Tag Archives: loss

Edge – Trifecta

23 Feb

 

Here’s what this weekend’s Trifecta is all about:

“This weekend we are playing another type of word game with you.  Below are photos from the 33rd page of one of our very favorite books, Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge.  What we want you to do is to scour the page (click to enlarge), choose 33 words, and reshape those words into a piece of your own.  Your piece does not have to tell an entire story.  We just want to see what you can do with this particular word bank.  Punctuation is up to you.  Use whatever you need, whether or not it appears in the photos.”

 

 

I absolutely love this!  It has bones and flowers and children and rifles, such intriguing contrasts. Here’s the 33 words I chose:

 

Blackness carried him along

Wild woods of his mind

Starflowers so hollow-boned

Entrails of umbrage

Ripping, flapping panic

So hidden

Beneath the green leaves

He picked up the rifle

Edge of life came

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By the way, I love you

21 Feb

Image source:
pickywallpapers.com
I own no rights.

 

So struck, stuck with feelings.

Feelings… Does that word make you quiver a little bit? Because it makes me sometimes.

That’s where I have been the past few weeks; feeling the days away. There’s been a lot going on, good stuff mainly and a bit not so good stuff, all merrily bunched up under an umbrella of overwhelm. I’m aware that ‘stuff’ is not exactly the frontier of articulation. But that is really why I’m writing this! To ask you:

Do you ever turn into a very promising BBC Weatherman or a woman wannabe? You know, when all you want to do is gag out how you feel.

But instead you find it is so much easier to state ‘What a lovely day it is’ to an elderly lady standing next to you on a bus stop.

Why is it so hard to tell someone that they’re precious, important, dear to you? Or that we’re hurt. Or upset. Why do we feel the need to hide our tears when we get emotional in the cinema or under a vast starry sky? 

We use by the ways and anyways and casual dressy phrases to turn our emotions into casualties. To shove them away.

But do we really need to hide?

We all cry, laugh, scream. We all feel. We all quiver. We all lose our bearings and words and freeze to the spot.

But the difference is, getting lost together is much more fun.

That way you have a hand there you can hold onto in the dark. And when the morning comes and you realise all the shadowy sounds were just your imagination, you can be the spark behind their smile. You can be a burst of laughter, a shrugh of relief. 

So now, if you let me take your hand again, I’d like to get lost with you. Lost in words:

 

Swimming by

 

We live by each other
We pass each other by
In silence
Casual by the ways
Seeping from our mouths
Our tongues parched papurys
Mute tombs, torn gardens
The longing spoon's clinking
Against our solitary coffee cups
As we drink black mornings
We stir through them alone
So careful not to twist our ankles
In the craters of perplexion
We scatter behind, ahead
As we live by
Goodbyes never uttered
Words trickling through our fingers
Like sand taken away
By the waves
Salty ocean tears, rocky boats
Duct-taped souls
So clumsily fixed and ripped
Open
By the tempest
The nature pulling us out
Thunderstruck
Our eyelids
Heavy curtains
Thrown up
White phantoms swimming
In the air
Finally
So light to look
So light to see
A flash of simplicity
Lightning bolt scarring the sky
Pain passing so swift
Leaving our hearts to be
In peace
Reaped by the dawn
We reach
Bring our hands forward
Open bold barefaced
We live
We live
We live by love

Growing death

3 Feb
Image source: dailymail.co.uk

Image source:
dailymail.co.uk

Growing death

 

Your dainty body
Immured in goodbyes
A dry, silent pleading
Lolling out of your mouth
Your swollen tongue
And taste buds
Like overripe berries
Bursting
In their longing
To be covered with a blanket
Of fresh air, once more

In answer
I brought your hands
To my lips
Kissed them into a handloom
Allowed my warm breath
To become a spinner
Diving for your wish
To find it nestling
In the gullies of time
Lining your palm
I gave them all my air
Till they were fresh valleys
And your green eyes suddenly
Wet grass glistening

Then I took a deep drink
Inhaled your soul
Drew out of you
A raindrop thread of life
Pieced it gently together
With my teeth, felt it
A Nightjar flapping
Pushing dawn along
With its wings
Your wings
Curled to rest on my tongue
I ran, ran, ran
Out to the open

There I freed you
Blew you out, head rushed
So you could feel again
The sprinkle of spring
In the air
That was when
I heard a deep gasp
The whole landscape
Sucking its breath
To welcome you
That was when
I understood the halo
Life’s perfect mosaic:

Your smile
Bowing like a rainbow
On the sky
Tying together the miracles
Of earth and air
Your mouth open
To greet the delicate taste
Swirling in the wind
The taste of overwhelming
Overflowing, growing life
You, laid to rest
With the whole world
Imprinted on your eyelids

Hunter of El Dorado- Daily Prompt: Ripped from the Headlines!

