Rum Laden Present

"You're beautiful," he said. 

Twist and drip and arch. So delicate. Don't worry, it will all be loved and taken before it loses even an ounce of this enchanting fragility. There is no such thing as a pair of palms opening up and it spiraling out, bending each and every way as it is carried by half wind and half sky, away.

A humid room that makes it easy to play the game of forgetting for a handful of useful minutes. Wooden planks reach both up and down along each side, and he reaches out too. Clumsy fingers on lips.

"Can I kiss you?"

The air is bad in here. A negative aura. And it grows, fosters. Sometimes such an ugly setting can produce a beautiful energy.

Foot on the ground, a soft thud.

"You can't."

Dizzy eyes; they still follow.

Fingertip along black plastic, collecting dust. A new bounce to every step, along an old carpet and over carelessly tossed equipment. "What's this?"

Furrowed eyebrows, judgmental gaze.

Unbothered now, because the brand new gears have already begun to spin, sparking metal. A crooked, purposeful smile.

There it goes.

"I'll be leaving now."

A foot on the first step already. Slight turn of the neck, and, just as expected, met with lonely, pleading eyes. Mmm. Another lip curl for the road.

Who knew it would be found here? She certainly hadn't.

Watcher's Seat

          We all come to the realization at one point that nothing colossal about life can be changed, such as the possibility that it means nothing at all. However, that fact only changes the pain into a different kind of feeling, and if it was a pleasant one, I wouldn't be wrapped up in it every time I looked at the sky. Sometimes, despite the human race believing, and proving in many ways that we are superior to everything else, two or three birds fly across the sky, and with that, I feel that they've won the competition of coming closer to touching whatever it is that gives meaning to life by a long-shot. "They're stupid. They're cute. Good for making quills," we say. Then the bird, without looking at us with its black, beady eyes, arches its neck and dives a meter or two underwater, and bobs up again a few feet away. I always end up staring, in silence, and my eyes glaze over just a little bit, but they aren't little black beads.

          We try to teach each other so many lessons, and we each find ourselves believing that falling in love will take away these unpleasant feelings. Well, I'm waiting, and I'll try it. But if it doesn't work, and if after I'm done dedicating my life and writing to emotions of heartbreak and darkness and maybe even a scratch that lets light through, I'll be back on this uncomfortable stump in a forest's clearing, staring at changing, natural colors. If falling in love doesn't work, I'll sit and wait, and maybe another pelican will fly over my head and cry its ugly call as it flies off, maybe thoughtlessly, maybe not, towards the plum-tinted sky that I can only gaze at.

A.M.

Playground wishes

Hot breath

Spoken misses

Cold kisses

Your deep whispers

Muffled giggles

My bare arms

Your rigid fingers

Sheet of ink

Spilled in the sky

So darkly blotched

The stars don’t shine

Stiffened plastic

Your soft hair

Charred like coal

Bars break away

A hidden freedom

A passing smile

Quick embrace

In spilling time

Grainy sand

And then hard ground

Run fast on legs

Past crooked spines

No moon

No drought

A shared approach

A common ground

The string drags on

Through grains and rags

With reasoning

Of lucky hands

Discovery of nighttime runs

The warmth that breathes

And looks like smoke

The night plays cover

To a bold approach

Reading List

A list of good reads, in my opinion. I'll update it whenever I fall a little bit in love with another piece.(Series)
The Gone Series by Michael Grant

(Short stories)
"Overcoat" by Nikolai Gogol

"Everything and Nothing" by Jorge Luis Borges

"Borges and I" by Jorge Luis Borges

"The Life and Adventures of Shed Number XII" by Victor Pelevin
(As my professor said, "A story of a soul and its struggles".)

South American Waters

Someone make me go to bed already. Feeling peaceful.


Oars, and foam, and a watery breeze
I want someone like you
To share this with me

I can see it from here
Where I'm nowhere close
But it'll be someone like you
Brushing my arm as I gaze at the coast

And I'll hold your hand
And all will be calm
Because the person I travel the world with
That kind of fate is already etched in my palm

Chipped

But I'm not paint.

Que bells

Que sad music

Que the depths of the sea, or ocean, because it is both bluer and darker. Almost as deep as Joyce, and maybe if there is enough effort, everything wrong with the world and humanity will become so obvious, and one can be sad forever.

Sad forever, just imagine. Finding the obvious becomes an expertise.

