Dear Ute, I like your text very much! After your story about the photo, I then asked myself why I didn't spontaneously decide on THIS photo as well :-) Well, I can still do it. Let's see. I also find your additional thoughts on the creation valuable. In fact, I also own a set of postcards with reading women from art history. And I also read the Stefan Bollmann book :-) Almost a bit scary, isn't it?
What to do next with your story? I wonder where and how the reader lives in this deserted area and where she (regularly) goes by bus and what books she reads, whether she ever meets someone at the phone booth bus stop...
@sabine_rieker Oh dear Sabine, you give me so many ideas. I hardly know when I'll find time to pursue them. Thank you very much!
I also read the Bollmann book. No, I don't think it's scary, more of a happy coincidence. :-) I also printed out the photo with the shopping cart, it was an option. Why don't you write to both photos?
I can imagine that I will also write about the shopping trolley full of books. For me, photo #3 is the flag in the cleaning bag. What's your number 3? :-)
Is there anything wrong with writing more stories and commenting on our first? After all, comments are translated into all languages, which is not the case with the actual final project.
All the best to you and I'm looking forward to your final text!
Dear Ute, I like the text a lot too! As the drop ran down her back, I kind of sat there with her and waited, having an almost physical sense of the situation. It has really nice pictures (a desert without mountains of sand) and her thoughts are great, like why she doesn't take the paper cup to the trash can. If you want to continue writing the text, I have the idea of taking waiting and the stretching of time to the extreme, that is, after Monday, now also describe Tuesday, letting them perceive the same details (here you could even working with literal repetitions), having her scan everything almost automatically (which would also explain why she still picks up all these details of the place in your text, even though she seems to be waiting there regularly). On Tuesday, for example, the paper cup could no longer be there, but XY (a detail of the scene would have been changed). Then Wednesday could follow, everything is still the same, the routine of waiting follows, of scanning - only one detail differs again and could ensure that while waiting in your imagination a story is soon composed, which maybe even with her reading, such as speculation about what's going on at the bus stop when she's not sitting there waiting. -- You see, your text already triggers a lot of my own ideas in me because, despite its accuracy, it opens up a large space. Many thanks for that!
@isabelle_lehn Dear Isabelle, your ideas sound very exciting and promising, "One week and the groundhog" that spices up its own story with a pinch of lemon pepper. Thank you very much! I like it when texts take on a life of their own and everything becomes possible, when everyone thinks their own story further.
I'll try to describe Tuesday in the next few weeks (there's an idea right away :-)) and then put it in the comments. Thank you again for your course, which fires the imagination.
:-) Dear Isabelle, your idea is wonderful! It really grabbed me and here it is Tuesday:
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared overnight eight years ago. She didn't fit in with the times anymore. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road that only locals use today, the bus and I.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are set up at the corner of the house. A soft whistling escapes her, an exhalation. How good that the noise is here with me. Maybe the wind blowing through a hole in the roof. I breathe in and out. Calm. As always there on time.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. Just yesterday and every weekday before, I sat on her and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, my brain conjuring up a piece of cream cake filled with cherries. The whole cake is still there, in the freezer. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? He could come soon.
Today I keep the shoes on, sit down. My feet hurt, my skin on my left heel itches and the black crawling things bite. I wipe and scratch. I leave my jacket on and turn up my collar. A hair tingles on the back of his neck. This drives me crazy. I pull a silk handkerchief out of my pocket and slip it underneath, better like this.
It smells like autumn, like mushrooms growing. I take the book out of my jacket and open it in the middle.
Just the whistle behind me, nothing else. When he finally comes.
The paper cup is missing from the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground or in the square in front of the cell. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book is open on the shelf. I don't bother getting up, closing it and hanging it neatly under the shelf. At least that's how it looks like the phones are working here. The mobile phone sleeps in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand.
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing. I lower my head and read the next paragraph.
Wait no read. Time passes slowly, the lines fly away. Everything is silent. Head and heart have disappeared in history. A loud squeak. I jet up, stroll past the phone booths around the corner. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The book is closed and stowed in the jacket. I don't look back
Tomorrow is Wednesday and I'm sitting here again, reading and with him.
