Helen Vechurko
Stories (3/0)
Farewell
We are in one of those sizzling summer days when the air is so dense that it seems you can see it moving. The whole scenery of the beach looks like a blurry painting. It is slightly waving when someone passes by. It's been a while since I'm here, motionless, my cheek half-covered with the sand. I'm pressing my ear tight to the ground and if there is a hidden life underneath, I can hear it. Along with the wash, I can spot patches of dialogues in never heard before dialect. In my theory, these are lost and forgotten objects and stories. I don't understand a word, but I keep listening in the hope I can catch a vague voice of something I dropped something important without notice, and now it screams and whispers for me to find. Or maybe it's already dead.
By Helen Vechurko 2 years ago in Confessions
Cut It. I Won’t Cry. Or how one evening adventure can last for years.
When I moved to Lisbon at some point, I felt like a soldier on a mission. Besides the exciting feeling of novelty offering unlimited possibilities to rewrite my entire life, I felt like I had to cut every excessive piece of my personality. Starting with hair.
By Helen Vechurko 3 years ago in Confessions
From Alien to Alien. The true story of his life.
We are in this Victorian-type bathroom somewhere in Amsterdam. It’s few moments before the sunrise. The faint light from the window in a wooden frame painted aged white catches a worn-out ornamented rag in front of the tab. A typical room of a maid who once had tea with Darwin and walked dinosaurs.
By Helen Vechurko 3 years ago in Confessions