14 Jan

Today’s Daily Prompt:

Head to your favorite online news source. Pick an article with a headline that grabs you. Now, write a short story based on the article.

 

Ooh, fiction fuelled by facts! How could I resist!

I picked mine from BBC’s website. It’s  El Dorado- Truth Behind The Myth,  and it discusses recent archaelogical research that has comfirmed El Dorado, the ‘golden one’, to be not a city but a person – a ruler so rich “he allegedly covered himself in gold from head to toe each morning and washed it off in a sacred lake each evening.”

Originally I clicked on it because I loved the animation film The Road to Eldorado when I was little. But reading about the old customs and rituals of the Muisca people actually got me  thinking about man’s search for riches, our society’s views on money and what we find desirable in life.

“Within Muisca society gold, or the more specifically an alloy of gold, silver and copper called tumbaga, was highly sought after, not for its material value but for its spiritual power, its connection to the deities and its ability to bring balance and harmony within Muisca society. As Muisca descendant Enrique Gonzalez explains, gold does not symbolise prosperity to his people.

“For the Muisca of today, just as for our ancestors, gold is nothing more than an offering… gold does not represent wealth to us.”

–  Extract from the article El Dorado- Truth Behind the Myth

So, are diamonds really girl’s, or man’s, best friend ?

Hunter of El Dorado

He remembered the day he lost his sight clearly.

One morning he simply woke up and found that he had lost his eyes. Instead, he now had diamonds crushing his eye sockets.

As he blinked wildly, he felt them drilling their way deeper, their spiky tips cutting on his retina and optic disc.  He felt an ache trickling down his temple, back of his neck, his spine. It was followed soon after by an insane panic, the fear that his diamond eyes would suddenly shatter and send million knife-sharp spalls into his brain, blood stream and bone marrow, paralyzing him forever.

In his mind, he could already see himself helplessly lying there, like some child’s abandoned ragdoll, just waiting for death. Till one day, his neighbour would be alerted by the smell of his rotting intestines and would finally find him, only to discover it was too late. He would be pickled and stored away in a museum, caged into a glass cabinet for everyone to goggle at like some freakish zoo animal. Here it is, ladies and gentleman and all you snotty kids, a sight so gruesome it might eat your eyes! Are you ready? Witness a man, a monster hardened by money, a hunter of El Dorado, cursed to watch life through diamond lenses! Heeeeere he is!

He could hear the gasps and shrieks of the audience. A middle-aged woman covering her child’s eyes. Don’t look at him Edith, he must have been a bad man.

Was he? A bad man? Just a foul shell of a feeling person?

It shocked him that he had never even considered this before.  Never… that word was like a fat exclamation mark laughing and pointing at him, a proof of his inadequate nature. He had the feeling of entering a room confidently, in a dream, only to find he was stark naked. Heads turned, chatter was sliced into silence. Eyes spread wide in shock-white faces.

No! This was not him!

He was leather briefcases, polished skin like precious china; he was a blank slate to be tinted with the most flattering shades at the start of every press conference, such colours that would complement everyone in the room. He was successful, smart, business. But underneath his Armani suit, he was empty.

But why now? Why today? What was this, distorting his vision?

He tried to strain his eyes immobile and unblinking, squeeze them into clarity, but in vain. His sight was ever more dispersed. All he could focus on was light, random and chaotic lustre racing in front of his eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of sick joke; his mind repeating again and again the flickering light of his bedside lamp, the last thing he had laid his eyes upon. And whether his vision would be entirely different, happier, had his last sight been lover’s hair falling in loose twirls down their neck. Would he then see only love?

Nauseated by his own thoughts, he finally forced himself to move and fell out of his bed. He crawled on the floor like vermin, trying to find some shelter, a dark hole that would guard him from the firework display dancing on the surface of his irises. Instead, he found a wall to support himself with and he lifted himself up slowly, only to face the full horridness of his condition.

He saw himself staring into the full length mirror next to his wardrobe. His reflection was fragmented to him, but he could still make out one particular detail. His eyes. Terrible.