Obviously, everything is broken, and simple steps of the day are so meaningless that it becomes a poem, and then there are barriers of complicated chemicals that we breathe, and these complications make tears tickle, but not flow.

It is the easy that makes salt water run; it is easy to be alone.

The forever game of reaching, and in all fun, even when both souls extend a hand, fingers apart, unbending, the skin will never touch. Energy flows whether the forever game goes on forever, connectivity doesn't.

I'm sorry that you're sad because life is mean.

And I'm sorry that you're sad by choice.

I'm sorry that you share his love, but you're dragging heavy fear.

And I'm sorry that there's no joke in your love; it's almost like another tragic game of forever.

Bells.

I'm sorry that your bells are laden with liquid, and mine won't make a sound.

Flipping over and over, graciously, life is not a game of forever. The board is sturdy but the pieces break, and drown; some float, but it doesn't mean water doesn't run down their throats.

Help, question point. There is no way to ask what cannot be answered. My answer is that you can't see it, you won't, it's all mine, and you ought to have too much of your own. Hardly an answer to your help, question point.

Repeat, repeat, repeat the meaningless steps, the breaths, the darting of gifted vision, the gift of hugging close everything that erodes.

You may not know mine. I may not know yours. More importantly, mine won't be known.

You can't

At me. 

There are no layers.

Silver Winter

What am I to know
Of love, or discovery, or any one of those
Emotions for the wiser, the older
I am merely halfway to the age of grown

Bundled by my parents and whisked along
Where houses with a white coat stand, slanted, side by side
While there is an air of calmness, it borders on the sad
Yet never quite reaches it, for in and throughout that, a pleasantness

The third evening, not entirely by myself
Then, in fact, I am, for seconds tend to slip me by
Stumbling behind, not yet groaning
But like a cub, fallen back, and clumsily, attempting the forward climb

This is When
Frosted white, encircling my ignorant eyes
Another trip, boot caught in ice
And, When, brown eyes flying up, I finally glance who stood before me all the while

That kind of knowing, a pause in the ticks
When in fact, you don't
And thinking harder, frozen in that stance, one foot ahead
I realize I don't, for that matter, know at all; yet still you are, and the clock goes

And how perfect, the crooked line between two lips
My mind encompasses so fast, and forgets to make you guess
And soon you call my name, like an old friend, who knew me all the while
Soon enough, you do

Of course, I never share
Sip my tea and swallow the emotions around the grown, for I am only halfway to the age where the mind matures
And fitting to that age, my eyes wander to the windows
In search of answers to questions halfway posed

So, it comes, as evenings come and go
Denial had come too, and flown
Whisked away and gently replaced with the hottest insistence
That when I see you again, it is only a matter to be expected

Perhaps, you've always known

Cradled, such a story of my own
There that crooked line stretches, mirrored
My cheeks are red, and this is mirrored
I reach out my palm, and do you mirror? Ah, but you've reached first

There is a post, with the strangest, most fitting, sparing light
If I listen, I only hear the crunch of stepping
And if not, a world of white, with a full symphony
Halfway to grown, this is the pinpoint where I cross the jagged line, past the odd angle at which our shadows are thrown

Freezing wind carves smiles in the air before us
Where the light doesn't quite reach, your steely finger brushes mine
In the quaintest winter, my heart thaws
Thank you, sweetest silver boy of time

Crevice Winds

Childhood ruins
shattered glass
these are the things you were faced with
when I tried to show you your past

I came with excitement, and pride
thinking to impress you, in fact
How naive
How sad, with a bitter taste
Maybe if I'd listened, instead of waving away
your old stories
I would've had a hint of a spark in my mind
that after that horrible decade
nothing beautiful could possibly be found
in that place

The awe on your face
I did not instantly read
as I pushed further through photos
hoping you would spot an old place
But then came old buildings
with empty panes
no doorways
surely, not even the spirits remained
And that's when I saw,
you were as sad
as the old, broken buildings
which you shouldn't have seen

And I'm sorry
For if I'd listened
truly, listened
there wouldn't be this new, unearthed thing
to wander through your rigged mind
Another wisp of tragedy
to slowly tear you apart

No more running
fast, with best friends
No more trouble,
twists, belonging to fate
No more cool nights
they all fade away
hidden in mountains ...
not the ones of your youth
but those guards, in your mind
standing tall with sanded ends

Now, yet another gust blows
Whistling through hollowed streets,
down cracked pavement
through dead trees
And for this one, I'm sorry
For I've done this to you.
Not them, directly
But,
painfully,
me.

