Salomé Saffiri
Bio
Writing - is my purpose. I feel elated when my thoughts assume shapes, and turn into Timberwolves, running through the snowbound planes of fresh paper, leaving the black ink of their paw prints behind.
Achievements (1)
Stories (48/0)
The world post sharks
It started as everything in the US does- with a post on social media. A post that quickly gained the followers and opposers. A post that could have been a joke taken too seriously and photoshop done a little too well. Maybe it was real- I don't know, and frankly, none of it matters any longer. My two cents- had I the ability to go back in time and completely obliterate that post from existence- I would do so in a heartbeat.
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Earth
The cake is a lie
"There is nothing in the world that couldn't be done in three minutes." Some writer had said it. In three minutes I have to make my decision, and I am facing two choices: Either I eat the cake or I have to shoot myself. Pop! FINITO! Simple, isn’t it?
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Fiction
The case of Cockney shark
Bruce First of all, there's a list of words - look it over. And don't skip anything because if you think you will understand what your shark will be trying to tell you, well, I got news for you - ya won't! Second of all - be a well-rounded individual, ya know? Those sharks are wicked smart and you never know what they will be willing to discuss that day. Third.. uuuhh.. Bring soda. Yeah, soda! And DON'T STARE. 'Cos that's just impolite. Thank me later
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Fiction
Special abilities division
"It's time" I say, and with an exhale I enter the Testing Office. My doctor, a pleasant woman is raising from the chair and stretching out her hand for a shake. She looks handsome- broad, round shoulders, thick eyebrows, full lips, but no lipstick. "Androgynous" the word pops into my mind and I lightly shake my head to rid my thoughts of it. She isn't really MY doctor. She isn't anyone's. She works for the precinct as an independent consultant, and, maaan, she knows everything.
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Criminal
Shelter in the field
The tents spread out over night like white mushroom caps - more and more emerged each day of the week. Sofia went out into the morning field, shrouded in a dove-colored haze. She tried to make out the canvas peaks of the tents, far away on the edge of the steppe, when suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure creeping in the predawn mist. The figure moved quickly, often looking around, emerging and disappearing between the stalks. Sofia bent down and looked around: There was an old barn nearby, perhaps they spent the night there, and now was heading to the circus, but why so early? When the figure was completely out of sight, Sofia moved towards the old barn. Gently stepping on the damp earth, she went to the dilapidated doors and opened them with a crunch. "-Mama?" a small voice said. Confused by the unexpected presence of a child, Sofia quickly closed the door, and heard soft sobs inside the barn. She put her ear to the door and said quietly: "Who are you?" The sobs subsided for a moment and the voice replied: "I am Yakub, and who are you?" Sofia opened the door and peered in with one eye. She couldn't see anything at all in the purple gloom and asked: "Has your mom left?" "I don't know" -the boy replied- "But Agata will bring me bread." And he sighed deeply and uneasily. "May I come in?" Sofia asked. "Do you have a gun?" as if by chance inquired the child. “I don’t have a gun ..” Sofia answered confused. "Then come in!" He exclaimed delighted.
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Families
Two shots in the summer fields
Please Queue the song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvspwoZPnrU The sun was slowly climbing above the valley. It rose over the verdant pastures, glimmered in the lively creek and reached the murmuring field, where the golden summer grass gently swayed waking the wildflowers. There, hugged by the neglected weeds stood an old barn. The rays touched the sides of it, like idle fingers, pulling the old paint away, chip by chip
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Fiction
Taste of home away from Home
Hello, reader, my name is Maryam. I come from Ukraine- the land of bounty, the country of beauty and the cuisine of heart! If you have heard of Ukraine before, you probably associate it with the famous red Borsch or savory Potato dumplings? Maybe you know about cabbage Golubtsi or even Chicken Kiev? Yes, yes this is where the the famous golden-brown, roasted chicken cutlet comes from- Kyiv, my hometown!
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Feast
Where the groves bleed ancient secrets
Pomegranate Tile (Please que this song while reading: https://youtu.be/enKo4hXvCvU PROLOGUE My love, my rustling bird, my Arab nightingale Your two eyes are boundless skies You asked me why I was crying as we made love In our garden there were no pomegranate trees
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Feast
A page from a diary
"Today is the worst I dream of liboration! How I wish to give you my heart and for you to accept it. Maybe I will let you kiss me. maybe more!.." -"MAYBE MORE?? Hahaha.. Patricia needs liboration" Exhaled a heavy-set boy with a fire-red hair and shook a flimsy piece of paper he read from. His unpleasant face carried a constant haughty grimace, and his closely placed pig eyes darted quickly from side-to side. In addition his whole being was drowning in freckles, sticking to him like flies to cows' behind on hot summer day. The boy, who fatso was reading to, stood quietly, looking away. His pale cheeks stained by quickly spreading scarlet spots, announcing his embarrassment. He grabbed the paper and ran his eyes across it. Then, pulling out a black sharpie, he pressed the paper to his knee and made a correction: "LibErated" added a few commas and wrote "FOOL" at the bottom of the page. He crumpled the paper and chucking it in the bushes stomped away, with the fat villan trudging behind him. After a few moments a skinny hand extended from the bush and grabbed the balled up paper. There, crouching on dry leaves sat Patricia - the reason for school disturbances and the cause for reinforced vents around the boys' showers. The mastermind of colluding and the president of cahoots. The bearer of torch for Ben and the crusader of broken heart.