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. What was it like here before it was put up as the final symbol of an end? No sign of the past indicates who worked here. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared overnight eight years ago. "It didn't fit in with the times anymore," say the old people from the neighborhood. Then they shake their heads. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road that only locals use today, the bus and I.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are placed at the corner of the house. No soft whistle escapes her, no exhalation. The wind, which otherwise blows through a hole in the roof, rests. I breathe in and out. In balance. As always there on time.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. Just yesterday and every weekday before, I sat on her and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, my brain conjuring up a piece of cream cake filled with cherries. The whole cake is still there, in the freezer. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? No, she was lying on the bed. There she wore her most beautiful dress. she dreamed He could come soon.
Today I am wearing boots, do not sit down immediately. A shoelace is untied. I put my foot on the crate, the phone booths behind me. A cow on the fence at the end of the hall is mooing. i wobble moo! Unbelievable, a conversation with a cow. My temples are itchy. This drives me crazy. I pull a silk scarf out of my pocket and make a headscarf out of it, better that way.
It's raining like floodgates are opening. I don't take a book out of my jacket, I protect it.
Just the noise from above, nothing else. The cow hid behind the building. When he finally comes.
Everything is tidy in the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground or in the square in front of the cell. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book hangs under the shelf. I don't sit on the box. The headscarf is through. The hair hangs down wet. I stand in the cell. At least that's how it looks like the phones are working here. On the shelf is a piece of paper with a phone number. It was crumpled and unfolded again. I pick up the receiver and wait for the buzzer. I shake my head. I straighten the paper, look through the side glass into the second cell. Hm. In New York there are still four connected telephone booths. The mobile phone sleeps in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand.
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing. I lower my head and stare at the note.
Wait, no put the note in the book on page 328, read the last paragraph on the page. And again. And again. Time goes by slowly. The rain drums on the sheet metal above me. Head and heart fight each other. A loud squeak. I leave the cell, run past the phone booths around the corner. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The note is in the closed book that is stowed in the jacket. I don't look back
I really loved this - thank you for sharing it! I read it first a few days ago and came back to read your new comments for Tuesday and Wednesday. I love the bits added, the details. You have a really good pull between the slowness of waiting, the stillness of reading with all of the discomfort of waiting too - the heart racing, the itching of bugs, the hair standing up on her neck. How funny that we both chose the same photo, and both decided that the building had been closed for 8 years. What about it says 8 years? I don't know, just that you and I both independently decided so when we wrote our stories. Thanks again for sharing your story!
@rottador Thank you very much, I am happy, and also for reading the sequels and for your comment. Why 8 years? I don't know exactly, I also smiled when I read this number from you. I think 5 years seemed too short to describe the existing decay of the building and 10 years too long, so I chose the middle. All the best to you and the further development of your story!
@utestorjohann Thank you for your sequels, which I just read with a smile. My thoughts on this include: "Did Ute really take that word for word? Scrolling, reading, yes, fact. That's true. Why not? Scrolling. What effects such tiny changes can have! How much more attentive I read! How calm I become through the scenes, in which little happens and yet enough to keep me from getting bored. Who is Frida? What book is she reading? Where is she going on the bus? It's driving me crazy ;-)"
@sabine_rieker Hello Sabine, thank you and so that you can read the end, I'll continue to write for the next few days - just be patient - just wait a little :-) - be of good cheer, I'll wait with you because I too have the end of the story I don't know yet, only a vague idea guides me.
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. I shake it. What was it like here before it was put up as the final symbol of an end? No sign of the past indicates who worked here. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared from one day to the next eight years ago. "It didn't fit in with the times anymore," say the old people from the neighborhood. Then they shake their heads. I look up to the roof. A brick will fall in the next storm. He hangs dangerously close to the abyss. I step back. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road, which today only locals use, the bus and I, the reader, who is waiting at the penultimate stop on route number 832.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are set up at the corner of the house. A soft whistling escapes her, an exhalation. The wind flows over the roof in a small loop into the pipes and pants a little. Its gusts arrive like labor pains. I breathe in and out. In balance. As always there on time. I grope for the book in my pocket.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. Only yesterday and every weekday before that I sat on it and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, and my brain conjured up a piece of cream cake filled with marzipan on the table. I could eat the whole cake today. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? No, she was lying on the bed. There she wore her most beautiful dress. she dreamed He could come soon. And then he came and they argued.