Indeed, they were perfectly shaped, purest diamonds. For a moment he got lost in them,  admiring their beauty foolishly like a child looking up to his parent and seeing the face of god. But all too soon he was ripped away from his fantasy, to witness their true nature with horror rising in his throat like pulping acid.

For his diamond eyes, like the most precious diamonds, were utterly transparent when inspected from the outside. To him, they were a cage, that frightening glass cabinet he had just conjured up in his mind. But from the mirror stared back at him the image others saw: his eyes like still, shallow water; windows reaching to the very bottom of his soul, exposing all. All his signs of weakness, his dreams, were laying there, drowned into the lake of tears. There they were, pooled into a sad pit of discarded emotions.

Then he saw it, the one dream he had most guarded in his life. It was swimming into the ether, to be lost forever.

As he watched it float by, he felt it stripping him out of his armada of ties, his armory of perfectly fitted suites, his gold watch, dropping all the zeroes on his bank account one by one as it went. It swam up, to the surface of his diamond eyes, where he watched it leaving him, his dream of love. Quickly, too quickly, it became just another light in the distance. And too late did he realize that his rich offerings, his watch and suits and money,  were but clutter. For if he had only touched love, given his dream a fleeting caress as it passed him, that…

That would have been the brightest kind of gold.

Whispers Of Peace

30 Dec
Image Source: Peacefelt.org

Image Source: Peacefelt.org

I would like to dedicate this to everyone who has ever lost someone, in life or in death. You’re important, so just don’t lose yourself, okay?

Also, I would like to dedicate this to my dear brother who inspired me to write this.

Wishing you all love and peace today, once again!

 

Whispers Of Peace

 

Love, please don’t cry

For it’s not hate that penetrates my muscles

It is not pain, only oxygen

Rushing through me, lifting me

Circling me like warm water in the womb

 

And in this soft lake of feathery air

I find peace, here my skin breathes

Till it grows wings that know no laws

No gravity or shreds of tears

 

Patterned with bullet holes

Love, please don’t cry

Please just try to reach for the wind

To hold its flickering freedom gently

Love it into tranquility, the same wind

That carried me away into the invisible haze

 

For there you will find me again

My laugh the light night breeze dancing

Beside your ear, melting your pounding fists

Catching your Rosemary tears

There you will find me, naked, cloaked in air

In smiling whispers of peace

Playing God – Daily Prompt

20 Nov

The Daily Prompt- Coming to A Bookshelf Near You

Write a summary of the book you’ve always wanted to write for the back cover of its dust jacket.

Playing God

Have you ever lost someone to death?

He had.

In his dreams he could see her falling, the car like a raging bull that sends her spinning, throws her up, up, higher. She glides through the air, gracefully at first, the wind humming peacefully… but then she starts to fall, her limbs looking all mangled and dislocated. An unhuman crash rings out as the wind screen pierces her head open, the tenderness of her temples forever disturbed. She falls down the bonnet, falls down into nothingness, into death.

But seeing her die in rewind is not the most painful part. No,  the most painful moment is the blissful forgettance that follows, as he wakes up panting and then fools himself into believing that it was just a dream, just a horrible dream. And as he reaches to her side of the bed, just to feel her soft hair, all he finds is a cold pillow. It still has the shape of her head imprinted on it, a solid proof of the nights they have spent together, curled up in love.  So he listens to her tapping downstairs, waits to hear the kettle boiling and breakfast plates clinking, just like every morning. But the house stays silent now, the house stays empty.

In that moment, in that hammer stroke of reality, death finally sniffs him out. It gatecrashes his heart, moves in with its heavy luggage and makes itself sadistically comfortable. That is the moment he remembers that love is forever lost.  That she is forever lost.

But what if she isn’t? What if she survived?

That is the question he has to ask himself when an unknown woman suddenly walks through his door. That stranger, she carries a tint of familiarity on her face. That woman, she moves like her. She smiles like her.

Then she confesses that she is her.

Is he going to believe her, welcome her back? Is he going to take that hope, embrace the sweet solace it brings? Is he going to love her as if she really is his lost love?

Or is he going to turn her away, tear apart her words, forever carrying that little regret in his heart? That little doubt, that bittersweet seed of a newly found faith in life. That one, burning question:

What if she really is her, resurrected?

