Translators.
We strive to understand the meaning behind the words. To dig deeper. To get it.
Why then can some of us not understand the meaning of:
Rest in Peace
When one of us has passed away?
Copyright 2019 Andrea Bernard
Words: 37 Stewing about it: for some hours Writing: 4 minutes Correcting: 4 minutes
4am ponderations are full of incredible exciting ideas. Tossing and turning, thinking about all the interesting and challenging things I can do tomorrow.
Pity, never remember them next morning. Friends keep little books by their bed and write down thoughts and ideas. Nah..
Summer slides past – amazed that it’s Saturday again – heat becomes stultifying and I think of all the things I ‘should’ do – and don’t. Should is a hateful word and should be banned – when was anything that is a should helpful, encouraging or kind?
Plötzlich schlittert der BMW, wir rutschen Richtung Straßenrand, dann über den Bordstein in eine Waldgebiet und kommen an einem Laternenmast zum Stehen. Aber all das wird erst im Nachhinein klar. Es geht unfassbar schnell. Eben noch auf dem Weg zum Flughafen und in der nächsten Sekunde komplette Stille. Wir steigen aus und ich sage: „Schnell, wir rufen ein Taxi, dann schaffe ich es noch zum Flughafen.“ Meine Mutter holt ihr Handy raus und telefoniert, wenige Minuten später sind wir auf dem Weg. „Ich muss meinen Flug kriegen“, ist alles, was ich denken kann. Am Flughafen, ich sitze in der Abflughalle Richtung Japan. Entspanne mich. Und dann beginnen die Kopfschmerzen. Ich steige ins Flugzeug ein, sie werden schlimmer. Die Flugvorbereitungen beginnen, ich bekomme Herzklopfen. Wenn ich nun doch verletzt bin? Ich beginne zu ventilieren, schließlich wird eine Stewardess auf mich aufmerksam. „Ich hatte einen Autounfall auf dem Weg zum Flughafen. Und jetzt tut mir der Kopf weh.“ Der Flug geht ohne mich und ich ins Krankenhaus. So fühlt es sich wohl an, wenn man nach einem Unfall einen Schock hat.
© Andrea Bernard
She was on the phone when Andrea walked in. Cath had her feet crossed at the ankles, resting on an old manilla folder on top of one corner of her enormous desk. Her ankle-high Continental-style leather boots were scuffed at the heel, and the soles were somewhat worn, but still held faint traces of chic.
Black tapered trousers, red and white flecked jacket, white shirt, and fancy wrist watch. This was Cath faking it until she made it. Not that she wasn’t doing too badly on the making it part, but she was ambitious.
She motioned to Andrea to turn around so that she could see how Bert had cut her hair. Andrea obliged.
“It’s a war zone around here. Operations just don’t get it. But you’re looking great, my love. Thanks for the burger, by the way”. She smiled as she took her first bite.
©2019 Allison Wright
[145 words]
Dreißig Jahre ist das jetzt her. Die Mauer. Damals, in der DDR, durften wir den Namen nicht aussprechen, die Mauer nicht sehen. Reglementierter Sprachgebrauch: „Antifaschistischer Schutzwall“.
Sprache beeinflusst das Denken.
Noch heute sehe ich die Mauer zwiespältig. Sie war tatsächlich Schutz und Gefängnis zugleich.
Heute ist das unsagbar, nein – undenkbar! Mit all den Mauertoten und den Grausamkeiten, die an dieser Mauer geschahen, eben: unsagbar und unsäglich. Und doch meine Wahrheit.
Die Mauer, sie hat mein Leben verändert und bestimmt. Als sie da war – und noch mehr, als sie fiel.
©2019 Andrea Bernard
[91 words. Writing: 4 minutes; editing 5 minutes]
“It feels weird being here without Cath,” said Andrea as she sat down in front of the mirror. Bert flashed a bright smile at her, but said nothing. Always so composed, in his designer blue jeans, loafers, and perfect white shirt, cuffs rolled, scissors and comb at the ready.
He looked intently at her in the mirror. “I was thinking maybe we could go shorter here. Assymetrical.” Andrea turned her head to one side as Burt drew the line against her scalp to show her.
“Do your thing, Bert. Strictly club cut, though.”
“Of course.”
It was like a meditation. Bert’s clean shaven head, his neat hands. Always, his mouth closed, his relaxed, even breathing. The sculpture was conducted in silence, while the latest hits played at low volume in the background. This was his art; he was in his zone.
©2019 Allison Wright
[142 words. Writing: 7 minutes; editing 3 minutes]
Early afternoon in my favourite café. Slowly sipping my coffee. Four hours of lifetime ahead of me where I can do want I want and do what I should. I head for the library, a quiet place, a good place to fight with words and fight with their meaning. Nearly four hours of uninterrupted meditation on text and syntax. Time is up much too soon. I have to go back to my ailing mother, to comfort her and help her to endure just a little bit longer. So much to do, so little time.
I watered the garden while thinking about this, then came inside and wrote it. So, not five minutes’ worth, exactly.
Cath was at the sink, cleaning the pot. Her shoulders were hunched, Every now and then she dabbed the steel wool in the plastic container full of scouring powder. Scrubbing, scrubbing. God only knows why. The pot wasn’t burnt or anything. No. It has to be perfect, as always, shining as if it were new.
The old stainless steel pressure cooker was used for almost everything. Now she was scrubbing the outside. And now the lid.
She ignored Andrea who had walked into the kitchen, tossed her bag on the kitchen table, and said “Hi, honey, I’m home”, by way of humour. Cath seemed intent on not turning around.
Then Andrea saw. She was crying. Jaw clenched, red cheeked. Tears streaming down her cheeks. That’s when she sniffed. Andrea came closer, and put her hand on her shoulder. Cath whipped around, eyes huge and angry, “What?!”
“I was about to ask you the same thing”, said Andrea.
“It’s Len. He’s dead. Bert told me when I saw him at the salon today.”
©2019 Allison Wright
[192 words. Writing: 7 minutes; editing 3 minutes]
Unbidden, in a constant surge, that’s how it comes. What it this “it”? It is the language all around us that begs transformation. It begs to be translated, juggled with, driven down etymological paths to dead-ends where knowledge fails.
No matter, for it backtracks and springs up anew, and slashes a track through overgrowth, climbs rocks, and swings from tree branches. I did once scream inside my head to the panoramic view of my village on the hillside that I am a translator. The village was silent. I wept.
I was smoking a cheap rolled cigarette, leaning against the wall of a laundry for that monologue. I had been elbow-deep in bleach perfecting the art of stain removal from sheets all morning. A daily penance for unknown sins. Clumsy swollen fingers not good for typing. But in those free ten minutes, my head was flooded with fresh, clean words that come – that always come, unbidden.
©2019 Allison Wright
[158 words]
The living room window overlooks The City. A church looms over narrow cobblestone alleys lined with quaint frame houses. Ivy and roses wind around colorful doorways reminiscent of Tolkien’s Shire. No trees. They didn’t have room for them in the Middle Ages. This part of the town is slowly sinking; you can see the cracks in the walls.
Then: a parking lot. A nightclub. Stores. People on bikes. The occasional horse-drawn carriage chauffeuring flocks of tourists to the sets of the soap opera that is being filmed here. The adjacent street has trees. Workers dutifully cut them into shape every spring. The sound of sports car engines revving. Honking. Busses. Sirens. Someone is smoking under the window.
The church bells are tolling, and a loud ping proclaims that I’ve got mail.
[132 words]
(c) Anett Enzmann 2019
five stray minutes 