Red roses, Red Christmas (an immigrant's documentary) - fiction
“ I shall pass” that was the last line of the poem the lanky latin guy in a red jacket read. His hands twitched on the microphone’s stand like he meant every single breath in those words. He tapped repeatedly with his shoes on the red carpet. The carpet was dusty, I saw it puff brown wipsy slingshots under his shoes. He stopped reading, the audience clapped. I only bit the edge of my lips, stunned by the bold expression of extreme sorrow on his face which the audience didn't see or refused to see. He dropped his head to the side smiling like an actor forced to act a script. I picked my red Christmas hat and exit through the back door of the auditorium. A young lady called out to me when I was a few meters out. I looked back turning only my head, the rest of my body wanted to go somewhere else. Where? I didn't know. She came holding a few copies of a book in her hands. “Merry Christmas" she said smiling. At sight, I found her energy too appeasing. She came close, her eyel...
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