aZida’S hIgH hEelS

Everyone likes Azida’s high heels.

In that room, She is the only maid wearing high heels. She serves wine. She covered her face with white mask. Past six years that high heels holding her yellow legs. Her beauty never resisted to smile for groundses. Her small breasts, lean shoulders, oval shape face, slightly bald head are not Azida. She is not representing her name, living beyond the meanings of her name. Her height has nothing to do with the high heels.


She can read anyone’s mind from their tones. She was trained to understand the attitudes of different voices.


She don’t want to spend any words to anyone. Living alone in her basement.


She won’t lend her high heels to anyone.

“Change the mood of moon, ignore the stones and never mind about Oxygen”

“I can’t remove my high heels. Don’t insist me”

She stopped thinking about her mother because of her instant orders. Her dominant mother was the only reason for those cigarette burns on her wrist. A wild midnight was the only witness for killing her own mother by a kitchen knife.

“Azida, run, run from this place. Don’t eat, be hungry, increase your height”

A voice pushed her. A breeze sliced her eyes, popped out tears drawn a straight line on her cheek.

“Aren’t you curious about heights? Sitting on your chair, a dim light with draggy openings, cold look, incomplete love, heeding the missed calls. Comb your hair, my Azida. Check your lips, never let it dry. Grin like an enchantress.”

She finally got a wall to paint all her stories. A piece of help adumbrated to spell about the needs of frames to fix it around the repeated desires.

Azida ran outside to check the cloud riders who knows about her high heels. The nudity of sky laughed at her.

In her basement, collected men’s kisses are flying in a cage. Sometimes she allow them to fly inside her doorless room. Her body was departed with different selections. Ambiguous deconstruction methods are handling by obstinate conformist. Imitating inspiration needs to owe. She wasn’t hurry to finish up the story, not searching for end, felicitous or nausea. But her height increases at the pauses where there were no lines and voices. The possibilities are sealed, depths are accounted, predefined trusts are simplified, muring thoughts, twisted neologisms. She realized that some doubts were drained. Again the pauses are started to grow and the propositions are chatoyant.

Azida’s high heels are not accepting her legs to grow. Hairs on her legs are always predefined to seduce those widowers and divorced men in that room.

“where did you buy this high heels?”

“Someone made for me”

“Who is it? One for me, one for me. Would you care to ask him to do one for me?”

“I made him to do it for me. I tied his hands above his head, gagged his mouth by rubber balls, dipped his naked image in a bathtub that was filled up of olive oil. Then he accepted to do one for me. His measurements were only for me. He died in my hands during the last rainy day. Death reasons are befogged.”

The scared fille left the place like a wet cat with her long haired boy friend.

Azida started to refine the known secrets for the evening birds with her multicolored high heels.

This entry was posted in Ambiguity and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to aZida’S hIgH hEelS

  1. Dennis says:

    fuck! thats a trippy post man…

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