ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
Bio
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/HER
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
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Stories (193)
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Somehow, Someday
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I will paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; How will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a fix it alright kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, with three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils to cherish in my bag and I said nothing. I fled, I flew, I would return for no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail: I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Housekeeping. Top Story - April 2024.
Reading glasses swinging back and forth, dangling from a drug store string slung around my neck I said, to myself of course, I never want to wear this kind of thing. But now I do, sometimes. I like the idea of relaxing, being a comfortable woman of the home, swinging open the door in a batik housedress, casually welcoming someone in, pets or as the French say, animals for company, something like that. As if pets had no other reason to be. Years of watching women folding, unfolding, refolding socks, sheets, dinner napkins, a lot happens in those moments of freshly laundered piles heaped onto the sofa, better the dining room table as long as it’s clean of course. My grandparents hung it all out in the sun, flopping away without a care, ironing sheets was necessary. When my paternal grandmother died, the very night she passed over the clothesline, into the black heavens sprinkled with sequins of silver, she came to me in a dream. I stood at a table folding clothes, I became aware that there was someone next to me folding as well. I first recognized her hands, red and wrinklie, with age spots. “Nanny?” I didn’t look toward her; she said in her most comforting southern way, “Don’t be afraid.” Then I turned toward the left looking up, up, up, and there she was all in white, a long crisp gown, fresh and smiling. “I love you.” She’d spoke. Then she was gone.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Limitless
Heed! Did you? Turn around, STOP! What the hell were you thinking? I don't know. I just had one foot pressed on GO! I, like a whole lot of us was just getting the hell out of "Dodge. " What is "Dodge"? Obviously it is more than Clint Eastwood and Michael Landon. It's a place none of us want to be once we get there; a dusty, smothering memory, a pit of loss, a nowhere we never wanted to see once, much less revisit. Now people talkabout red flags, auras and " shoulduvknowns" like we could buy them at the corner store or at least be handed an instruction booklet on love, stupidity, STD's and driving license all in one go. Recall, your guides, your parentals or whoever's sitting you down for the low down on love? If so, you are less than 5% of the global population, (of course I made that up).I know one thing. Love has no warning sign, no colour or flag. When it hits, it hits, it is like the old adage, " a ton of bricks". There is not a damn thing you can do about it but ride along.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Tinkerbelle's Side
Tinkerbell hovered impatiently above two dwarf's, that's right, two of Snow White's dweebs who wondered into her fairy world. "What do you want, you gotta be Dopey and Dumbo!" The dwarf's stuttered in awe of her legs dangling above them trying to avert their eyes away from her mossy green threads. " Hey, sorry Tinkerbell, we are, um, uh, duh, looking for Snow White; she's been dropped some date rape molly in an apple and time is of the essence!"
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
The Gingerbread Man
Mormor, ( Swedish for Mother's mother), hummed gingerly as she stood on her very sturdy stool to reach far, far back into the very high, high shelf for the baking goods; her plump white fingers tugged at the shoebox full of tin cutter's, some quite old, older than she, one quite new and sharp. Mice leapt discreetly to the sides of the shelf so as not to fall down with the shoebox, the cherry cheeked Mormor and her plump fingers where they would surely meet the end of her broomstick. Soon it was St. Lucia and this was when her official holiday baking season was launched each year. The winter darkness was a cosy time, one for family sitting around the fire, glogg making, crocheting and knitting with great intent to finishing the grandchildren's Christmas scarves and colourful socks just in the nick of time. In the village the church bells rang and although she would not go to the St. Lucia ceremony this year, her grand-son, Benny would be skating across the well frozen pond afterwards, tromping up the glistening snowy hill that her old red farmhouse sat upon and entering her kitchen with a calamity of excitement. He was always hungry. She threw the ingredients memorised from her mother's recipe into a large wooden bowl, the smell of familiar spices delighted her as she listened to the St. Lucia songs coming from the broadcast on her small television sitting on a small table by the window. Of course she'd already made the Lucia buns in advance so little Benny once defrosted from his frisky jaunt could curl up next to the fire, sip warm chocolaty milk and delight in the spoils of his Mormor's snuggly, warm hearted ways. Being the only grandson in a flock of cousins and sisters was wretched at times, however it gave him more specialness, a sense of well deserved indulgences which he eagerly clamoured for since he was so small that her apron strings swayed above his cinnamon coloured hair. For years they had spent days together, baking, preparing his favourite dinner, mashed potatoes with meatballs covered in ketchup; watching soccer matches on the telly and his specialness grew and grew so very big that he knew that know one mattered more than himself. Mormor had lost her husband before Benny was born, thus showering him with as much affection as she did confections.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Horror
We Float
I am Emma, I can float through city streets, hearing, not comprehending, seeing more than seeking; I am Emma, muted puffs of powdered sky drift over the high, cold buildings. I rest in the translucent voices, radiate in the hums and ahs; I am Emma. Rich with history, my path well worn connects me through language, written, read, recited. I am famished for knowledge, thirsty for newness; I float on home as the train sways left and right, I am just a passenger looking out the window with my eyes closed. I am lost by choice in Waugh, Baldwin, Angelou. I am Emma, flying across the surface as you look back at me; in and out of kaleidoscope faces, no idea of who I am or why.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
No Flowers
No guests, no flowers; that's all she wanted. Sorrow grew like a cancerous tumour, her pain so unfathomable, her mistakes so unforgivable, her regrets, albeit human, allowed shame to steal her hope. Like premeditated thievery, all her doubts and fears broke into her soul, carefully removing bit by bit all of her goodness, all that those around her still saw, was missing. Just gone. Her eyes once playful began to hold the anguish in their reflection; some who cared about her saw it, some who passed by her in the market may have thought, "that woman is tired". Truth is, she was tired. Tired of the fight that everyday life brought her; tired of not just her physical pain, but tired of the redundancies, questions, and the reminders of how not enough she had been.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Unentitled
I don't like to think of you in my sombre hours, why must you torcher me when I've lost my powers? Deep within my R.E.M. you strip away the veil, waking me with a rush, your memories are my hell. You're mocking life as if we had another, you weren't just a man, you were like my brother. The trust now cracked, the sorrow seeping, like broken, blood filled veins, the break grows greater than the cut, each heartbeat is a strain. Like a dam meant to stop the harmful breaching floods, you open up well sealed gates, washing me through soggy muds; I try to crawl up the banks to where daylight beams askew, I pull myself all dirty, out from under the likes of you.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Little Weirdos
You money hungry psycho sage, you mindful podcast pup, you beady, poncho-ed healer, with your herb filled silver cup, you weed lit man-bunned stealer, the runt of your blue blood clan, I want to whack you in the head with "How to Spot a Scam". If only we didn't long for dope on this whacko of a planet, we'd be forced to earn an honest dime like in the old days dammit.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Sighs
She could not have been any better, more thoughtful, more helpful, prettier, smarter; she was bound in thoughts of disappointed sighs, disregarded achievements, broken in shreds of compromise, lonely in her discontent. It would never be enough, that is, to just be herself. She would not be rewarded with smiles, praise or unconditional love; she would know the bareness of love over and over again. Yet she kept wanting the comfort of the womb, the strong arms, the reassurance in their voices, the "it's okays", and the "of course you cans!"
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
