Three Stories from the Storytelling Thread
A few weeks ago, I asked that readers “Tell Me Their Stories”; below you can read three of their responses, each very different in content and form, yet equally delightful.
From Kosta Milkov: A Child’s Tale
I am nine years old. My younger cousin and I enjoy the summer holidays preparing our favourite plaything. We'd just been in the valley forests where we cut a thick vine some three meters long. Now we climb the mountain at the foot of which lies the village. Our destination is a centuries old chestnut tree growing at a precipice that plunges a dozen meters down. A strong branch extending ninety degrees from the trunk is a perfect impromptu bar to fasten the vine to. Once the hard work is finished and the vine tested for weight durability, we take the gear for sausage grilling. It’s all very primitive, a pair of coal pliers over an open fire with some really fatty sausages.
With full bellies and greasy hands, we decide it is time to play Tarzan and practice his acclaimed scream „auauauauauau aaaaaauuu“. The feeling is liberating. The vine swings above the trees and while whirring through the air our children's voices are heard far into the village. And then whish, the greasy grip loosens and I am free falling downwards. The forest ground awaits me but the experience is bittersweet. The chestnut leaves have piled into a soft safe bedding, but are also full of chestnut needles. The first day, my palms ache. Every touch is like putting them into fire. By the end of the week the palms have blackened and hardened. The grip is stronger and we have the good sense to get the sausage grease off with some moss. Tarzan has never had so much fun.
From Rebeka Vlaisavljevic: A Wardrobe Malfunction in Style
In high-school I was participating in a movie festival called Giffoni. It is an event originating from Italy, hence half of the crowd were Italians. That year the festival took place in Skopje, Macedonia and the program was filled with watching and debating movies, art workshops, game workshops and the one I attended, the dance workshop. My partner was my close friend from school, we decided to learn the tango. After 3 or so days of learning there was going to be a final performance on the main stage where all the Italian guests (students) their teachers, our teachers and employees of the festival would be. Before I proceed with the story it is important to mention that I was wearing a black dress, a little over the knees and some high-heels, quite modest since I was going to perform in front of my teachers. Lights and smoke machine on, enter my partner and I (also 3 more couples but they are completely irrelevant to the story). We start to tango and we are absolutely nailing the dance moves, not a single mistake, we are moving like one. At one point during our performance i notice my behind feels a little bit more airy than usual, so I pull my dress down and just proceed dancing, not thinking much of it.
We get off the stage, hugging and celebrating our success, when my 2 best friends run towards me with a concerned look on their faces. They used the psychology trick on me, starting with the positive and then gliding into the bad news, so they said: "Well done on the dancing, really great job, but... As of that performance, everyone in this room saw your butt"..... Apparently while we were dancing, my partner would tug at my dress everytime we made a twirl, hence the easy breezy beautiful lightness I felt on my behind.
Comments were made, Death stares were shot my way, but worst of all, this story is just the beginning of many stories to follow involving clothing malfunction, one of which happened in church during a wedding…
From Toni Popov: A Short Story on Silence
"Претеруваш!", вресна жена ми, се втурна во спалната и демонстративно ја тресна вратата. Некое време се слушаше шушкањето на јорганот, потоа повторно настапи онаа истата збудалувачка тишина.
Си го дотурив остатокот од виното и го испив во неколку долги голтки. По улицата пред нашата куќа веќе со месеци не поминуваше никој.
Translation
“You’ve really done it now!”, cried out my wife as she barged to the bedroom and demonstratively slammed the door. After some time, I could still hear the rustling of bedsheets; then it stopped and was once more replaced by the returning onslaught of deafening silence.
I poured myself the remaining bit of wine and took a few long gulps. It had been months now since a single person had passed the street by our house.
Do you have any stories to share? Tell us in the comments below
Stay inspired.
