ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
Bio
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/HER
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
Achievements (1)
Stories (191)
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Sad Songs. Content Warning.
I knew who Roberta Flack was at a very early age; God knows I heard every song she sang. I love her still, yet undoubtedly she reminds me of him. Daddy sat with his record player on the floor, his legs crossed in what some called, "Indian style" which by the way is not correct to say now. I don't know any other word to describe it though. He would smoke Marlboros, drink cheap beer or dark wine and cry. Daddy cried a lot. I did not know why way back then. As a broken woman now, well, I guess he had good reason. Nothing soothes the soul more than music. We remember who we are, where we were, why we smiled, all because of music. Late at night I miss him despite his need to keep moving, not only place to place but woman to woman. I was his only until I wasn't. My Momma loved him even when he was cheating, threatened with statutory rape by an underage girl's parents and that left us broke, Momma scarred and lost in his wake. Momma took up more than one job and he didn't help us one bit. He told everybody he did help us though. He was always so charming, as smooth as chenille, and oh so handsome just like a movie star. His lies were so believable it made anyone who contradicted him look bad, let's just say, he had a hold on people; good people who believed in him sometimes questioned other good people who were also up against a wall with their truths, their own 'believe it or not stories', that were entwined with his lies. There were so many others than me with their own broken up dreams, their need to feel safe, to be heard. I was part of his tribe until I began to remember and as always girls like me are just considered delusional. I have half sisters and brothers, too. None of them really want to know my story 'cause it messes up theirs. I remember his fourth wife coming to live with us. She did not want a daughter older than she, I mean who would? She believed in him after I had given up a million times and damn, she was cold. It was clear there would be no place for me in my nostalgic, narcissistic, father's life once she set foot in the door. Where should I be, where should I go? She not only wanted me out from my father's home, but just gone, like in disappear. It was a slow burning fire and I was not about to see my, at that time, only baby sister be distanced from me. Suddenly, at least to me, this wife became the accessible one, the reliable one, the Alpha. Losing my baby sister's faith in me when I had taken care of her alone, when he was drunk and falling all over the place felt like a wasp sting in the heart, hell, a whole hive of wasps stinging me to near death. To watch him manipulate and groom this new woman younger than myself was, and still is, an unnerving experience. I know deep down my sister loves me, yet she became the good one and nobody saw the good in me anymore. So, back to my father's love of a good time I remember us flying down the highway in a convertible and blue grass music was blasting; I hated the wind so I was scrunched down into the backseat floorboard. He had a girlfriend I liked a lot who had a dachshund named Lucy. Anyway, in that little space between two leather bucket seats I saw my daddy's hand slip over to his girlfriend's legs, then he moved it up to the top of her pants and wedged it down the front. What the heck was he doing? He then started talking about cotton, rubbing her and saying how he missed her little cotton. I was frozen. It did not come to my mind until I was a young teen; after babysitting somebody from church's kids the father drove me home. He smelled like booze and at a side road he slowed the car down, he put his nasty hand on my thigh and leaned in to kiss me. I knew right then to push him away as no way he was going to try to touch my cotton. He said something about he had the wrong impression. I was fourteen, what impression did I give him? When I got home and went inside, just like always I said nothing. The wife of this man would call and ask me to babysit and I'd say no and Momma didn't understand; I was so afraid to tell her. What is wrong with me? I ask myself this a whole lot lately. My little me pushes through and wants grown up me to deal with my creepy past; I wish my memories could be stolen. I'd do anything to sleep through the night and not remember no more.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Somehow, Someday. Content Warning.