Romantic Monday: Rebirth

29 Oct

http://edwardhotspur.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/romantic-monday-halloween-logo.jpg

Light your candles and start smiling with your head in the clouds, it is time for another Romantic Monday! If you want to take part in the celebration of everything romantic, or just find many lovely reads, visit here.

My contribution today is a short story. Without further ramblings, enjoy the words and the love that’s all around! Wishing you a lovely, romantic Monday!

Rebirth

As he lies paralytic in his bed, in an emotional comatose, he can nearly hear the spine of the night cracking. Slowly and painfully, one thoracic vertebra at a time, darkness is snapping apart to make room for new light. Dawn, the most loathsome part of any day, will soon rise and stretch its rays everywhere, bragging and bombastic with god-given, fresh radiance. The morning light, that soft and transparent yellow, is a new beginning for some. For him, it is the epitome of unforgiveness, revealing everything tainted in  his life to be peered at, gobble-eyed and scrutinising.

But the dawn is not quite here yet. He still has time. It is this jolt of hope that wires him up, after every sleepless night, and sends him bolt-like searching for all that was lost. There is still time. There is still time. It is this pleading mantra that he repeats to the empty rooms, to their bed that has hardened from all the tears, to the stubborn table that still bears no note.

And when there is no answer, no sign for the superstitious, he sinks down drained out of will, out of change and out of hope, and falls back to the familiar numbness.

– Why? Why did she have to go?

The sobs penetrate and choke him. His lip trembles pitifully and child-like.  His padlock fists close around his face, jailing him into loneliness.

His life has turned into a nightly ritual of apathy, tears and black coffee. Sometimes he forces himself to emerge from his house however, if only to raise suspicion and disapproval. If only to revel bitterly in his self-pity and hover over the happy couples, a vulture ready to tear apart the pieces of shattered hopes and  suffocating wedding rings.

But this time, to his surprise, he finds the streets crawling with better entertainment. He passes unnoticed in the midst of Halloween costumes now abused by alcohol, sweat trips and escaped mascara. It is late, and in delight he witnesses the wasted monsters rolling out of bars. They are all laughing with the shot glass glaze wailing their eyes. Spirit flows in their veins and the air is noisy from fight and emotion as all barricades are dropped aside and secrets shouted out. Ah, the freedom alcohol brings. They are all blinded, making vows of eternal love to each other, confessions of passion that will be washed away tomorrow with a wet-wipe and an acid-like hung over.

Don’t drink and love, unless you can face the morning after or forget the night before, he thinks and, for a moment, feels nearly superior. But soon the evil voice of guilt sniffs out his wittycisms and reminds him of the more potent dangers of drink-driving. There is a loud bang in his ear, a sharp light and a scream sinking into nothingness. To escape this torturing scene unravelling again in his mind, he throws himself into the surrounding bliss and daze. Weirdly, with the bars closing and people passing out against each other, he feels in sync with the world. The monsters inside him are silenced, staring in awe at the cheap recipe of love, the illusion created by too much Tequila and old clichés.

Then suddenly, there is a girl against him. He flinches under her heavy, warm weight as she lets herself slip against his chest, relying her whole being on him. And somehow, she manages to see past his ragged clothes and hollow chest, his gargoyle-like posture smeared with grief. She raises her gaze to meet his eyes and the words tumble out of her, arresting both of them in surprise. She mentions a broken leg but steers clear of mentioning her broken heart. She calls him with a name he does not know, the name of someone lost. She describes his eyes, his walk, his silly habit for boring people with pointless facts. His smart, gentle hands. The rows over a coffee cup and the day there was no more of them. The everything of her life, gone away and gone bad. She gives words for his feelings, pins them down and scrubs them clean.

At that moment, watching her drunken trust, he can feel something leaving him. In her frankness and tipsy confessions, everything unuttered takes fright. And though his mouth does not find fitting words, his heart answers the girl. And so he succumbs, if only because she looks a little like her, lost and puppyish, if only because they have both seen the graveyard of love. He pushes his lips hard against hers, pressing to find boundaries. She answers with same desperate passion, and in that kiss, he finds it, the love for the fresh morning light.

The city wakes up around them and meets them with astonishment and raised eyebrows. But to them, it does not exist. They stay with their eyes closed, clinging to each other, out of breath. And so the light accepts them in its embrace and envelopes them in golden hue. It sews them into one, into a seamless skin of loves lost and found. There they remain; both hopeless but starting to hope, both fumbling but now lost together, to be found anew.