Creative writing Belonging
BRIANCA LE
Creative writing: Belonging
A swirl of heat engulfed the outline of my body, its elongated fingers clawed at the edges of my jaw line. Their torturing grips strangled me through the airport security doors. The smell of oil and putrid stench of armpit wafted around my nostrils. Its odour gradually deprived me of rationality and soon dizziness overcame me. Before I knew it, I stood in front of a taxi, outside the airport and already heading towards a thin Vietnamese driver. His bony elbow protruded from beneath a thin brown layer of skin, its leathery texture coated with blistering sweat sparkled underneath the unmerciful sun as he leant against his cab. We exchanged glances and spoke in native tongues. As he spoke his skeletal fingers flick the sweat soaked hair from his eyes. Pointed towards the trunk and flung my Prada luggage beneath the hood.
He turned on the radio to a soft Vietnamese melody and headed towards my grandmother’s home. I sat in the back, watched the passing sceneries in an air-conditioned cab as if they were a movie. I watched as the pale clouds enveloped the sky, engulfed the sun and swallowed my everyday worries. Below on the grassy paddocks kids aged around 6-7, with bent backs and lifted buttocks, worked for their daily meals, knees deep in muddy water, fingers groping pitifully against the blood sucking leeches. Their ‘nong la’, straw hats, hung over their eyes, their dark pupils dilated and fingers numbed at each plunge they made into the murky water.
As the driver pulled over at a gas station, got out and headed towards one of the teenage workers an old man limping with a twisted leg, held raffle tickets in one hand while the other hung mutilated and broken by his side. He begged and begged with a cracked voice choking on each word that sipped from his lips, “Plea, pleeease I beg of yuu. Lelp me, mee poor. I haave noonthing.” His elongated fingers slipped through the window and begged for money. I stared at his desperation
Creative writing: Belonging
A swirl of heat engulfed the outline of my body, its elongated fingers clawed at the edges of my jaw line. Their torturing grips strangled me through the airport security doors. The smell of oil and putrid stench of armpit wafted around my nostrils. Its odour gradually deprived me of rationality and soon dizziness overcame me. Before I knew it, I stood in front of a taxi, outside the airport and already heading towards a thin Vietnamese driver. His bony elbow protruded from beneath a thin brown layer of skin, its leathery texture coated with blistering sweat sparkled underneath the unmerciful sun as he leant against his cab. We exchanged glances and spoke in native tongues. As he spoke his skeletal fingers flick the sweat soaked hair from his eyes. Pointed towards the trunk and flung my Prada luggage beneath the hood.
He turned on the radio to a soft Vietnamese melody and headed towards my grandmother’s home. I sat in the back, watched the passing sceneries in an air-conditioned cab as if they were a movie. I watched as the pale clouds enveloped the sky, engulfed the sun and swallowed my everyday worries. Below on the grassy paddocks kids aged around 6-7, with bent backs and lifted buttocks, worked for their daily meals, knees deep in muddy water, fingers groping pitifully against the blood sucking leeches. Their ‘nong la’, straw hats, hung over their eyes, their dark pupils dilated and fingers numbed at each plunge they made into the murky water.
As the driver pulled over at a gas station, got out and headed towards one of the teenage workers an old man limping with a twisted leg, held raffle tickets in one hand while the other hung mutilated and broken by his side. He begged and begged with a cracked voice choking on each word that sipped from his lips, “Plea, pleeease I beg of yuu. Lelp me, mee poor. I haave noonthing.” His elongated fingers slipped through the window and begged for money. I stared at his desperation