shoot, and if she tried to pick up the sticks of Magda's body they
would shoot, and if she let the wolf's screech ascending now through the ladder of
her skeleton break out, they would shoot; so she took Magda's shawl and filled her
own mouth with it, stuffed it in and stuffed it in, until she was swallowing up the
wolf's screech and tasting the cinnamon and almond depth of Magda's saliva; and
Rosa drank Magda's shawl unti11t dried.
The End
////
Here is the author reading her story
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndY8GUDYCxQ
Here is the text
/////
Stella, cold, cold, the coldness of hell. How they walked on the roads together, Rosa
with Magda curled. up between sore breasts, Magda wound up in the shawl. Sometimes
Stella carried Magda. But she was jealous of Magda. A thin girl of fourteen, too
sm·all, with thin breasts of her own, Stella wanted to be wrapped in a shawl, hidden
away, asleep, rocked by the march, a baby, a round infant in arms. Magda took Rosa's
nipple, and Rosa never stopped walking, a walking cradle. There was not enough
milk; sometimes Magda sucked air; then she screamed. Stella was ravenous. Her
knees were tumors on sticks, her elbows chicken bones.
~osa did not feel hunger; she felt light, not like someone walking but like someone
in a faint, in trance, arrested in a fit, someone who is already a floating angel, alert
and seeing everything, but in the air, not there, not touching the road. As if teetering
on the tips of her fingernails. She looked into Magda's face through a gap in the
shawl: a squirrel in a nest, safe, no one could reach her inside the little house of the
shawl's windings. The face, very round, a pocket mirror of a face: but it was not
Rosa's bleak complexion, dark like cholera, it was another kind of face altogether,
eyes blue as air, smooth feathers of hair nearly as yellow as the Star sewn into Rosa's
coat. You could think she was one of their babies.
Rosa, floating, dreamed of giving Magda away in one of the villages. She could
leave the line for a minute and push Magda into the hands of any woman on the side
of the road. But if she moved out of line they might shoot. And even if she fled the
line for half a second and pushed the shawl-bundle at a stranger, would the woman
take it? She might be surprised, or afraid; she might drop the shawl, and Magda
would fall out and strike her head and die. The little round head. Such a good child,
she gave up screaming, and sucked now only for the taste of the drying nipple itself.
The neat grip of the tiny gums. One mite of a tooth tip sticking up in the bottom
gum, how shining, an elfin tombstone of white marble gleaming there. Without complaining,
Magda relinquished Rosa's teats, first the left, then the right; both were
cracked, not a sniff ofmilk. The duct-crevice extinct, a dead volcano, blind eye, chill
hole, so Magda took the corner of the shawl and milked it instead. She sucked and
sucked, flooding threads with wetness. The shawl's good flavor, milk of linen.
It was a magic shawl, it could nourish an infant for three days and three nights.
Magda did not die, she stayed alive, although very quiet. A peculiar smell, of cinnamon
and almonds, lifted out of her mouth. She held her eyes open every moment,
forgetting how to blink or nap, and Rosa and sometimes Stella studied their blueness.
On the road they raised one burden of a leg after another and studied Magda's
face. "Aryan," Stella said, in a voice grown as thin as a string; and Rosa thought how
Stella gazed at Magda like a young cannibal. And the time that Stella said "Aryan,"
it sounded to Rosa as if Stella had really said "Let us devour het."
But Magda lived to walk. She lived that long, but she did not walk very well,
partly because she was only fifteen months old, and partly because the spindles of
her legs could not hold up her fat belly. It was fat with air, full and round. Rosa gave
almost all her food to Magda, Stella gave nothing; Stella was ravenous, a growing
child herself, but not growing much. Stella did not menstruate: Rosa did not menstruate.
Rosa was ravenous, but also not; she learned from Magda how to drink the
taste of a finger in one's mouth. They were in a place without pity, all pity was annihilated
in Rosa, she looked at Stella's bones without pity. She was sure that Stella was
waiting for Magda to die so she could put her teeth into the little thighs.
Rosa kne\v Magda was going to die very soon; she should have been dead already,
but she had been buried away deep inside the magic shawl, mistaken there for
the shivering n10und of Rosa's breasts; Rosa clung to the shawl as if it covered only
herself. No one took it away from her. Magda was mute. She never cried. Rosa hid
her in the barracks, under the shawl, but she knew that one day someone would inform;
or one day someone, not even Stella, would steal Magda to eat her. When
Magda began to walk Rosa knew that Magda was going to die very soon, something
would happen. She was afraid to fall asleep; she slept with the weight of her thigh on
Magda's body; she was afraid she would smother Magda under her thigh. The weight
of Rosa was becoming less and less; Rosa and Stella were slowly turning into air.
Magda was quiet, but her eyes were horribly alive, like blue tigers. She watched.
Sometimes she laughed-it seemed a laugh, but how could it be? Magda had nev<;E
seen anyone laugh. Still, Magda laughed at her shawl when the wind blewits corners,
the bad wind with pieces of black in it, that made Stella's and Rosa's eyes tear.
Magda's eyes were always clear and tearless. She watched like a tiger. She guarded
her shawl. Noone could touch it; only Rosa could touch it. Stella was not allowed.
The sha\vl was Magda's own baby, her pet, her little sister. She tangled herself up in
it and sucked on one of the corners when she wanted to be very still.