Today I am wearing boots, sit down immediately. I stretch out my feet, next to me the phone booths. A cow I call Erna mooing by the fence at the end of the hall. moo! Unbelievable, a conversation with a cow. I pull the book out of my jacket pocket and turn to page 328. The piece of paper with the phone number that I stuck as a bookmark blows in front of my feet. I dialed the number on Wednesday evening. Nobody answered. This drives me crazy. The snippet flutters a little further away. I get up and pick it up with my hands, better that way. There is no wastepaper basket here. I read yesterday's chapter to Erna without asking her.
“The remains of the wall were barely visible. Christ's thorn, blackberries and wild thyme clung to the weathered stones. Their branches covered pain and misfortune.”
We think together about the words and sentences, about what they mean. "I'm illiterate, like you," I say. "Or almost." I spell out a few pages later:
"It was only when painting was the only thing that drove her loneliness away that she thought someone was whispering words to her, but they were words she didn't understand."
Erna moos. "Yes, see you tomorrow." I wave after her. Morning. If only he finally comes.
Everything is tidy in the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground, not one to be seen in front of the cell entrance. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book is in its place. I get up from the box. I look into the cell. There is a sunflower on the shelf. Freshly picked. i blink Hm. There are four payphones connected in New York. These cells are dead. The cell phone is sleeping in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand. I stand in front of the open phone booth. A foot draws circles in the sand. Then I reach out and take the flower and smell it. She was allowed to after summer and Mediterranean food. To southern France and the Tour de France. "He loves me. He does not love me. He loves me.” Yellow petals waft across the street. I put the last leaf between the pages of the book. Learning to read is exhausting and it takes me into another world. I close the book. Its cover is decorated with letters. These are decorated with botanical elements and animals. I've already looked at how many pages it has. 566 is a proud number. He will come!
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing. I can feel the breeze of the bus.
Waiting. I `m smiling. A loud squeak. I get on and crouch in my seat in the middle of the empty bus. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The petal lies in the closed book tucked inside the jacket. Will it be dry tomorrow? The bus driver looks in the mirror and into my eyes.
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. I shake it like the fact that I've been illiterate for too long. What was it like here before it was put up as the final symbol of an end? Busy and always lying to keep from going under. In the sea of readers one could not find one's way without the alphabet. The mass of illiterates remains invisible. They descend stairs into the basement, darkness surrounds them. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared overnight eight years ago. "It didn't fit in with the times anymore," say the old people from the neighborhood. Then they shake their heads. I look up to the roof. A brick will fall in the next storm. He hangs dangerously close to the abyss. I hung there too. I step back. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road, which today only locals use, the bus and the reader waiting at the penultimate stop of route number 832. That's me, a reader! And for him a sun.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are placed at the corner of the house. A soft whistling escapes her, an exhalation. The wind flows over the roof in a small loop into the pipes and pants a little. Its gusts arrive like labor pains. I breathe in and out like a deer in winter. In balance. As always there on time. I grope for the book in my pocket. He'll clap like a kid in the circus. I jump in place.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. I imagine she fell off a ship ten years ago. She bobbed on the waves all the way to the beach behind the hills, where I walk every day. A worker carried the flotsam to the company building. He took out the sisal and they braided a rope out of it. But the sisal hemp lay too long in the salt water, and he that traveled far tore. The rope frayed like the company no one knows anymore. I didn't find a box on the beach, but I did find a bag of coffee beans. I put this under the wooden box. The beans smell like man, like cedar and rum, like grass, tobacco and pine. Only yesterday and every weekday before that I sat on it and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, and my brain conjured up a piece of cream cake filled with marzipan on the table. I could eat the whole cake today. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? No, she was lying on the bed. There she wore her most beautiful dress. she dreamed He could come soon. And then he came and they argued. She painted herself. Surreal dreams made her endure her suffering. Poor Frida Kahlo. In the cold tropical climate of her hometown, she painted the world colorfully and loved and suffered. Her biography resembles the storm of the sea, her pictures the depths. she fought. Shell beads adorned her hair. In her diary she wrote down the meaning of her colors as if she were naming her feelings. Her house is called "Casa Azul", the blue house. Did she eat cake there? Probably more caramel popcorn and cinnamon biscuits. I lick my lips. Yummy!