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Fiction
Be free
A man pushed the array of handwritten papers and photographs to the edge of the weathered table. Moving slowly, as if held down by invisible muck, he retrieved a yellowed glass box from the side of the room, long absolved by darkness. Not a single roach had rustled in vast rooms of once glorious apartment, not a single spider had remained in long forgotten corners, leaving behind intricate fringes of lacy webs to collect dust and desolation. Only the restless, ghostly Echo still roamed here, tormented by the stuffiness of rooms, filled with decaying antiquities. It devised a game: Echo mimicked the hollow sound of water drop, playfully flicked the tin pan, resonated onto the gilded edge of a wood carved mirror, sticking out from underneath a filthy cloth and... died off reaching the end of the wavelength. "Good effort!" Re-assured itself Echo- "Maybe next time I can shoot further, behind what used to be the bedroom, maybe.. just maybe, I can stretch the soundwave past the velvet baldachin of his odious bed and then.... I can reach the window and break free!" But every time the heavy folds of thick velvet would gently embrace Echo, hollowly absorbing it. And sedated, Echo dwelled in plush prison, lulled to sleep by the whispers of creasing fabric.
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Fiction
Electric experiences
There it is - the night I have been waiting for. I am driving through the brightly lit highway into my future, highway that belongs to the city that I lived in my entire twenty-one years. I am well travelled- (who wouldn't be, living in Europe), but I had never before decided to leave everything familiar behind to enter the great American unknown. All I know about what to expect- is what had seen in the movies and what little I had picked up from a handful Americans I had gotten acquainted with in the last ten years. It isn't much- they all are proud to announce: "The US is huuuge!" or "I'm from Georgia" as if being from Georgia should impress me. Yet, I play my part and tickle their ego by widening my eyes and knowingly nodding in return: "Oooh Georgia? Yes-yes, I heard it is beautiful!". I smile back at the memory, hopeful that now, I am going to the country where my authentic self will be celebrated. Where you can't impress anyone by being "THE AMERICAN" and where everyone is equal. "Goodbye, corruption! Adios, to the never-smiling Slavic faces!" And as if to remind me what terrible life I am leaving behind, a whiff of sewage treatment plant waves goodbye back to me. The August night fell quickly on the city today. I still can make out the silhouettes of skyscrapers on the right bank of Kyiv and a cluster of well lit Orthodox churches on the left. I will miss taking tour groups through my city, pointing at the golden domes of Churches to wonder-eyed Americans and telling them the sacred tales of one of the oldest domains of Christianity. "The domes are golden, because it is believed that when God looks down on Earth, the domes shall reflect the sunlight and catch God's eye, thus letting Him know which country to send His blessings to". And I receive amazed "Oohs" and "Aahs" in return. Or this one: "This particular dome is blue with golden stars can you guess why?" and while my American tour group is coming up with witty answers, I withdraw to my swarming thoughts, among which my mother's advice lingers: "Americans are easy- they love being entertained- like children". I smile; She is one of the greatest entrepreneurs I have met in my life. Suddenly, I am violently jerked from my musings by a suffocating urge to throw up. My father pulls the car over and I tumble out on the grassy curbside. My mom follows me out of the car, supporting my arm. Hot tears are rolling down my cheeks, my stomach, though empty, heaves, as if my whole body is trying to purge itself of memories of my old life. I am mortified: There, fourteen hours and nine thousand kilometers away my new life is eagerly awaiting me: My future husband is buying a new car for our small future family. My future father-in-law is pacing nervously, in anticipation of his new daughter. I fall on my knees and look at my mom and for a brief, comforting moment I am a child again. I am five years old, and I am small. She is looming above me, smiling tenderly and tells me that all is well and she is near. And agonizing wave of adulthood covers me. Two searing streams pour out of my puffy eyes carrying my memories and my emotions. All the words I have said to her, all the things I have done, and she is still here, near me, supporting my arm as I'm throwing up my fears. How can she love me so much and how can I dare to leave her behind? "What date is your ticket for?" I ask mom. "I'll be there soon after you- in December" "It's a half year! what will I do without you?"
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Wander
Who am I, who are We?
A frail woman places her hand in mine - it is almost weightless. Her skin is translucent and I can see the blue spiderweb of veins, each one tenderly weaving and beautiful, like the rivers of Blue Willow pattern on our family vases. "Tell me a story" She whispers and I oblige.
By Salomé Saffiri3 years ago in Humans