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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Theo's Sweet-tooth
Chapter One Miss Ulla, despite needing help, refused it. She had lived in her small Swedish village for ninety-two years and wasn't about to leave the house she was born in for an elderly care facility; in fact she would only allow people to leave notes or food on her back porch. The postwoman made one exception for Ulla, that being leaving her mail just inside the mud room door under a weighty stone. The trash collector often skipped her as she rarely threw anything away. In fact, other than a local hunter, Theo, she had not been seen by anyone is the last five or so years.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Chapters
Mr. Sandman
- Damn, it's been a long night. Mr. Sandman laid back within his own shadow and sighed. Every dreamer needs a reminder that he has visited; he did feel his delicate touch was underestimated by some of the deeper dreamers. Each night he placed a bit of small, yellowish grain in the inner corners of well closed eyes. He always stood back and had a good look before moving on to the next sleeper. Over the years he had split up the planet with some, let's just say, sand workers, to be sure everyone was covered. The art of placing sand near a human's eye was not easily learned yet although immortal he actually grew tired of doing the work solo. There was one thing weighing quite heavily upon this legend. Mr. Sandman never had the time for romance, dancing, or any thrill seeking and he began to find his work dull. The world had depended on him for far too long and not with one thank you, just moaning complaints he overheard. Mothers told children to wash the sand out of their eyes before school and in old folks homes nursing aides carefully wiped their patients eyes with moist clothes to freshen them up. What was the point? Mr. Sandman was long, lean and his skin was burnt sienna, like the infamous Crayola crayon. He had seen all the world's deserts from the Sahara to the Patagonian, he had even attended "Burning Man" twice. Funny thing is, no one truly believed him when they asked who he was and what he did and all. Immortality sounds quite intriguing to the fragile, human mind but Mr. Sandman swears it's a curse. No one put sand in his eyes, checked on him to see if he was feeling alright and other than with his understudies, he didn't have anyone to communicate with. One dusky evening, just around Christmas he had what one might call an epiphany. A muse fell into his hands and he felt driven, almost manically so, to become more decorative when leaving his trademark; perhaps then he would at least hear some praise or be the recipient of a much longed for cognisant recognition that would lend some status to his trade. Thus the tale of Mr. Sandman's artistic endeavours begins.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
Long Island Thanksgiving. Top Story - November 2023.
He was cute, cocky, and approached me with an irresistible smile. He'd moved to Vermont to get out of New York, specifically Long Island, and I never knew what he actually was studying. I knew he worked in the city auditorium; was it with lights and sound?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Journal
Belisten
Stop talking, she had said to me while swirling anxiously in circles on her black, leather computer chair. It was covered with a faux fur blanket which she had received as a gift one Christmas; it was something familiar and safe. Her vulnerability was obvious; her all too familiar ways were especially reflective in her warm, brown, almond shaped eyes which barely met mine. She skirted around our conversation. What do you want me to say? I didn't respond with words, yet my mother heart was on high alert, absorbing each syllable as she mumbled, noting her agitated movements, listening with a racing pulse to her words while my unbridled flashbacks of her childhood giggles stabbed through my well-trodden heart. You never listen! I am listening; I feel I am poised, attentive and my dear, cherished, only child how I wish you could feel the love I have for you, a love which will never die. Mom! I sit more attentively. What the hell am I doing wrong here? My eyes are right on her, my mouth is shut, my body language is relaxed, (or is it?) and I am here, ready for whatever she has to say. Nervous, yes. Ill prepared for parenting a struggling adult entirely? Maybe. What can I do but take in her words, let them tumble around as if in the clothes dryer until they settle. Help me out here someone! I am lost as a Mom. Lost. Oh God. She stops swirling about and looks at me as if I can't possibly relate. I hate my life. What do you hate about your life? I try to verbalize my reply, to sound like a friend, a bit casual yet I resent my repressed tone. I am not loved for who I am; I am transgender, and Pappa walked out of my life! Are you daft Mom? You of all people should know how much it hurts to be alive, to be me, to not be wanted! I clear my throat, stand, and wrap my arms around her. I don't speak. I hold her face in my hands and look into her eyes with pure love. My pain is hers. I take her hands and lift them into the air with mine. For one moment we are one; I am familiar with listening to her emotions as they burst from her soul. I hear her sorrow, her plight, and in all my imperfections, I remain steady. Without quivering I select some words but stumble and don't say them. I am thinking, "always as far as time can take us, I am with you." Mom! What have I done now? Can we talk about something else? I let go of her, sit down, and pretend to look at a menu for Thai take-away laying on the coffee table. A few minutes slowly tick by; I look up as she wipes away a tear. I love you, Mom. Handing her the menu she quickly tosses it back. I want pizza; I hate Thai food. You of all people should know that. I do know this. I know so much about my beautiful, hurting loved one, yet I also know nothing at all. Can my love save her? I order pizza. I ask what she wants and she rolls her eyes and turns her back toward me. She has asked for the same pizza for twenty years. I order one large pizza with cheese. Just cheese. She swirls around to face me and blurts out, With olives! Surprised, I add them to the order. I don't know as much as I want about her. Olives? She never eats olives. I am sobbing inside wanting to soak up all her self loathing, stitch her wounds; I'd give anything to see her laugh or smile again. I want her to be happy. Mom? You're just staring at me like a zombie. Can you go now? Of course. I have filled her needs for this particular wave of melancholy. I stand again and kiss her cheek. Leaving her is always hard. Leaving her alone with all of her thoughts stings as I push through a smile. Talk tomorrow? I ask. I am twenty-six, not six Mom. Emphasizing the twenty she sighs and stands. She gives me a hug of reassurance, an unspoken contract that she won't harm herself. Enjoy your pizza. Opening her door for me she ushers me out. Thanks and goodbye, Mom.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
I Smell a Rat
According to wisdom passed from the four elements to the keeper's of all things wondrous, Earth was once in liqued form. Unbeknownst to the Heaven's above an eruption of sorts was taking place and the Earth's water began to emit a rather stenchy, grotesque bile like odor. Suddenly, a repugnancy permeated the entire universe and all that existed in the depths of time. In the heavens, clusters had begun to form in fragments of matter, smaller than a grain of the finest sand. All was silent yet the beginnings of life were developing slowly; the first sign of the senses had been coalescing. There was no sound, no sight, no smell, nor heat or cold before. What the most expansive of all imaginations did not comprehend was the first of all senses had been initiated, thus striking the Universe with this unfiltered fetor.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
