ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
Bio
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/HER
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
Achievements (1)
Stories (192)
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The Wish
In one puff, you were gone, like the wind carrying the fuzzy seeds of the dandelion, you continued, the green stem of hope remaining with me. Between tiny fingers which dug in the rain splattered earth, gnawing for treasures left by survivors, nails painted in pretty pink which had chipped away quickly, like the chocolate bunny's ears missing from eager, stealing teeth. From behind the beds of iris, daffodils or were they buttercups? Blue eyes stopped believing, just for a time, that there were Indian head coins, arrowheads or gold; a mist of loss washed over me, my wishes caught up in the wind with a never ever wanted feeling of losing you, my made-up childhood friend.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Starving. Top Story - April 2024.
Without a doubt, Isabella had an eye for beauty. In the early morning frost, she would set out to walk with Dilly through the thicket behind her grandfather's half standing barn. Dilly scouted for critters in the woods while she carefully etched the ice laden branches dangling from the naked birch and maple trees. Her breath formed a haze around her pale, young, yet serious, face. Dilly leapt abruptly out of the dense wood with wet, forthright paws then pounced jovially upon her drawing. With his own signature upon her pallet, color rose in her cheeks with fury as she scolded the cowering hound; he fell by her feet like a pouty child. Being an easy, forgiving soul, she scratched the back of his neck. "It's alright boy, silly pup."
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
Freckled Fences
Marching in circles, residues of you shape how memories are so misconstrued, like tossing jacks in the yellow, spring sun, dropping freckles one by one; spying a time through ole metal fencing when love like yours was so convincing. Irresistible reminders of long ago days when I was so special, not just a phase.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Stormgrove. Top Story - March 2024.
Before. Before your ignorance we stood tall. Before. Before you, we were the amused. The horned beetles slowly multiplying, speckled resting doe, the golden autumn Cantharellus, the wild swine lumbering toward the ponds edge, all so enchanting. Before you. The swaggering moose, drunk from fermented apples found respite here, with owl, wolf, fox, hare, even the very smallest cells of life found refuge in our bows. Yet you pushed on. Our youngest branches, our eldest and wise were stolen from our families, broken, savagely contorted into what you wanted; was it needed? A shelter from the storm we gave you; the sky dark, yet brilliant with constellations that brought us joy, threatened you. How? Our children were your protection from the winds off the sea, the frigid, unforgiving cold; yet we believed. We believed because all who face decimation must. We are ringed in our matter, our full restitution embedded. We did not erase our homecoming! We mourned our trust lost, or could it be, we saw you as one, in the natural order of existence and you failed to hear us?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
Count Basil
For whatever reason, some stories beckon to be told, retold, over and over again; perhaps the residue of our memories brings back laughter from a place that stores our tears as well; a time when all seemed easy, or easier than now. The complexities of nostalgia circle around us yearning, tugging like children on our shirtsleeves to play; irresistible reminders from far away, yet familiar as the return of March. If we are as lucky as the Irish, the season of renewal rolls around once more. Why this memory; I don't know.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
What Were We Thinking?. Top Story - March 2024.
