Realism- The Stream (16-5-2016)
The place never changed much in natural beauty. As in, the beauty of nature never ceased, but it changed as people who saw it did. Leon retrieved the rope swing with a small branch dragged from the main road. Who knows how many times he'd done it before, and how many times he'd do it again. Follow the road off the west-ward drive, and take the innocuous dirt path just past the dam and ignore the private property sign on the down-trodden fence He remembered him and his school mate running off to the dam, the very one that supplied the town's water, and taking a piss into it from the side. They had haphazardly climbed down its banks, careless of any worker who might be there. Ahh, the benefits of the male anatomy. No girl would dare do this. It didn't matter to him; it wasn't his water to drink. He was a farm kid rasied from a tank. Something about that brought an unnerving thrill to his gut, something odd about why that memory was peculiar.He looked at the water collecting in the opening. He'd followed its path into this clearing, as many others had done. As his girlfriend's grandmother had done as a child. He know, as anyone who went there did, that it would be a soul-sucking level of cold. But he was tough, he could take it. Even this late in autumn. He raised the branch to hook one of the ropes. Part of it was fraying, just above half way. It was the first time he'd seen the rope in an unstable condition. He pulled it in. There were blood patches on the bottom of the rope, adding a cruel decoration to the fraying ends. He couldn't see anything in the water, but, as he lifted his head to the sound of fighting crows, he saw the drooping and messy body of the his urination violation comrade, Blake Wlison. He was sure he felt his heart give up.
~
Old. Period.
(Written in dedication to two people in my life who are old and whose stories are some of the most fascinating I've heard. Both have the dutiful role as grandparent, both biological and surrogate)
I know what people assume when they look at me. They see a delicate, aged woman. It never crosses their mind that my body, my skin, looked as pristine as theirs. But time makes it weary, morphs it into an exhausted state.
I know what I look like, and I can see in my mind the gradual change of what has appeared in the mirror.
I have always had my eyes. A strange mix of blue with subtle green, mischief with affection. Many people still look into m eyes when they see me or talk to me, but I question how well they see when they don't observe the intelligence dwelling in the grin.
I've had my youth, and though stories are told of them, I feel as though they can't perceive me looking as anything different, as anything but aged. Old.
Old. The word is simple, as if it was deliberately made easy for use by those who are.
Why does it carry such distress? Does not age mean more experience, that hardships have passed?
I am content with 'old'. It is character, maturity and refinement.
I spare myself time to reflect on what I was, even if only a few people ever saw, or dare I say still see me, that way.
I see my blissful childhood of toys and exaggerated adventures, finding joy and delight in everything. All the mementos and milestones of growth: losing teeth, growing out of clothes, knees adopting bandaids.
Teenage years and the sudden desire for friendship and companionship, never certain of what I wanted. Discovering my voice. Adult years of responsibility, experiment, challenge, happiness. Slowly, it morphed...
I look at an album of photos. They have a cheeky toddler scrambling through them. I don't scramble anymore. Not that way.
I could tell the young life everything they need. Or at least everything I think they need, but they want to learn for themselves. I did. It's never the same hearing about a story as actually living it.
I guess that's what old is. It is having written a story after living it and editing it along the way, sitting back to read, and telling it to anyone who wants to listen. Old is just the full stop.
~
Eternal Rest
Lay a rose on my bed for me,A symbol of grace and purity.
Underneath I sleep peacefully,
Content at future beauty.
You say words you'd hoped I would've heard
Before I had left this unkindly world.
You hope I can still hear them now
And you'll never know for sure.
You long for a few moments more
To savour what I was.
You know I never will come back,
Regardless of any cause.
Where I am is beyond perfection and words,
And I never yearn for the past.
The best day of my life ever
Was the day that was my last.
~
Memory Box
A shallow box in the corner of the room,Cradles a handful of things:
A tattered stuffed bee, a homemade blanket,
And an ever-sleeping dolly.
The bee is a veteran of games,
Experienced in the throws of childish years.
His tag has been twiddled to nothing,
And his eyes faded from the workings of Wear's gears.
The blanket was made in a show of love
Between a daughter and her mother,
So that when the air gets cold,
There is warmth for her dolly with which to smother.
The doll lies in the middle of the box,
And this place explains it all.
She waits patiently for when she is needed;
Summer, spring, winter, autumn fall.
She is awake when lifted up,
And sleeps as soon as she is laid down.
Though her mouth is always open,
From her never comes a sound.
If she could think, she would know
She's just a copy of something real.
But that doesn't stop the emotions
She gives to others to feel.
If she cries tears, they are imagined.
If she laughs with glee, it is a thought.
But she magnifies the instincts of care
In the most unique way a child may be taught.
So while she lays undisturbed,
With others as old as she,
It's the happiness of adventures and games
That lives in a shared memory.
~
A little piece I wrote when a storm came while I was reading...