Today I am wearing boots, sit down immediately. I stretch out my feet, next to me the phone booths. A cow I call Erna mooing by the fence at the end of the hall. moo! Unbelievable, a conversation with a cow. I read to Erna. We suffer with Frida.
Erna moos. "Tomorrow is Saturday." I wave after her. If only he finally comes.
Everything is tidy in the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground, not one to be seen in front of the cell entrance. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book is in its place. I get up from the box. I look through the glass pane into the cell. There are four affiliated payphones in New York. The ones next to me are dead. The mobile phone is sleeping in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand. I stand in front of the open cell. A foot draws circles in the sand. they touch each other "He loves me. He does not love me. He loves me.” Yellow petals waft across the street. I close the book. Its cover is decorated with letters. These are decorated with botanical elements and animals. Frida would like that. I'm on page 556. Ten pages to go. He will come!
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing.
Waiting. I read. Frida suffers. She dies. Erna has disappeared behind the shed. I forget the time
A loud squeak. I close the book after the last word. I jump up. And squat in my seat. He and I are alone. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The petal lies in the closed book tucked inside the jacket. It's dried. The bus driver looks in the mirror and into my eyes. We drive to the end station. I get off. He strolls through the bus once and clears up the day's garbage. Tomorrow a colleague drives the round. We take the bikes that are parked at the bus company's fence and cycle home along the beach. His work bag is lying on the luggage rack. Has he brought me a new book? I take a deep breath. It smells of salt, tobacco and pine. Our blue house shines in the distance. The cake is in the fridge. Last weekend!
+12 Kommentare
displayname10388513
Dear Ute, I like your text very much! After your story about the photo, I then asked myself why I didn't spontaneously decide on THIS photo as well :-) Well, I can still do it. Let's see. I also find your additional thoughts on the creation valuable. In fact, I also own a set of postcards with reading women from art history. And I also read the Stefan Bollmann book :-) Almost a bit scary, isn't it?
What to do next with your story? I wonder where and how the reader lives in this deserted area and where she (regularly) goes by bus and what books she reads, whether she ever meets someone at the phone booth bus stop...
displayname7755633
@sabine_rieker Oh dear Sabine, you give me so many ideas. I hardly know when I'll find time to pursue them. Thank you very much!
I also read the Bollmann book. No, I don't think it's scary, more of a happy coincidence. :-) I also printed out the photo with the shopping cart, it was an option. Why don't you write to both photos?
I can imagine that I will also write about the shopping trolley full of books. For me, photo #3 is the flag in the cleaning bag. What's your number 3? :-)
Is there anything wrong with writing more stories and commenting on our first? After all, comments are translated into all languages, which is not the case with the actual final project.
All the best to you and I'm looking forward to your final text!
displayname7242304
Lehrkraft PlusDear Ute, I like the text a lot too! As the drop ran down her back, I kind of sat there with her and waited, having an almost physical sense of the situation. It has really nice pictures (a desert without mountains of sand) and her thoughts are great, like why she doesn't take the paper cup to the trash can. If you want to continue writing the text, I have the idea of taking waiting and the stretching of time to the extreme, that is, after Monday, now also describe Tuesday, letting them perceive the same details (here you could even working with literal repetitions), having her scan everything almost automatically (which would also explain why she still picks up all these details of the place in your text, even though she seems to be waiting there regularly). On Tuesday, for example, the paper cup could no longer be there, but XY (a detail of the scene would have been changed). Then Wednesday could follow, everything is still the same, the routine of waiting follows, of scanning - only one detail differs again and could ensure that while waiting in your imagination a story is soon composed, which maybe even with her reading, such as speculation about what's going on at the bus stop when she's not sitting there waiting. -- You see, your text already triggers a lot of my own ideas in me because, despite its accuracy, it opens up a large space. Many thanks for that!
displayname7755633
@isabelle_lehn Dear Isabelle, your ideas sound very exciting and promising, "One week and the groundhog" that spices up its own story with a pinch of lemon pepper. Thank you very much! I like it when texts take on a life of their own and everything becomes possible, when everyone thinks their own story further.