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I vow to paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; how will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry, a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a "fix it alright" kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, short three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils for me to cherish hidden in my bag and said nothing. I fled, I flew, yet I would return. For no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail. I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Two Parakeets on a Wire
So, I says to the ole lady who's hell bent on calling me Stella her favourite few words, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea", she laughs, he gets her the beea from the fridge and one for himself, too. They were watching other people talking which apparrotly amuses them just as much as I have and start gettin' kinda silly, you know in the way humans do when they have nothin' to do but drink beea and munch on chips. Out of nowhere while I am dozin' on this kid swing they had in my prison cell, Jimmay gets up and stumbles by and says, right at me mind ya', "Hey little Stella, I bet you want out of there; have you ever used those pretty wings?" He unlatched the opening where they stick there fat hands to give me the same crap of tropical bird blend every morning and then he tries to touch me; I felt so helpless, kinda violated if ya' know what I mean. So, he ruffled my feathers a bit and he backed off sayin' "didn't mean to scare ya' little Stella" and he plops down next to my ole lady and starts watching people talk again. At first I hesitated and just pushed the little door open a bit with my beak; I perched up on the edge neither in or technically out of the joint. I see that the window is clearly open and decided, it's now or never. I flew the coop, never looked back and wound up at a park full of little people shouting and sitting on the same kind of swing I had, but bigger of course. The sky starts to get dark and part of me thought I should get back to my ole lady and Jimmay, you know, kinda spooky like the Stockholm syndrome. I mean, they fed me and thought I was cute and all. Then, I overheard some fowl feathered tree mates laughing about me. I didn't understand them at first with their pigeon like accents but I did make out that they said I was a male named Stella and it was hilarious to them that I didn't even know what I was. They went on to say that if I survive the night I'd best wind up in a zoo with "his kind". Geez, I was terrified. A zoo? I didn't have a clue what they meant and thought it best to leave the tree then, before it was too late. I flew straight back to Jimmay and the ole lady's apartment but the window was closed. I sat all night on the ledge and said, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea" over and over but noone came. I was mortified. I could see through the glass my tropical seed blend, my full water bowl, my little swing and started to bawl my eyes out. That's right when you flew by. What are the chances of somebirdy lookin' like me in this town? I followed you, discreetly at first so as not to spook ya' and well, I just wanna say thanks for sharing with me the survival skills you've mastered. Here we are, eh? A paratweets sharing fruit in a junkyard, haha. - STELLA! - "Now that was loud!" - Could you shut your trap for once? - "Sorry master, I was taught that talking was a real treat". - We are tropical birds in a dump on Long Island, that's it, that's what we are. We ain't show birds no more, we're homeless, and my name is Mister, not master. It's short for Mister Avery Johnson. Got it? - For once Stella was quiet, his head drooped to the side sadly. Making humans laugh was how he'd spent the last three years and here he was with his mirror image staring at him with grumpy eyes. His last words to Mister Avery Johnson, or anyone for that matter were, "I promise not to say another peep".
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
My Aspirations With The Vocal
As much as I love to write, be challenged and to have deadlines which generate motivation, (ummm, usually), my goals are very focused regarding The Vocal this year. I want to read each and every entry. Why? Writers who do not read others creations become stale, stagnant and self absorbed. Getting one's story listed as "Top Story" or included in " Writers We Are Loving" has been the sort of a place I find myself wallowing about, wondering too often why my piece didn't make it and it leads to me not writing. Challenges can be fun, however, in the last year those who won first prize or had honourable mentions got my attention right away. Now I am digging in and like a determined detective I am going to unravel each and every gem, study it, read and re-read and pull those who are in the wild depths of The Vocal up and out them for review. I do have books I need to read and books I need to continue to write, but as Barbara King wrote, " Writing a Novel is a Marathon, Not a Sprint. We who are driven to write more than short stories need to sit back and breathe, look for other angles and most of all ask for and get some feedback. That is my primary goal. If I submit a story or poem I'd like to see more members commenting on it's substance, word choice, or hear