Then Stella took the shawl away and made Magda die.
Afterward Stella said: "I was cold. "
And afterward she was always cold, always. The cold went into her heart: Rosa
saw that Stella's heart was cold. Magda flopped onward with her little pencil legs
scribbling this way and that, in search of the shawl; the pencils faltered at the barracks
opening, where the light began. Rosa saw and pursued. But already Magda was
in the square outside the barracks, in the jolly light. It was the roll-call arena. Every
morning Rosa had to conceal Magda under the shawl against a wall of the barracks
and go out and stand in the arena with Stella and hundreds of others, sometimes for
hours, and Magda, deserted, was quiet under the shawl, sucking on her corner. Every
day Magda was silent, and so she did not ~asaw that today Magda was going
to die, and at the same time a fearful joy ran in Rosa's two palms, her fingers were on
fire, she was astonished, febrile: Magda, in the sunlight, swaying on her pencil legs,
was ~ Ever since the drying up of Rosa's nipples, ever since Magda's last
scream on the road, Magda had been devoid of any syllable; Magda was a mute. Rosa
believed that something had gone wrong with her vocal cords, with her windpipe,
with the cave of her larynx; Magda was defective, without a voice; perhaps she was
deaf; there might be something amiss with her intelligence; Magda was dumb. Even
the laugh that came when the ash-stippled wind made a clown out of Magda's shawl
was only the air-blown showing of her teeth. Even when the lice, head lice and body
lice, crazed her so that she became as wild as one of the big rats that plundered the
barracks at daybreak looking for carrion, she rubbed and scratched and kicked and
bit and rolled without a whimper. But now Magda's mouth was spilling a long viscous
ro'pe of clamor.
"Maaaa-"
It~he first noise Magda had ever sent out from her throat since the drying
up of Rosa's nipples.
"Maaaa ... aaa! "
Agiiin! Magda waswavering in the perilous sunlight of the arena, scribbling on
such pitiful little bent shins. Rosa saw. She saw that Magda was grieving for the loss
of her shawl, she saw that Magda was going to die. A tide of commands hammered
in Rosa's nipples: Fetch, get, bring! But she did not know which to go after first,
Magda or the shawl. If she jumped out into the arena to snatch Magda up, the howling
would not stop, because Magda would still not have the shawl; but if she ran back
into the barracks to find the shawl, and if she found it, and if she came after Magda
holding it and shaking it, then she would get Magda back, Magda would put the
shawl in her mouth and turn dumb again.
Rosa enteredthe dark. It was easyto discover the shawl. Stella was heaped under
it, asleep in her thin bone~. Rosa tore the shawl free and flew-she could fly, she
was0nly air-into the arena. The sunheat murmured of another life, of butterflies in
summer. The light was placid, mellow. On the other side of the steel fence, far away,
there were green meadows speckled with dandelions and deep-colored violets; beyond
them, even farther, innocent tiger lilies, tall, lifting their orange bonnets. In the
barracks they spoke of "flowers," of "rain": excrement, thick turd-braids, and the
slow stinking maroon waterfall that slunk down from the upper bunks, the stink
mixed with a bitter fatty floating smoke that greased Rosa's skin. She stood for an instant
at the margin of the arena. Sometimes the electricity inside the fence would
seem to hum; even Stella said it was only an imagining, but Rosa heard real sounds in
the wire; grainy sad voicrs. The farther she was from the fence, the more clearly the
voices crowded at her. The lamenting voices strummed so convincingly, so passionately,
it was impossible to suspect them of being phantoms. The voices told her to
h9ld up the shawl, high; the voices told her to shake it, to whip with it, to unfurl it
like a flag. Rosa lifted, shook, whipped, unfurled. Far off, very far, Magda leaned
across her air-fed belly, reaching out with the rods of her arms. She was high up, elevated,
riding someone's shoulder. But the shoulder that carried Magda was not coming
toward Rosa and the shawl, it was drifting away, the speck of Magda was moving
more and more into the smoky distance. Above the shoulder a helmet glinted. The
light tapped the helmet and sparkled it into a goblet. Below the helmet a black body
like a domino and a pair of black boots hurled themselves in the direction of the electrified
fence. The electric voices began to chatter wildly. "Maamaa, maaamaaa," they
all hummed together. How far Magda was from Rosa now, across the whole square,
past a dozen barracks, all the wayan the other side! She was no bigger than a moth.
All at once Magda was swimming through the air. The whole of Magda traveled
through loftiness. She looked like a butterfly touching a silver vine. And the moment
Magda's feathered round head and her pencil legs and balloonish belly and zigzag
arms splashed against the fence, the steel voices went mad in their growling, urging
Rosa to run and run to the spot where Magda had fallen from her flight against the
electrified fence; but of course Rosa did not obey them. She only stood, because if
she ran they would shoot, and if she tried to pick up the sticks of Magda's body they
would shoot, and if she let the wolf's screech ascending now through the ladder of
her skeleton break out, they would shoot; so she took Magda's shawl and filled her
own mouth with it, stuffed it in and stuffed it in, until she was swallowing up the
wolf's screech and tasting the cinnamon and almond depth of Magda's saliva; and
Rosa drank Magda's shawl unti11t dried.
The End
////