I'll try to describe Tuesday in the next few weeks (there's an idea right away :-)) and then put it in the comments. Thank you again for your course, which fires the imagination.
displayname7755633
@isabelle_lehn
@sabine_rieker
:-) Dear Isabelle, your idea is wonderful! It really grabbed me and here it is Tuesday:
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared overnight eight years ago. She didn't fit in with the times anymore. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road that only locals use today, the bus and I.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are set up at the corner of the house. A soft whistling escapes her, an exhalation. How good that the noise is here with me. Maybe the wind blowing through a hole in the roof. I breathe in and out. Calm. As always there on time.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. Just yesterday and every weekday before, I sat on her and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, my brain conjuring up a piece of cream cake filled with cherries. The whole cake is still there, in the freezer. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? He could come soon.
Today I keep the shoes on, sit down. My feet hurt, my skin on my left heel itches and the black crawling things bite. I wipe and scratch. I leave my jacket on and turn up my collar. A hair tingles on the back of his neck. This drives me crazy. I pull a silk handkerchief out of my pocket and slip it underneath, better like this.
It smells like autumn, like mushrooms growing. I take the book out of my jacket and open it in the middle.
Just the whistle behind me, nothing else. When he finally comes.
The paper cup is missing from the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground or in the square in front of the cell. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book is open on the shelf. I don't bother getting up, closing it and hanging it neatly under the shelf. At least that's how it looks like the phones are working here. The mobile phone sleeps in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand.
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing. I lower my head and read the next paragraph.
Wait no read. Time passes slowly, the lines fly away. Everything is silent. Head and heart have disappeared in history. A loud squeak. I jet up, stroll past the phone booths around the corner. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The book is closed and stowed in the jacket. I don't look back
Tomorrow is Wednesday and I'm sitting here again, reading and with him.
displayname7755633
Wednesday
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. What was it like here before it was put up as the final symbol of an end? No sign of the past indicates who worked here. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared overnight eight years ago. "It didn't fit in with the times anymore," say the old people from the neighborhood. Then they shake their heads. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road that only locals use today, the bus and I.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are placed at the corner of the house. No soft whistle escapes her, no exhalation. The wind, which otherwise blows through a hole in the roof, rests. I breathe in and out. In balance. As always there on time.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. Just yesterday and every weekday before, I sat on her and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, my brain conjuring up a piece of cream cake filled with cherries. The whole cake is still there, in the freezer. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? No, she was lying on the bed. There she wore her most beautiful dress. she dreamed He could come soon.
Today I am wearing boots, do not sit down immediately. A shoelace is untied. I put my foot on the crate, the phone booths behind me. A cow on the fence at the end of the hall is mooing. i wobble moo! Unbelievable, a conversation with a cow. My temples are itchy. This drives me crazy. I pull a silk scarf out of my pocket and make a headscarf out of it, better that way.
It's raining like floodgates are opening. I don't take a book out of my jacket, I protect it.
Just the noise from above, nothing else. The cow hid behind the building. When he finally comes.
Everything is tidy in the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground or in the square in front of the cell. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book hangs under the shelf. I don't sit on the box. The headscarf is through. The hair hangs down wet. I stand in the cell. At least that's how it looks like the phones are working here. On the shelf is a piece of paper with a phone number. It was crumpled and unfolded again. I pick up the receiver and wait for the buzzer. I shake my head. I straighten the paper, look through the side glass into the second cell. Hm. In New York there are still four connected telephone booths. The mobile phone sleeps in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand.
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing. I lower my head and stare at the note.
Wait, no put the note in the book on page 328, read the last paragraph on the page. And again. And again. Time goes by slowly. The rain drums on the sheet metal above me. Head and heart fight each other. A loud squeak. I leave the cell, run past the phone booths around the corner. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The note is in the closed book that is stowed in the jacket. I don't look back
Tomorrow is Thursday and I'm sitting here again.
displayname10362390
I really loved this - thank you for sharing it! I read it first a few days ago and came back to read your new comments for Tuesday and Wednesday. I love the bits added, the details. You have a really good pull between the slowness of waiting, the stillness of reading with all of the discomfort of waiting too - the heart racing, the itching of bugs, the hair standing up on her neck. How funny that we both chose the same photo, and both decided that the building had been closed for 8 years. What about it says 8 years? I don't know, just that you and I both independently decided so when we wrote our stories. Thanks again for sharing your story!
