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Poetic Creations by Joanne Olivieri Short Stories |
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In an effort to replenish my dehydrated, overwhelmed body, I
walked along the Star Ferry promenade—my favorite spot in Tsimshatsui—towards Canton Road, searching for something
to quench my hot-flash-induced thirst. I spotted the Golden Arches along Salisbury Road and found my way to the dining area.
It was crowded and noisy, the familiar back-home scenario. I
ordered my Diet Coke and sat down at a table with a family of four. Mom, dad, and a little brother and sister, aged about
five and six. I greeted them with a hello, quickly realizing they did not speak English when they returned my salutation with
nods and smiles.
Having forgotten a straw, I sipped my Coke from the cup. The
children were adorable; I was mesmerized by the laughter and wonderment emanating from their sweet eyes.
I watched as the boy bit off the tips of a french fry, inserted
it into his ice cream cone, and began sipping. I wondered whether his attempt at using the fry as a straw was indeed working.
I'm sure the puzzled look on my face was apparent when out of nowhere he grabbed another fry from the pile and handed it to
me. I instinctively knew his intention, bit off the tips…and into my Coke I inserted the fry. Wow! It did work. With
a wink and a smile I nodded to the child. I will never forget the smile he returned.
This simple gesture by a young boy made me realize that communication
comes from within and language barriers really do not exist as long as we listen with our hearts.
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4:00 a.m madness Startled,
I awaken in an anxiety born stupor. It's 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning. In the distance a siren announces a 911 while a car alarm
bellows out of control. Cars race an uncontrollable rage through empty streets. Light flickers through my window yet I know
there is no light outside other than the moon displaying it's devilish grin. Is it a warning? I scare myself into blind paralysis.
Staring into oblivion my body is frozen with fear. The incessant ticking of the clock - a breathing crescendo drowning my
pulse. Paper rustling outside my door though the wind silent. Is it the house settling? A raccoon rummaging? Or, is it my
mind damning my sensibilities? |
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