(Grey Knights)
Lounged back with The
Book Thief in hand, I read as the afternoon slipped into a storm. The
clouds moved over, innocuous as ever, bringing their own emotions with them.
They liked to morph, to always change. They’re very
different to humans in that way. Their arrival was expected eventually; it was
also unpredictable. The sun had warmed the air so that it felt as if any change
in atmospheric mood could be postponed.
Nevertheless, the grey militants stole over the sky, and
with them came the unexpected but predictable habits for which they are
renowned.
The mountains never wavered, never giving in as the clouds
passed overhead. Sometimes it seemed as though they are friends. The
discolouration of them as they continued their visit smoothed as they agreed on
one tone, changing their mind as one.
They shared their joy with us. They shared their sadness
with us. They shared all their emotion with us, but I could never tell which
one was present. The drops came carelessly meeting the ground as servants for
the sky soldiers. They reminded us who was watching from above, as if the new
dispatching of light wasn’t enough.
Air rolled on itself through the army, spreading across the
sky from one side of the camp to the other. A whipping of light would escape as
soldier bumped into one another. I could never tell when it was a fistfight or
the stratospheric version of people accidentally crossing paths at an
inopportune time.
I guess clouds can make the same mistakes.
Subjective Moments
(This is my first creative writing piece that I am willing to share. I am pleased with it, but I know I have written greater pieces. I hope to share some eventually. For now, this will serve as an introduction to my writing.)Jill’s brothers always teased her, pretending to be swept out to sea in the shallow currents of the creek, toying with her childish ignorance.
_______________________________________________________________________
There was one punishment she got from her father as a kid that glued itself permanently to her brain. She was five, walking home from school with her friend. She was told to meet at the creek after she got home.
She left the house, not seeing anyone. As usual, the two girls enjoyed their time at the creek. They lost and found each other, and saw worlds others were too blind to see.
They retired with the sun. On coming home, her father’s face confused her: he was angry, frustrated and yet, somehow happy in a way she’d never seen before. His voice clearly demonstrated a panic, which she again didn’t understand. He then took off his belt, folded it into thirds, held her shoulders, and hit her backside with it.
Her legs jolted with shock and her eyes voiced the pain of her buttocks.
“Never leave without telling us.”
Hypocrisy is a beast that leaves everyone feeling robbed.
Jill never made that mistake again, and she was reminded of it every afternoon while walking home from school. This afternoon was no different. However, she was eagerly imagining the snacks that would be left over from the bakery. Her dad always brought them home and put them on the bench for his four children, a sign that he was already in bed and working towards the next day.
Reminiscing the works of her father, she thought of how he loved making music. He would lounge in his chair, holding an instrument that reminded her of a keyboard, but it seemed to have a giant fabric slinky. The sound he gave it, though, was euphoric. The instrument would sing with he dad for hours, only stopping and starting when he did with uncanny precision.
It made her wonder why a man who was so clever and accomplished often stood behind the family camera to take photos of the rest of the family. There were so few pictures ever taken of him. It made her memory of him a subjective mist.
Walking up the path to her home, everything appeared as it should, but the air was unsettled, agitated. She let herself in, dumping her bag and off in search for the usual afternoon tea. Taking a plate of finger buns and brandy snaps, she went to find her parents, to let them known she was home.
A horrific cry erupted in the room above, rippling into sobbing and frantic footsteps. Her eyes widened and seemed to catch the breeze from the fuss, and the sugary treat in her mouth changed to a foreign vile taste that defied the known chemistry. The stairs echoed the emerging presence of her mother as she descended, her voice trying to tear through her throat as she restrained it against its will.
Jill froze. Her mother stumbled into the kitchen, giving her the opportunity to hide behind the lounge.
The wait for visible movement pierced her gut, spearing her organs on an invisible skewer, as she feared to move. Whoever was upstairs was pacing frantically, but too fast to be thinking. Just as her heart began to relax, her father assaulted the stairs, dragging three large bags behind him. His sudden entrance frightened her so that she was pressed against the wall next to the lounge. He tossed the bags at the door.
Striding deliberately, he picked up the photo box by his chair, throwing handfuls into the open fireplace. He then took the box of matches resting on the mantelpiece and let the flame grope the moments of memories they had chosen to save.
A toxic haze of green created an aura in the fireplace and the act of indifference and anger now had the harsh chemical odor to match.
He took more of the family photos of his family, ones he had captured, and threw them to the firebirds.
Her mother came screaming, ripping he box from his hands, shunning him.
“Go! Run off with that dog. You’re both strays. The kids deserve better, something you won’t give them.”
“No, I deserve better, which is why I’m leaving.” And after stooping to collect the bags, the door was the only one who bid farewell.
Jill remained still as a filling in the wall and lounge sandwich, watching as her mum fought an invisible battle with the photos she held.
It seemed her dad was going to leave without telling, and he mum found out.
No comments:
Post a Comment