JOANNA LATKA - SHORT STORIES
Joanna has a lantern. She brings great
luminosity into the darker pockets of life.
In that light, sometimes lines embark on a
journey. They start off as little train tracks into Joanna’s world. You sit in
the carriage as they draw a map along the way. The outlines are inquisitive –
and just like in the greatest of expeditions – you feel no apprehension. We
veer around corners, applying the breaks too late and skid into strangers. We
have conversations. A lady in under her hair curling dome tells us all the
gossip. We continue on our way, erratically, boldly, swerving to keep a
straight line, because how else would we travel in this world?
This is a place where dogs have gnashing
teeth as saws, and are taken on walks alongside tired high heels. The journey
continues on a leash, past a woman making her exit onto the desolate street for
a cigarette break. That woman will feature in the story.
A city is emerging. Concrete apartment
buildings squash to fit into the frame. Joanna is looking through the
windscreen. Her art is in these rectangular replicas. Short stories that are
only found between changing gears, in the hands on the pram, the husk after the
lemon had been squeezed.
Some stories are told in the first person
as Joana invites the images to take the reigns. They are unfettered, free to
make decisions, at liberty to make mistakes. It is the very stuff a human
strives to have for his own. Other stories are told in second person. A place
where memories live on cold streets and worn apartment blocks slice up sunny
blue skies. You. Then there is a passenger. The third person. The messenger. A
girl in a blood-red dress. There are blotches of colour that sometimes others
leave behind. A mark. A short story.
Rob Plews
