My2cents
05-15-2012, 04:07 AM
Stupid girl. A dumb wench from the country thinking she could do what? strike it on her own in the big city? You’d have to turn tricks if glitz and glamour are what you seek. Just do your freakin’ job, and be happy cooking meals, cleaning, and running errands for mom. What? If you had put your mind to it, you would have excelled at school and would have gone on to do great things? A likely story. Not. Fine, I’m sorry, maybe I’m being too harsh, but what’s the point of dwelling on the past? Aren’t you here because the past sucked the lifeblood out of you? Forget about it…
She ran away not long after with not even a thank you for the favor I did for her. She couldn’t stand the chicken market, so I went in her place. Mom scolded the dumb wench and that may have contributed to her running away as well. At any rate, I accompanied mom, and it’s a day that I haven’t forgot, which is to say that nowadays the days generally make me sick and the people….Don’t ask….Where was I? Yes, going to the chicken market with mom, hands held, skipping and hopping like Dorothy and her pals over the Yellow Brick Road. Above, midst an azure blue sky, a jet plane flew, and I don’t think I ever felt happier. (Times spent with father always involved duty and principle.) Presently, the skies turned gray….The day had been overcast all along. The skipping and hopping with mom never occurred. Or it did, but not on this occasion. We just walked to the chicken market.
En route we passed the multi-grain powder district. A rich aroma permeated the surroundings, and you felt as if your mind run amok had achieved equilibrium, easing your fears and paranoia. The stuff itself didn’t stimulate your palate however. Though blended with water, it retained its dry texture and it was for all intents and purposes a variation of oat meal: nutritious, but flavorless. I much preferred yogurt, but that’s another story. So there we were my mother and I, strolling to the chicken market and me wondering just what it was that revolted our live-in housemaid when it hit me like a freight train--the stench of freshly butchered chicken meat.
“How are you?” Mom said.
My hand over my mouth and nose, I nodded ‘fine.’ A crone, who was gutting a chicken, tossed a bit of its innards to a dog which pounced on it and began to chew. It was as if the crone had sensed my presence, and had wanted to give me something to look at. I was grateful. The spectacle would only get better. There was a drum barrel full of steaming hot water and to the right a cage full of live hens. Mom was asked to pick one out. Turning to me, she asked me to do the honors. I hesitated before pointing at one randomly. Then I stepped back and watched as the man reached into the cage, secured a hen (it was impossible to tell if he got hold of the one that I had selected), and dunked it head first into the drum barrel.
She ran away not long after with not even a thank you for the favor I did for her. She couldn’t stand the chicken market, so I went in her place. Mom scolded the dumb wench and that may have contributed to her running away as well. At any rate, I accompanied mom, and it’s a day that I haven’t forgot, which is to say that nowadays the days generally make me sick and the people….Don’t ask….Where was I? Yes, going to the chicken market with mom, hands held, skipping and hopping like Dorothy and her pals over the Yellow Brick Road. Above, midst an azure blue sky, a jet plane flew, and I don’t think I ever felt happier. (Times spent with father always involved duty and principle.) Presently, the skies turned gray….The day had been overcast all along. The skipping and hopping with mom never occurred. Or it did, but not on this occasion. We just walked to the chicken market.
En route we passed the multi-grain powder district. A rich aroma permeated the surroundings, and you felt as if your mind run amok had achieved equilibrium, easing your fears and paranoia. The stuff itself didn’t stimulate your palate however. Though blended with water, it retained its dry texture and it was for all intents and purposes a variation of oat meal: nutritious, but flavorless. I much preferred yogurt, but that’s another story. So there we were my mother and I, strolling to the chicken market and me wondering just what it was that revolted our live-in housemaid when it hit me like a freight train--the stench of freshly butchered chicken meat.
“How are you?” Mom said.
My hand over my mouth and nose, I nodded ‘fine.’ A crone, who was gutting a chicken, tossed a bit of its innards to a dog which pounced on it and began to chew. It was as if the crone had sensed my presence, and had wanted to give me something to look at. I was grateful. The spectacle would only get better. There was a drum barrel full of steaming hot water and to the right a cage full of live hens. Mom was asked to pick one out. Turning to me, she asked me to do the honors. I hesitated before pointing at one randomly. Then I stepped back and watched as the man reached into the cage, secured a hen (it was impossible to tell if he got hold of the one that I had selected), and dunked it head first into the drum barrel.