Coward

If you are a coward, as you say you are
Then you will break my heart into pieces, as you said you would.

Sara's Legacy

This piece of short-fiction is yet another representation of the various stepping stones, with a particular focus on young people. In this piece, there are many stepping stone transitions happening for many characters as a result of one person's decision. This shows that while we grow, our loved ones tend to grow along with us. This piece also represents the difficult choices we must make in our lives, which are tough but necessary not only for our personal development, but also to ensure that we always keep moving forward. Once again, since this story is related to my current life experiences, I thought it would be interesting to write about.

            For miles it goes, spanning the eye’s view until it dips away, following the horizon. Lush and bright and a farmer’s dream: the never-ending ocean of grass that grows on fertile soil. Cornrows here, a field of raspberry crops there, but on the Jenestine’s property it’s all grass, all green and smile-inducing. And it is on the Jenestine’s property, up the dirt path that leads away from the main market, through full-leaved trees, along that rickety fence where the wheezing, twitching truck is standing now, where Ollie grows.

            “Go tell your sister to come down!” Mama commanded through her tears. “Go get that girl down here right now!”

            Mama kept waving the big kitchen towel in the direction of the grand staircase. The oven-top was boiling with overflowing jam in a hot pot, and Kitty the dog had found his way inside the house, covered in fleas and mud, but Mama paid no attention to anything.

            “SARA!!!!” she bellowed, and then let out a hic and a sob. “YOU GET DOWN HERE SO I CAN SEE YOU ONE LAST TIME!!!”

            Ollie was busy chewing on a licorice stick that Papa had snuck into the house a couple of days ago. When Mama finally turned her red-rimmed eyes onto him and opened her mouth to let out another loud holler, he jumped off his high stool and stuffed the candy into his mouth in a hurry.

            “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll get her.”

            Ollie was ten, but Sara was eighteen. It was the first day of August that had caused this ruckus in the Jenestine household—a nice sunny day with no clouds, except for the rain Mama was spraying everywhere she went. Up the stairs and to the end of the hallway, beside the big open window, was the un-matching wooden door to his sister’s room. Ollie paused in front of it to finish the licorice that was still in his mouth. Inside, he heard voices.

            It was all giggles and stifled hysterics coming from Sara’s room. A sudden BAM! as something was knocked over from her desk, and more laughter. Then there were heavy footsteps running across the floor that weren’t Sara’s, and more squealing. After a while, silence, except for the occasional loud whisper.

            Ollie stood still as a soldier, staring at the beige-coloured door that Sara had threw a fit over two years ago. “I’m a girl! My door can’t be dark poop-brown!” she had screamed, and Papa had catered to her whining.

            When he thought the whispers were gone, Ollie put his hand on the plastic doorknob and turned it open. He peeked inside and caught Sara hanging out the window, still laughing at the head full of brown hair that was climbing down the Jenestine’s decorative vines. Ollie waited patiently, putting his hand on his hip and letting the door swing wide open. Finally, Sara turned around.

            Her cheeks were flushed red from all the laughing she had been doing. She wiped at her forehead and then immediately noticed her brother standing in the entrance to her room with his eyebrows tightly knitted. She laughed again, much to his frustration, and then addressed him, “Hey Ollie. How you doing?”

            “Was that your boyfriend again.” He did not make it sound like a question in the slightest.

            Sara rolled her eyes and walked past Ollie, ready to go deal with Mama and her dramatic performance. “No, it was the tooth fairy, come to give me some extra spending money.”

            Ollie pounded after his sister down the grand staircase. “Papa said he can’t climb into your window anymore!”

            Sara waved her hand dismissively. “It’s not like I’ll see him again! Jeez Ollie, let me have some of my moments.”

            They were in the kitchen now and Ollie’s eyes were wide. “You’re not taking him with you?”

            But there was no time to reply, because suddenly Mama dropped the big wooden spoon and thundered across the tiny space. She made as if she was going to strangle Sara, but instead enveloped her in a tight Mama-hug. There were tears and snot and lots of hiccups. “My baby!” Mama cried. “My baby is leaving me to be with the crocodiles!”

            This was when Papa walked in on the whole scene, just in time to hear Sara reply, “They aren’t crocodiles, Mama. They’re more like celebrities!”

            Papa made a face and signaled for Ollie to give Mama and Sara some alone time. Obediently, Ollie ventured outside and found himself standing on the recently-watered lawn, and soon Kitty bounded up to him as well. “Let’s get some licorice,” Ollie decided.

