The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
By James Joyce
Stately plump, Carmen's Mother came up the stairs with a can of Gillette for Women. As Carmen was shaving her legs on the basin that her father brought from his trip to Italy. The texture of the marble rolling like a quite stream in Dublin during spring, the aroma of the local pubs and sounds of joyful cheers of the patrons who yelled like their heart did when it found it's first love, the calling of beautiful sirens looking for a similar love. Love. Love of the world. The love Hamlet had for his mother.
-Carmen! You need to go or else you will be late
-I know Mom! God, I can read a clock...
This obtrusion of her thought was quite the annoyance, similar to how she thought the snake views the kick of a hare's legs on it's throat as a last chance and possibility for survival. How annoying.
-Don't talk to me in that tone young lady!
But both her and I knew that in this day of age no child is protected from the dark world that is right out side that portal of the yard. The once protected and heralded as pure are now as corrupted as the men and women that were sent to protect them from such deviants. The world has no children any more just little men.
-Don't get all up in my case Mom!
-Well let's just see how you like it when your Dad gets “all up in your case”.
-GOD you give me NO freedom!
This constriction of allowing me to be myself is starting to be like a belt being firmly held around my neck, making me cough out my being.
-Well young lady you better head off soon before you get yourself into more trouble.
-FINE
The razor was discarded on the neatly washed and folded wash cloth that was pearl white except for a brown blemish that was left from a younger time that is forgotten in the modern age. Even in this age of information, the moments of our lives are discarded like a dog on the streets of Dublin.
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