Scissors by Katarína Mlichová

01/12/2011 21:48

Every true thing must have a story

And you at all don’t need to worry

If you don’t like this one

        - it’s boring

so sorry, dear reader, sorry



you find it sprawling

(out) somehow

in your





Coming out of the back door of our house, which had been making me feel somewhat claustrophobic (smelled of smallness and decadence), well, coming out of its back door, I entered its green garden as every right house must have one. This time it had an odour of a dying summer and of evergreen pine needles, fortunately for my mind so sensitive to dying summers and melting winters. I approached the summer house in the far right corner of the green deep-pile grass carpet, laid over a layer of dark-brown earth supposedly teeming with decaying life. As I was taking my seat on one of two wooden benches, a pair of scissors caught my sight.


Pink and yellow, plastic, nice, extraordinary in a way. There were only two groups of possible owners of the object. My nieces and… me. It definitely was not mine because in that case I would have had to know something about that. It must have belonged to one of the two, perhaps the elder one, that of 11. I took the scissors into my hands and scrutinized it with great curiosity, and then I ran my fingers into two holes formed by two oval frames of yellow plastic. A zigzag movement in the void with a nice doggish snap sound cut the space in front of me and the silence around me into two halves as the utensil revealed two series of nice teeth made of stainless steel.


I remembered an evening at least a year ago in which she, the elder niece, had knocked on the door of my room to give me a kind of present – a colourful littlecleverhandmade something with a nice drawing of what allegedly depicted my boyfriend and me. At that time the identity of my boyfriend was still unknown, but indeed I liked the unique physical features of the potential one on the paper. The thing that really surprised me about the present was the shape of the paper, which had a kind of extraordinarily regular zigzag frame. Amazed, I asked her how she had done that, realizing that even for me it would have been difficult to cut four rows of acute angles of equilateral triangles so perfectly.


She gave me one of those unusual responses children often give adults meaning to beat their obstinate maturity and presumed intellectual skills saying: “Kate, it’s a secret. I am not going to tell you.” Sure she was going to tell me everything because that was just the first stage of a sort of innocent tantalizing me, which was to be followed by my insisting and her surrendering. At least in the normal course of events. The moment this was about to happen, however, my sister-in-law came in and announced that they were leaving for the neighbouring town.


So our conversation had to finish at that point and in the following days I completely forgot about the whole issue. The question has thus remained unanswered until now. Now that the teeth revealed the truth at which I had to smile to myself. I stood up and took the scissors with me with the intention to bring them to Mary, the niece.


Walking back towards the house, leaving behind the autumn house and the restrictions of the world enclosing it, I walked across the green deep-pile grass carpet, laid over a layer of dark-brown earth supposedly teeming with decaying life; handing over all the unpleasant fears to the heavens, entering the house shining like the universe.


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