Maeria

The shiny red tomatoes sat comfortably (almost happily) in their baskets. Huge cabbages with glossy green leaves were piled into a deep wooden box, the green peeping out in some places. In a much larger basket (one with the wicker darkened by dirt and so worn it looked almost wooly in places; they'd taken to calling it the Disgruntled Sheep basket) were the potatoes. Large potatoes, all different shapes, with a small dusting of soil still on them. Antonia vaguely wondered if she was in heaven. It had been a wonder to discover herself a rural sort of girl. She'd expected to hate the dirty, farm simplicity, and in a way she had, right at the

Dear Grandma, I'm sorry we haven't been able to phone you, but you'll remember how Mr. Connolly is just in the process of getting himself reconnected to the world outside this pretty little dollhouse of a place; we have to drive down to town to communicate with the external world, and what with the work we need to do over here, there's been no time the past two weeks. I've got a lot to tell you, so I wanted to send you a little something via snail mail. I can't tell you how glad I am about the phone. You know, when I first came, I was afraid I'd accidentally walked into the 1860s? What with the house being up in the hills, no internet, no

"I'll just take another of those nice chocolates, if you don't mind Antonia." Connolly, who'd been sticking the ear of a mug back where it belonged, peeked over the edge of the basket (May basket?) where the ribbon had started to come loose. "All yours, old man." Antonia pushed the basket slightly towards him and pretended she couldn't see the secretive smile that the old man had been wearing since her May Day visitor had gone back down to town. She'd never pegged him for one of those match-making inclined old people who smiled smugly whenever two people of the opposite sex happened to end up in a slightly amusing situation, but then she'd n

"There's something…something magenta in the grass." With a nice, light breeze calling her out, and maybe a little at Connolly's insistent prodding, Antonia had wandered out into the hills. After the far less than pious Semana Santas of her teens and the last quiet, solitary ones she had spent with Grandma, she'd welcomed going to hear the Holy Friday sermon as the old man's support. His pleasant, reflexive nature and the size of Toradh combined had made her feel welcome: lots of people walked up to them before and after the service to ask about his health, chat a bit about crops and planting conditions, acknowledging her with smiles. E

Hay cosas que no se deberían saber. Saber de las cosas, se supone, disminuye el miedo que estas nos produce. Nuestra mente, cerrada por el terror, se abre, y como agua por un colador, el miedo se va. Pero a veces lo hace más fuerte, porque la realidad es tan diferente de lo que nuestra mente y nuestra alma sentían y esperaban, que no existen palabras humanas para describir el desequilibrio que eso nos causa. Nos cuestionamos hasta el aire que respiramos. Nos parece que la vida se vuelve un juego de infantes y ni la tragedia más grande nos va a regresar "el sentido". Estamos ante un tablero, una maquetita que se toma demas

It is December, and the mall is decorated with its regular array of tinsel and great ribboned wreaths. Each store and each stall has its own, clashing style of décor, from modern Christmas trees made into funny angles and hung with geometrical shapes in strong colors to traditional ones with plain red-and-green ornaments, and even a few with the simpler, corner-store bought paper wreaths. There is still some time to burn before Christmas, but buyers are pouring in from all the entrances, enveloped in a sort of shared excitement, be it for the holiday itself or for the prospect of gifts, and very few have come alone. She is not one of th