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displayname7755633
@rottador Thank you very much, I am happy, and also for reading the sequels and for your comment. Why 8 years? I don't know exactly, I also smiled when I read this number from you. I think 5 years seemed too short to describe the existing decay of the building and 10 years too long, so I chose the middle. All the best to you and the further development of your story!
displayname10388513
@utestorjohann Thank you for your sequels, which I just read with a smile. My thoughts on this include: "Did Ute really take that word for word? Scrolling, reading, yes, fact. That's true. Why not? Scrolling. What effects such tiny changes can have! How much more attentive I read! How calm I become through the scenes, in which little happens and yet enough to keep me from getting bored. Who is Frida? What book is she reading? Where is she going on the bus? It's driving me crazy ;-)"
displayname7755633
@sabine_rieker Hello Sabine, thank you and so that you can read the end, I'll continue to write for the next few days - just be patient - just wait a little :-) - be of good cheer, I'll wait with you because I too have the end of the story I don't know yet, only a vague idea guides me.
displayname7755633
Thursday
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. I shake it. What was it like here before it was put up as the final symbol of an end? No sign of the past indicates who worked here. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared from one day to the next eight years ago. "It didn't fit in with the times anymore," say the old people from the neighborhood. Then they shake their heads. I look up to the roof. A brick will fall in the next storm. He hangs dangerously close to the abyss. I step back. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road, which today only locals use, the bus and I, the reader, who is waiting at the penultimate stop on route number 832.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are set up at the corner of the house. A soft whistling escapes her, an exhalation. The wind flows over the roof in a small loop into the pipes and pants a little. Its gusts arrive like labor pains. I breathe in and out. In balance. As always there on time. I grope for the book in my pocket.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. Only yesterday and every weekday before that I sat on it and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, and my brain conjured up a piece of cream cake filled with marzipan on the table. I could eat the whole cake today. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? No, she was lying on the bed. There she wore her most beautiful dress. she dreamed He could come soon. And then he came and they argued.
Today I am wearing boots, sit down immediately. I stretch out my feet, next to me the phone booths. A cow I call Erna mooing by the fence at the end of the hall. moo! Unbelievable, a conversation with a cow. I pull the book out of my jacket pocket and turn to page 328. The piece of paper with the phone number that I stuck as a bookmark blows in front of my feet. I dialed the number on Wednesday evening. Nobody answered. This drives me crazy. The snippet flutters a little further away. I get up and pick it up with my hands, better that way. There is no wastepaper basket here. I read yesterday's chapter to Erna without asking her.
“The remains of the wall were barely visible. Christ's thorn, blackberries and wild thyme clung to the weathered stones. Their branches covered pain and misfortune.”
We think together about the words and sentences, about what they mean. "I'm illiterate, like you," I say. "Or almost." I spell out a few pages later:
"It was only when painting was the only thing that drove her loneliness away that she thought someone was whispering words to her, but they were words she didn't understand."
Erna moos. "Yes, see you tomorrow." I wave after her. Morning. If only he finally comes.
Everything is tidy in the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground, not one to be seen in front of the cell entrance. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book is in its place. I get up from the box. I look into the cell. There is a sunflower on the shelf. Freshly picked. i blink Hm. There are four payphones connected in New York. These cells are dead. The cell phone is sleeping in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand. I stand in front of the open phone booth. A foot draws circles in the sand. Then I reach out and take the flower and smell it. She was allowed to after summer and Mediterranean food. To southern France and the Tour de France. "He loves me. He does not love me. He loves me.” Yellow petals waft across the street. I put the last leaf between the pages of the book. Learning to read is exhausting and it takes me into another world. I close the book. Its cover is decorated with letters. These are decorated with botanical elements and animals. I've already looked at how many pages it has. 566 is a proud number. He will come!
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing. I can feel the breeze of the bus.
Waiting. I `m smiling. A loud squeak. I get on and crouch in my seat in the middle of the empty bus. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The petal lies in the closed book tucked inside the jacket. Will it be dry tomorrow? The bus driver looks in the mirror and into my eyes.
