Laylah Muran de Assereto
Bio
Optimistic skeptic; theatre maker, writer of short stories, plays, personal essays, and poetry; professional questioner of why
Stories (5/0)
The Doc Martens
It was the early 1990s. I was in my twenties and not exactly miserable, but not happy either. My world was changing too fast, and the change was precipitated by too much loss for such a young heart. My days were full of routines that felt alien to who I thought I wanted to be, but I didn’t know how to become anyone else or fight the inertia. Get up, go to work, go to night classes at the local City College, after class maybe get a drink with friends, but more often go home and watch television and then bed. That is if no one was in the hospital; otherwise, after work, I would head to the hospital to sit with whichever ailing loved one it was; my uncle (AIDS), my father (AIDS), my best friend (brain aneurism), my aunt (another surgery). Or on the weekend, maybe there was another funeral or memorial to go to or a family friend who needed comfort and company. It was the 1990s, and death was practically de regueur.
By Laylah Muran de Assereto3 years ago in Humans
Bean Sorting
Laurel always loved to cook. From her earliest years, the kitchen had been her playground. When she was six it was her job to sort out the broken beans and little stones from the pinto beans her father, Joseph, would make. Later that summer she graduated to smashing and peeling the garlic. She was so small she had to stand on a chair and push all her weight to mash the clove under the flat side of the blade. Her father had developed a system of measurements for teaching her recipes at such a young age, she was too young to work with ounces, cups, quarts, tablespoon and such, and so he divided it into “long pour” and “short pour,” “dad sized pinch,” and “kid-sized pinch,” small blue cup with the little flower on its side, and large coffee mug with a picture of the Coneheads from Saturday Night Live. Rice was one small cup of rice and two small cups of water. Mexican beans were half an onion cut in half again, four cloves garlic mashed, one small cup of pinto beans (sorted of course), two dad-sized pinches of salt, and two Conehead-cups of water.
By Laylah Muran de Assereto3 years ago in Feast
The Would-Be Kidnappings
I was almost kidnapped twice, once when I was six or seven in Sacramento (1977) and once when I was eight in Reno (1979). I outsmarted the kidnapper in Sacramento. He underestimated me because I was so young and I figured out how to keep him talking until I could run away. Thank goodness he didn’t grab me, and thank the powers-that-be that he’d used a stupid tactic to try to lure me to go with him to his “house”. Otherwise, I doubt I would have made it. The second one, I recognized as a threat, and ran like hell, but not before he tried to grab us (I was with a friend).
By Laylah Muran de Assereto3 years ago in Criminal
Foolish Flights of Fancy
Carrie loves Paul. Certainly, she does. That he loves her is more or less a given, though she convinces herself that he doesn’t, couldn’t possibly. Don’t ask why, the denials and psychobabble that would follow aren’t worth it. Normally a razor-sharp wit and strong intellect, she is reduced to an idiot-ditz when it comes to him. He is not much better at decoding his feelings or hers.
By Laylah Muran de Assereto3 years ago in Humans