It's not simple, no step-by-step, no book on a shelf, a conversation eye to eye, a mother's answer, a father's certainty, a kiss at sunset, a bad choice righted, it's done, it's present, it's lasting, it's pain; it happened, it was, it changed you, it changed me, us, them, then, now and always. Words emptied into sighs, skies return to blue, endless, wander, wonder, was, is, could, maybe, only if's. Time, flying flawlessly like diving gulls, towering above one minute, swooping down into the depths of cold, green seas, tossing up a catch, feeding their newness screeching from the nest. Alone, every single atom feels the heart's imprint, good, bad, unknowing, what was yearned for, how it was sought, how it broke us into small bits of flesh to nourish our hunger for something, different, better, less or just kinder? You are who you are, your manner, your dress, hidden, or confessed, it's all ready, to unwrap, release, okay to live for. Don't pull away, nor withhold your dreams, your breath is mine, too. Let them pray, or cry, flail in their naivety; let go, surrender to the beauty of being here as you are, with or without me, them, approval or questions. On their knees, wanting desperately for us to be something other than who we are, it's their lack of Spring, of falling in love, their mourning regret. Never ours to behold.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Last Call
His eyes were closed, his memories calling, beckoning him to take one more stroll, to meet up with someone he couldn't name, to claim his old spot, his favourite table, to have a final whiff of the mead-drenched air, the familiar bartender pulling back the tap to his usual, muck like draft, grinned. He could taste the long ago days, when work was just a way to pass time, to be dutiful, to avoid thinking, remembering all that made him the man he'd become. Just like that he was gone, his mother weeping, his father aware that he could not do anything, nothing to save his own boy. He could smell the day when he was broken by war, hunger, death and perpetual fear. It was of earthworms, of poisonous bile, men spitting, laughing, bragging of the faces they saw in their final state of anguish; the same men who grabbed handfuls of dirt, moistened from melting snow then crammed it into their prisoners mouths. There, now they'd been fed, they'd sneer. Cigarettes, ashes on ashes, foggy mornings with nothing to hear, to touch, to run to. His eyes twitched, heavy and tired, he wanted more than this last bit of life he clung to; he wanted to feel his mother's arms around him, feel her lift him up, out of his suffering, his father to make that well thought out move in the chess game that never was finished. He strolled deeper, back to his first love, her green eyes prodding him to make her his girl; he had kissed her and it was like the first sign of spring, the day the war ended, the sweet bread his mother baked, the strong hug his father gave him when he finally walked through the threshold after his unwanted adventures. She called him from a place with flutes, harps, melodies softly sung; where was this place? He couldn't take his misplaced memories fading in and out; he wanted to escape, just hide in the hay until his life was over, just as he did in the barn, or was it an old train car? He had hidden with another soldier, both too young to have made many choices, there minds had simply been living, soothing, free before the kick at the door. Questions were asked, had he put up a fight? He sat down at his favourite table and sipped his beer, he thought of his wives, his children, chocolate and the bareness of his soul. How could it all lead to somewhere so cold? He'd wanted to make his son's laugh, his daughter feel special, yet how could he when the villains which had such a hold on him sat before him now blocking him from his favourite table, staring at him with cynical smiles, smelling of decay with their skin so thick and meaty. Dare they haunt him as he neared his last hours? He never was what others saw, assumed, projected, felt; he was a constant hostage of his past. It is last call, despite his table full, he stands proudly for his final draft.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Friend
We were never friends; we were enemies forced to become acquainted. I knew it was too good to be true when the specialist said we had to come to an understanding, a symbolic place of acceptance, to live as one. I desperately wanted to conquer you, in fact, I wanted to eradicate you, smother every last bit of you. Friends with the fiend that not only once, yet repeatedly, has stolen from my daily life? I wanted to believe I could be mindful in a graceful way, stop competing with you, learn something profound from you; damn I feel foolish. I saw you sneaking back into my world; I would not allow myself to succumb to your brutal way of showing me some kind of lesson, spiritual growth, whatever they said to name your game. I ignored all the red flags, pushed pass you, denied you existed to everyone. Look at me now; you tawdry show off! We were neck and neck in this ridiculous race for several months, I admit you caught up with me and now we are in a vicious stand off, FRIEND! You are so selfish, wanting all of me for yourself, overtaking potentially truly good people away... again. You run them away, leaving me bowing to you once more. You are to be a challenge, not my problem; screw all of the work I have done to convince myself I could cope, I could blend in with your dominance. Oh, Pain. You have me cornered, I can sense where this is going; I lay here with you now without the mindset, the tools I've misplaced to deal with your greed and want to hit you with my fist, but you will only laugh. Pain, I so wish I could convince you that I am not worthy of your friendship. If I could I would ghost you and never look back.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