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Friday
The wooden gate is closed. The lock on the gate is rusting. I shake it like the fact that I've been illiterate for too long. What was it like here before it was put up as the final symbol of an end? Busy and always lying to keep from going under. In the sea of readers one could not find one's way without the alphabet. The mass of illiterates remains invisible. They descend stairs into the basement, darkness surrounds them. Nobody remembers the name of the company that disappeared overnight eight years ago. "It didn't fit in with the times anymore," say the old people from the neighborhood. Then they shake their heads. I look up to the roof. A brick will fall in the next storm. He hangs dangerously close to the abyss. I hung there too. I step back. The paint is peeling off the wooden facade, which once appeared like a cloud on the empty country road, which today only locals use, the bus and the reader waiting at the penultimate stop of route number 832. That's me, a reader! And for him a sun.
The external connection of the ventilation system is blue, like the color of the two telephone booths that are placed at the corner of the house. A soft whistling escapes her, an exhalation. The wind flows over the roof in a small loop into the pipes and pants a little. Its gusts arrive like labor pains. I breathe in and out like a deer in winter. In balance. As always there on time. I grope for the book in my pocket. He'll clap like a kid in the circus. I jump in place.
Behind the phone booths is an upturned crate, wood and sturdy. She smells of coffee beans. Mexico is written on one of the boards at the front. Well traveled and I'm sitting here. I imagine she fell off a ship ten years ago. She bobbed on the waves all the way to the beach behind the hills, where I walk every day. A worker carried the flotsam to the company building. He took out the sisal and they braided a rope out of it. But the sisal hemp lay too long in the salt water, and he that traveled far tore. The rope frayed like the company no one knows anymore. I didn't find a box on the beach, but I did find a bag of coffee beans. I put this under the wooden box. The beans smell like man, like cedar and rum, like grass, tobacco and pine. Only yesterday and every weekday before that I sat on it and waited, thinking about afternoon coffee, running my tongue over wet lips, and my brain conjured up a piece of cream cake filled with marzipan on the table. I could eat the whole cake today. Did Frida once sit on a box and dream of cake? No, she was lying on the bed. There she wore her most beautiful dress. she dreamed He could come soon. And then he came and they argued. She painted herself. Surreal dreams made her endure her suffering. Poor Frida Kahlo. In the cold tropical climate of her hometown, she painted the world colorfully and loved and suffered. Her biography resembles the storm of the sea, her pictures the depths. she fought. Shell beads adorned her hair. In her diary she wrote down the meaning of her colors as if she were naming her feelings. Her house is called "Casa Azul", the blue house. Did she eat cake there? Probably more caramel popcorn and cinnamon biscuits. I lick my lips. Yummy!
Today I am wearing boots, sit down immediately. I stretch out my feet, next to me the phone booths. A cow I call Erna mooing by the fence at the end of the hall. moo! Unbelievable, a conversation with a cow. I read to Erna. We suffer with Frida.
Erna moos. "Tomorrow is Saturday." I wave after her. If only he finally comes.
Everything is tidy in the phone booth next to my seat. Not a cup on the ground, not one to be seen in front of the cell entrance. No one ever waits here - except me. I don't care about the drinking cup. The phone book is in its place. I get up from the box. I look through the glass pane into the cell. There are four affiliated payphones in New York. The ones next to me are dead. The mobile phone is sleeping in the jacket pocket. Here is a desert without mountains of sand. I stand in front of the open cell. A foot draws circles in the sand. they touch each other "He loves me. He does not love me. He loves me.” Yellow petals waft across the street. I close the book. Its cover is decorated with letters. These are decorated with botanical elements and animals. Frida would like that. I'm on page 556. Ten pages to go. He will come!
If he comes, I'll continue with him. My heart is racing.
Waiting. I read. Frida suffers. She dies. Erna has disappeared behind the shed. I forget the time
A loud squeak. I close the book after the last word. I jump up. And squat in my seat. He and I are alone. A hiss and we're off. It jerks. The petal lies in the closed book tucked inside the jacket. It's dried. The bus driver looks in the mirror and into my eyes. We drive to the end station. I get off. He strolls through the bus once and clears up the day's garbage. Tomorrow a colleague drives the round. We take the bikes that are parked at the bus company's fence and cycle home along the beach. His work bag is lying on the luggage rack. Has he brought me a new book? I take a deep breath. It smells of salt, tobacco and pine. Our blue house shines in the distance. The cake is in the fridge. Last weekend!
THE END
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