           

            Down the dusty Jenestine path and to the left was the main market. This is where Ollie found David sitting at his usual booth with the cherry tomatoes. His cheek was swollen—probably the consequence for sneaking out to see Sara again—and his eyes were rimmed red just like Mama’s.

            Ollie put on his best mean-face and ventured over to him while Kitty leapt away to be with the other dogs. “You look like a girl,” he remarked.

            David looked up once and then wiped his nose on his sleeve again. “Crying ain’t only for girls, little fool,” he replied. It sounded weird, like he was getting over a cold. “Hey, little man, be there for Sara when she calls home and cries about how much she misses me, alright? My old man cut off the land-line so I wouldn’t talk to her no more, but I’m going to write letters.” He beat his fist into his palm, like he meant it.

            Ollie picked up one of the cherry tomatoes and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He contemplated his next move, all the while being stared down by a nearly-weeping David. “Hm…okay.” Ollie popped the tomato into his mouth. It gushed, fresh and sweet. “But she’s not sad. She said she’s not taking you with her.”

            David looked absolutely stabbed. “Of course she isn’t taking me with her,” he replied rather harshly. “I’m going to school here. Like the rest of us.” He muttered the last part with a coat of bitterness.

            Ollie shrugged and stole another handful of tomatoes. Then, he waved goodbye to David, who looked to be in a worst state than when Ollie had first arrived, and sauntered over to the candy stand. Sitting behind the wide wooden booth, newspaper in hand, was Mr. Rivers. He looked up from under his thick glasses, and it took him a while to recognize the kid in front of him.

            “If it isn’t Jenestine’s little brother!” He laughed loud and long, and then threw the newspaper onto the stool beside him and leaned forward. “How’s she doin’? She’s been skipping my remedial classes this summer. Thinks she’s too good for us, does she?”

            Ollie shrugged again. “I don’t know. She’s not very smart.”

            Mr. Rivers laughed again, a different kind of laugh. “Not very smart? Hohoho, she’s smart enough to get into that big-city school! She’s smart enough to get away from here, where all them girls go to the local college and become nurses!” He picked up a sour peach candy and handed it to Ollie, still grinning. “I feel like she won’t even miss the place.” He winked.

            Ollie frowned at the sour peach but ate it anyway. That last part sounded like bogus. What could be better than living in Southsire? He had heard stories from Papa all his life, about the pollution and million trucks and robberies in the big city. There were hardly any places like Southsire left, where good citizens lived off the land and knew each other since birth. In fact, Sara had heard these stories too, all this summer and since early spring when she had revealed her plans to go to the capital city for University. Mama had had a crying fit and the neighbours had gossiped non-stop about the “unappreciative Jenestine daughter”, but she had stuck to her decision anyway, like an idiot.

            “I don’t think she’s very smart,” Ollie insisted.

            Mr. Rivers had another good laugh at this, and then selected the ten best licorice sticks and took Ollie’s dollar. Then, he bid him a good afternoon. Licorice in hand, Ollie began the trek back up to his house.

            It was still a scene at the Jenestine property, except now all of the curious neighbours had showed up to watch and question Sara. The driver in the rickety truck from the big city was getting impatient, but was too intimidated by Papa to speak up. Instead, he had the radio turned up loud to one of the local music stations, probably hoping to annoy everyone into sending him away.

            “The crocodiles!” Mama was still yelling, now relocated to the front lawn with her arm still around her daughter. Papa was busy dragging different coloured suitcases towards the truck, and Kitty, returned home, was barking and running like mad amidst the commotion. Sara’s eyes met Ollie’s, and she smiled, but he did not return it. Instead, he stuck another licorice candy into his mouth and walked nonchalantly into the house, and up the grand staircase.

            Sara’s door was propped wide open, in all of its light-beige glory, forever lowering the property value. Ollie stepped inside and was a bit shocked at how white the room was. Sara’s desk, closet, and basically entire bedroom had been cleared while he had gone to town. The only remains where the fluffy pink carpet on the floor, the matching curtains, and some paintings that were framed on the walls. “Stupid…” he muttered, and went to sit on the edge of the large bare bed, facing out the window that David had climbed.

