Short story: I am the street

I am the street. The hard pavement, the disgusting smell of burnt diesel, the melting lukewarm piece of chewed gum, the ever-rising horizon of buildings wanting to reach the stars. I am all of it. Every person, every corner, every bicycle bell – that’s what I am. The first blow didn’t hurt. Or maybe it did. I can’t afford to take tenancy of memories that go that far. The first blow didn’t hurt this time, certainly. It just angered me. I should’ve seen it coming. After all, I have all the experience of the world. I am experimentada. I have seen it all. I have done it all. It was my life’s lot, but I can’t complain. Others got to gamble with old people’s money, other’s got to mother the Messiah’s child, my lot was to be the street. I just wish it’d been a familiar street. But to have to fly across oceans, trek through mountains, grapple with an ancient language, to end up in a dank and gloomy box of a room spitting my teeth into my hands. It’s almost too tragic. I guess life has that in common with cheap literature. But I can’t complain. It was my life’s lot. It just angered me. I begged him to stop. Some of them, that’s all they want. They still get hard. They still come for King and Country. But they don’t want you. They want to hurt anything and everything. They want to hurt the street. The streets are angry. I guess they always are. It just feels like they’re angrier now. Not that it makes this situation any more special. I digress. The streets are angry, as they always are. They explode in different ways. Some simply explode into riots of the bedroom. Nothing more, nothing less. But somehow, all riots, they always end up with the streets tending to their wounds. Alone. In dank and gloomy boxes. I digress. Darling, I squealed, what are you doing. His eyes were blank. His jaw clenched. The second blow did hurt. And I saw it coming, in its full glory. I tried to avoid it, but too late. I only realised I hadn’t when I was picking myself up from the floor. Stunted. Like a pig at the abattoir. It’s supposed to be humane, but the little pigs squeal, squeal, squeal. I digress. I wasn’t always the street. I was dreams. I was growing up loved. Poverty wasn’t really a concept to us. Everyone’s lot was one of wanting so it was impossible to know different. There were others who had it all, but our mythology made them out to be truly miserable after all was said. I guess it was easier for everyone this way. Especially mum. She had dreams. So did dad. They both ended up gravitating towards each other in spite of their mutual hatred. Some sort of sick, emotional entropy. I digress. I was dreams. I escaped the little coffee-drenched town. My winged dreams taking me across the seas to the Old World. I landed gloriously, full of hope. Paseo del Prado quickly mutated into Calle Montera. Dreams became street.  I can’t complain. I bought a house for my family, back in the Andean arsehole, whilst on my back. Or whilst on my knees. Or on all fours. I digress. I realised then he was different. I got spooked. I shouldn’t have shouted. That only spooked him. If I regret anything it’s that I cried. And by crying, I let out the Chibcha accent I had worked so hard to get rid of. My face might have screamed Inca, but my flawless Castillian was beautiful. In my shame, whilst I spat my teeth onto the carpet, my instinctual dialect begged for mercy. I won’t forget his smile. I wouldn’t be humiliated. I knew it then, and I still know it now. The glass on the window broke very easily. I never would’ve thought that it would be such a straightforward affair. I hadn’t come all this way to let some racist little pig beat me into a pulp. Before I could shout for help though, he shoved me. The fucker shoved me. I felt my cheekbone shatter when I hit the pavement. I’m not afraid to tell you I was scared. I felt things in my neck break, and the sharp pain in my chest told me I was done for, surely. Squeal, squeal, squeal. I digress. I am the street. I never got to say good bye. Saying good bye is always hard anyway. They’re all in the house being on my knees bought. Christmas is coming. I can almost smell the fried pastries. Feel the new socks my mum will surely have already bought. I digress. It’s probably easier this way. I would’ve never had the heart to tell them what I did for a living. What I did for us all. A saviour impaled in Europe on a daily basis. I digress. Cleaning, and cleaning, and cleaning. That’s what mum thought bought the house. It’s a shame it’ll have to come out. Especially this way. Everything comes out in the end, I guess. Life has a funny way of working things out. Oh, well. There’s my face and the streets, melting into one. My ribs doing their best to dig into the hard pavement. The foul smell of burnt diesel, ever pervading.  I realise something gooey and red is dripping out of my face, and it looks like melting lukewarm chewed gum on the street. A killer for heels. I digress. As the street and I become one, I set my eyes on the distant horizon. I picture the ever rising buildings. Icharus rising. Ever rising. The city always rises. The street always rises. I am the street.

Whatever happened to the weekly challenge, then?

You'll be surprised about the number of times I've heard that question in the last few months... Ok, ok, I was surprised. Anyway, like with most great projects, life got in the way and the equation of 'Time x Inspiration x Other commitments' has been coming up with some 'null' results of late, inevitably bringing the weekly challenge to a premature and untimely death!

Many apologies to those holding their breath, but, to quote someone who knew about these things, "let's not burden our remembrance with a heaviness that's gone." After all, the life that got in the way calls for celebrations!

First off, here at HQ we are basking in the glow of growing life, and there should be a new and little euclidesmontes.com dweller in just under two months! Happy days all around. However, that's meant I've had to commit some more of time elsewhere -hence the death knell heralding the end of the weekly challenge!

But, fear not! The writing goes on...

In fact, I feel some exciting news about the progress of The Brothel's Doorman are just around the corner, and there are more short stories on the way - just not on a weekly basis, I'm afraid.

Add to that, a few online developments here and there, as well as the usual creative diversions I usually can't drag myself away from, and this should be an exciting new period for my writing career (can I really call it that, yet? Hell, it's my website, I'll say what I want!).

A quick blog has already turned into a massive diatribe so I shall wrap things up by saying thanks for visiting, and keep watching this space!

Euclides

Article for Liberal Conspiracy

Hi,

I wrote a little something for Liberal Conspiracy over the weekend on horse racing and the middle classes. Have a look if you haven't yet.

E

Week 9: A Christmas Cracker

Hello everyone,

This week's story is a little vignette that's been bouncing around my desk for a while now, all unpolished and unloved. So I decided to finally clean it up, finish it and give it a nice home.

I hope you like it.

A Christmas Cracker

E

Week 8: Abracadabra: Bang! (Or the story of how the world ends)

Hello one and all,

It's been very busy here at euclidesmontes.com towers* so this story is slightly overdue. My apologies for that. I promise you that by the end of the year, there will be 52 short stories on this website.

Also, I hope you'll agree it was worth the wait. I really like this week's story. In fact, I think it's one of my best stories to date...

Without any further ado:

Abracadabra: Bang! (Or the story of how the world ends)

Hope you enjoy it!

E


*There are no towers. I live in a flat

Week 7: #whileyouweresleeping

Hello there,

This week's story is very different to anything I've ever done, and I can't help but feel that it would have benefited from stronger technical abilities on my part! All the same, I'm quite happy with it and I think I managed to convey the story roughly like I envisaged it.

Here it is... #whileyouweresleping

Hope you enjoy it and, as always, will love to hear what you think.

Thanks

E

Week 6: Mojito Rhythm

Hello there,

The weekly challenge continues! This week's offering is pretty short and sweet.

Hope you enjoy it.

Mojito Rhythm

Peace,

E