how it might have been bettered by a simple comma. I want real feedback not just someone writing " good job!". I have read plenty of my own writing and know without a doubt it was not a good job, it was pathetic and lifeless, congealed from some brain cells on their way out of town. Learning from others is critical. We all know that our art form is one that is under valued; very few of us make it to the screenplay of our dreams, much less find ourselves discovered by a writing scout from The New Yorker or are even reshared here, in this very platform we are so devoted to. The character it takes to hit and miss repeatedly and not give up is astounding. In the old days rejection slips were stuffed in shoe boxes and hidden in the back of the wardrobe; now no one bothers to even thank us for our submissions. That says everything about being a writer's writer. May I persevere to be encouraging, supportive, candid and devoted to my fellow Salinger's, Keats, Angelou's and Pratchett's. Your work, your gift and drive are just as integral to the process as my own and it should be no other way. I will admit there is a lot of catching up to do; new genres to delve into, stories from years ago that are growing dusty in The Vocal's silver lined cellar, and to boot more submissions are coming in every day. It is probable I will not meet my own standards as I have been known to slip and slide on resolutions and aspirations previously, yet I frankly have been in an impermeable rut; I admit to staring at pens, pencils, paper, keyboards, the ceiling, the dead birch tree out my kitchen window, napping, scanning the cupboards for something to snack on, trying to read my palms, stoking the fire, watching Britbox, and just about everything one can do but write. Is it just January? I asked myself. Myself highly doubts the month is responsible for my fiddling and fuddling. So now at five hundred and ninety words, (almost), I write to all of you who are following your dreams, creating masterpieces and honestly some real bombs as well, I announce with fervour, without further delay I will be reading YOU, watching for your next publication and as often as the sun rises and sets, ( that might be a slight exaggeration), I will try very much indeed to comment, be real, plunge into the miles and mountains of words you put forth and give you the read you deserve. If you are looking for quickies like "Excellent", "Well done", or "Amazing" might I remind you this is not a blind-fold taste test but my real thoughts and meanderings regarding your portfolio of nouns, adjectives, synonyms and imagination. Hail to all creators out there, make sure to watch your P's and Q's! Cheers to another year around The Vocal!
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Writers
The Dragon in Me
Swelling, smouldering, burnt beginnings, casting amber forms rendering, Warnings, smoking, inner soot, charring breaster, basting, cooked, Creation, never tasting, sucking, stealing, cell by cell, wrathful, raging, Always stewing, pushing, scheming, slashing dreamers, queendom's sun Rising, grasping, determined, done, brave beast birthed, conquering life, Challenged one, cracking strife, bloody thirst beckons, persevering reckons, Feminine fiasco, unleashes mountains of memories buried yet still known, Decades, eons, castrated centuries, cultivated screams, hatching ashes, life Unseen, doubt stripped, re-equipped, repossessed, enough tests, ancient Wisdom never rests, pride buds, tongues hot, breathe in, it's time, she's Done, first inhale cold, sweet air, exhale flames, dare not scare, stand tall, Face oppressor, retreated place, tiny dragon needs fertile space, fiery eyes, Look into thine, bowing, owning, gently, ne'er toiling, hand to hand, chain Disbanded, links, unlinked, chains fall, then sink, back to Mother where Life begins, in the womb of the Dragon's den
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Go On, I Dare You. Top Story - December 2023.
Eggnog. Nope, allergic to dairy. Hot buttered rum? What did I say? Ecologically cool gift exchange? Nope. Santa is thinking COAL. Being naughty is a true contradiction of Santa's nature; huh? You don't believe? Look in your stocking that was passed down to you from great Who & Who and if you find coal, you AND Santa are guilty.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
Plugging Sheepishly
Hi all, I am now taking the leap to share my first YA novel; " Tea With Nanny". Promoting others is always easier than promoting myself. It's available on under my previous surname, Andrea Simmons. My grandmother urged me to complete this story which I began years ago in a creative writing course. Years later, after she passed on, I gave it a go. It's a piece from my heart; I learned a whole lot about writing and hiding under my bed waiting for feedback. Like fine wine, our writing improves with age, ( unless it's from a box), of course.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Writers
Don't Cry. Content Warning.
She sank deeper within herself, plugging into the Lo-Fi that soothed her heartbreak via her new earbuds. -If I don't hear it it isn't real-. Constance, a name she hated from her girlhood was now someone she no longer knew. She could be anyone, "Maria", "Patricia", "Helen"; but she knew she would not be "Hope".
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