            From Sara’s window one could see the entire long grass plantation that the Jenestine’s owned. The blades, growing together like one, stretched on and on and never seemed to end. The sun was slowly working its way down, but was half-blocked by the big oak tree that stood near the house. A few meters up swayed a washed-out ribbon that Sara had tied to a branch that used to poke into her room when she was little, before Ollie had been born. Ollie stared at it, and noticed that at the base of the knot it still had a pink tone to it. That guaranteed that it had been Sara’s doing.

            Suddenly, there was a light tap on the door. Ollie turned swiftly, as if a criminal, to see Sara with her eyes wide open standing in the doorway. Ollie frowned and turned back to look out the window. “Why aren’t you gone yet?” he asked.

            Sara’s footsteps were unheard, but she was sitting beside Ollie a few seconds later, also staring out of the white-paned window. “I’m about to go,” she replied. She then added, in a bright tone, “Maybe you’ll apply to school in the city too and we can both have families there!” She let out a long, bell-like laugh, but was rudely interrupted by a shove to the shoulder.

            “Shut up!!!” Ollie cried, all of sudden infuriated. “You’re so stupid! You think I’m going to leave Southsire and live in the Devil’s city?! I know a good thing when I see it!” He pounded the wall with his foot, letting it swing forcefully back and forth. “I won’t leave MY friends, and I won’t leave MY neighbourhood, or Kitty, or Mama or Papa, or the fence that I painted, or the fertilizer stand that has our name on it! I won’t leave the haunted saw mill or the town school where I go every day! I won’t get in a nasty truck and drive away from MY home, because I’m not a traitor like you!” He kicked the wall one last time, and it was the strongest kick, for it left a final dent.

            He sat there, seething, but Sara made no reply. It was quiet for a long moment, and then there was an unexpected sound.

            It startled Ollie, so much that he looked up after vowing to never see his sister again. He stared for a long while at her face, and for the first time in his whole life that he knew her, he discovered that Sara cried the same way that Mama did.

            Flushed cheeks and squinty eyes, with ears bright red and her nose already flowing, Sara let out a wail. “I’m not a traitooooor!” She kicked the wall, too, and her kick left a dent right away. “I love the haunted saw mill toooooo! And I was the one who painted the fence, not youuuuuuu!” She sneezed without using her elbow, and then the tears streamed down. “But I need to get away from here! This isn’t the rest of my life! Uwaaaah!”

            Ollie was speechless. His mouth was wide, almost as wide as his eyes. His sister was shaking like the old vacuum cleaner they used to have, and was running like a leaky faucet.  “Hey,” he whispered. “Sara, hey. I’m sorry.”

            Sara sniffed, hard. “I know you are.” And then she didn’t say anything more, which left Ollie feeling incomplete.

            “I really am sorry.” He made a move to touch her arm but she suddenly turned and strangled him by the neck with her arms. Perhaps it was a hug, but Ollie couldn’t breathe.

            “I love you! You better remember that you bully!” She wiped her nose on his sleeve and then straightened herself out. As if on cue, the rickety city truck honked four long times from the front yard. Sara rose, gave Ollie a smile, and then hurried out of the room as if nothing had taken place. Ollie continued to sit, nothing but baffled, until fifteen minutes later Papa walked into the room.

            “Hey buddy,” he called, striding over. “You come to feel sorry for yourself too?” He took a seat next to his son on the bed and let out a long sigh. “Well, she’s gone. Can’t believe we let her go. You know, let me tell you the story of the ribbon up in the—what in the heck is this on the wall?!” Papa suddenly leapt up, all jumpy and pointing both index fingers at the twin dents. “Who in the heck did this?!”

            Ollie leapt up now, too. His sister was far enough away to avoid the wrath of Papa, but he certainly wasn’t. “It was Sara!” he hollered, and shot out of the room like an arrow, down to the kitchen where Mama was still crying into the jam.

            From upstairs, Papa’s cries came. “That little—!!! Bring her back! Bring her back right now! Someone get her! That vandalizing, no-good house-destroyer ain’t going nowhere!!!” There was an incredible THUD! and Mama dropped her spoon onto the floor again.

            “Dear lord, what on Earth was that?!”

            Ollie, full of energy now, ran around her in circles. “There’re three now Mama! There’re three! You go and make one too! And then even when we’re gone, there ain’t nothing they can do to forget the Jenestine’s!” And Kitty barked along, as well, confused yet excited by the eventful evening that had seen more emotions than the house had been a host to in years. It was as if suddenly, a new bright life had been given to the century-old long grass plantation, similar to the character of a certain Sara Jenestine.