#eva sandoval

[goldenjuniper]

my 2019 undertale ocs... go my girls and theys

[dannygoodmanwriting]

Penny sits at her table. Watches her rose window. She thinks of what she would do if it ever came to that again. She'd do anything. Well, maybe not anything – she isn't sure if she could kill someone, give up her first-born child, or cut off a limb, if that would even help. What do people mean when they say they'll do anything at all to get what they want? Beg for forgiveness? She'd do that a thousand times. Shave her head? In a heartbeat. Quit her program? She'd do that, too. Give up her natural teeth? She doesn't know if she could do that. Maybe it isn't fair to say she would do anything, but then again, she doesn't know what might be asked of her.

Eva Sandoval, "Rose Window"

[fwriction]

“A crinkled old man working the train station bar: leaf-skin delicate hands, shriveled nicotine-yellow lips, an indifferent shrug—Who knows?—when asked if there’s a transit strike tomorrow. Espresso in a tiny cup, black and spattered with pools of sepia bubbles. Torn plastic train seats, graffiti on the windows: Quanto 6 bella, Riccardo + Valentina, Larvetta Mia! Claudio 6 vecchio. 20/4/09.”

Eva Sandoval, "Five Senses: Terracina to Rome"

[fwriction]

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Eva Sandoval’s song selection—to accompany her flash nonfiction piece “Five Senses: Terracina to Rome”—for fwriction : review’s Waffle-Rocking Playlist

[fwrictionreview]

Five Senses: Terracina to Rome, by Eva Sandoval

A crinkled old man working the train station bar: leaf-skin delicate hands, shriveled nicotine-yellow lips, an indifferent shrug—Who knows?—when asked if there's a transit strike tomorrow. Espresso in a tiny cup, black and spattered with pools of sepia bubbles. Torn plastic train seats, graffiti on the windows: Quanto 6 bella, Riccardo + Valentina, Larvetta Mia! Claudio 6 vecchio. 20/4/09. Do not throw anything out of the window. Dust and fat, clingy raindrops on the glass like a Jackson Pollack. Green fields, blades of winter grass parted in the breeze like hair. Orange trees, bulbous with fruit. Houses dotting the landscape: small, red and square. Rolling ochre hills and, hazy blue in the distance, the jagged, witch's profiled Circeum Mountain.

Sheep and cows, lanky-necked horses. Bewildered skinny lambs. The gray remains of a castle, flashing through the trees. The crumbling ghosts of aqueducts rising up from the grass. Blue rectangular station signs blurring past and then drifting into focus, like a waking dream: La Fiora. Capocroce. Priverno-Fossanova. Sezze-Romano. Latina. Blinking fluorescent lights overhead; make everyone look plastic. An African man sleeping, curled up against his jacket. A middle-aged woman in a knock-off Burberry coat; short blonde hair and deep lines framing her mouth. A slim brown hand, slipping a small white card onto seat rests: I am poor and I have three brothers. We have no parents and no real house. We live together in one small room. Please find it in your hearts to give us a little money or something to eat. An engineer's report, shot through with red pen marks. Il Messeggero: Nationwide strike 27/1/2012. A paperback book, folded in half: ... istante, quando questi, all'arrivo del treno di Napoli, era andato a prendere in consegna il cadavere.... The same slim brown hand—empty, plucking the card away. Sleeping college students: her scuffed white Converse sneakers, his arm around her shoulders, their fingers laced together. Train aisles packed and more packed, faces bunched together like grapes. Standing room only at 07:45.

Chiming train doors, chugging open and shut. Whirring train wheels. The superior, slightly mocking tones of Wind voice mail: You have no new messages. Attention: the 4624 train from Napoli Centrale to Roma Termini Station is now in arrival at Campoleone, twenty minutes late. We apologize for the inconvenience. Snores, snuffed out by jacket-sleeves. Wind voicemail: You have no new messages. Raspy coughs, honking noses, rustling cellophane tissue wrappers. Raindrops like drumbeats on the metal train roof. The bubbly accordion section from "Ai se eu te pego" drifting out from someone's cell phone. You have no new messages. You should see Chiara —she's perfect, only fat in the belly and the rest of her looks unpregnant; These strikes have broken my balls for the last time; Good morning Dr. Spezzaferro, it's Claudio Bonaventura. I'm going to be late for my appointment because the train is delayed; Remind me to go to Accessorize when we get to Termini, I need to pick up a new pair of gloves because I hate the ones I have; There's that concert this weekend, that Rino Gaetano cover band, but Mary mother of God I am so sick of Rino Gaetano cover bands, can't we let the man rest in peace; You just upload the file, it isn't that hard, don't be a baby; I don't give a dick if he works late, I mean, I seriously don't give a cauliflower; It's the gas vendors, taxi drivers, trains, metro, and fruit vendors that are on strike tomorrow—you should still be able to ride the bus; Is this door broken? Oh hell. What a toilet this country is. 

Mother: What would you like to give grandma for her birthday? 

Daughter: A kick in the ass.

  Train bathroom: piss and sex. Someone's sour tobacco breath, someone’s banana-coconut shampoo. At Termini, train track exhaust, big city garbage rot. Bitter, heady espresso. Creamy Massan curry from W.O.K. A familiar cologne in Sephora, citrusy and warm. Pungent, earthy homeless man on the Linea B metro. His heady patchouli. Her Victorian rose perfume. At the bus stop, everyone's vile cigarette smoke. Toner in the teacher's lounge, alkaline and sharp. Children in the classroom, salty and sweaty like puppies. 

  I'm sorry, kids, I'm a bit sick: menthol-laced honey cough drops. Enough! Enough! Enough! That's the last time I'm going to tell all of you to be—briny blood. Fresh mozzarella-studded eggplant parmigiana, a slice of delicate rosemary-flecked potato pizza, fatty red sliced prosciutto. Mandarins from the neighbors' garden, sweet and perfect. Yogi peach nectar—syrupy thick. 

  Prickly hoarse throat. Sharp nails in dire need of a trim. Chilly street corner, stinging needles of rain in the face. Standing-room-only on the 14:30 bus to the Metro Station: aching feet in too-tight shoes, the abject misery of twisted underpants. Sleepy. Damp. Sore back, sore neck, sore bitten tongue. Twisted underpants. Sleepy. Twisted underpants. Cold, damp, cold, damp, cold; bumps and bangs on the road, someone's jagged elbow, why did he never call back? Sleepy. Sad. Twisted underpants. He never did call back.

Empty pocket, fingers poking down into featureless fleece. Leather and canvas and slippery sales receipts. You can't do that. The metro ticket machine doesn't take credit cards. Heart pounding, pulse fluttering, a trickle of sweat beading up, pendulous, threatening to drip. Then: Here, take this. Smooth stiff bus transfer, pressed gently between fingers. And: I couldn't. But: I don't need it. Take it. Go, go. Make your train. Tighter grip. An ominous rumbling underfoot, hair lifting in the breeze. So: Thank you. It's extremely kind of you. Heels pounding through turnstile, thudding onto metro platform, landing firmly in subway car. An electric twinge in the right ankle. Fingers tight around cold metal pole. Warmth in chest. Lips wavering into smile.