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maps I. He may be a dreamer, but she's direct. They go out for Italian and talk and talk and talk until the food is gone and they're walking out the door laughing. He wonders if he should ask her, "Would you call this a date?". She thinks nothing of it (except the topic at hand of course). II. Months pass. For her birthday, he surprises her with a gift. A pretty little bauble he passed by while walking down the street (isn't that how all justifications for gifts like this one go?) and it made him think of her immediately and--I really hope you like it. She thanks him sincerely and wears it daily. Every time he sees it on her, his heart palpitates a little faster, and he considers "maybes". III. More months. He says "Goodbye." and the ten-million-meanings behind it resound in his head like a bad pop song. She hears none of that and shoos him onto the plane with a hug and a wave. Only afterwards as she's driving home--radio abnormally loud--does she even think the words, "Wait, don't go. I'm going to miss you so much." IV. She cries herself to sleep that night and is completely confused on justifications, just that H2O is pouring out of her eyes and oh my gawd oh my gawd oh my gawd, what am I going to do now?. The next morning she wakes up thinking herself a complete fool for crying and can't even remember the reasons "why" in the first place. V. A month or so later and she wakes up, enlightened. The letter she had planned sending out that day is scrapped (crossed out, torn to pieces--revelations can do that to the past). Instead, she takes out a new piece of unlined paper and begins to scrawl (not write--this is too impassioned and messy to be called "writing"). She finishes the letter that says all of the things that she had never said before (to him--to anyone), but then her brain kicks in. That piece of paper, like the letter before it, is placed tidily in the trash bin. VI. At her mother's house she takes out her father's prized collection of maps. Stretching her hands out, she traces, her finger dragging it along the long narrow path from point "him" to point "me" until she realizes the map doesn't quite cover the distance. She wonders if her heart can go where paper and ink have run dry and colorless. It's a bleak image, but she, for a moment, thinks that "Yes, I can. I can do that." That is, until she remembers that she's supposed to be "the practical one" and folds the maps up neatly, storing them away before walking into the kitchen and boiling a pot of water. She thinks she'll have pasta tonight. |
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| i spoke the language of the sky. breathed it. pushed fingers into splintered bark ( cracked like bone, ripped like sinew; turned to ash without a flame)and tore the trees down until the sky was remarkably clear; (it shone like water in the day, stained like ink when night tripped and fell) and there, alone on the acropolis, one stood with a flat top from the thickest branch there hung a tiny moon, made from the burnt side of bread and (and at the same time, on the otherside of the world, perhaps, an evergreen stood tall and -perhaps- a paper sun would twist in the breeze; perhaps, perhaps) yes, it claimed the light it shone with for its own. in the shade the voice of the wind overtook the above, carried this from that, and picked up the whole world in its palm; the leaves cracked, crisp, shriveling as the sun (burning breath like lungs) came close, red with the evening, dragging the moon, wrecking the tides. i said to you then, maybe, just maybe, this is how life would feel if flames were not so cruel; if we could swim in the sun, bathe in the moon, sink in the sky. but you spoke the language of a sky a thousand miles away; only clouds heard you whisper, and i watched them falter, watched them tumble into the sea, the sea; i could only drown, absent of you (and this, i think, is the only way i know how to say "come home, come home, i miss you armfuls") |
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| This Is Just to Say [by William Carlos Williams] I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold |
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| {un} I broke your beloved china dish. I'm sorry, but the blue designs were so intriguing And its delicacy was begging to be crushed. {et deux} I shattered your ancestral heirloom. I'm sorry, but the tarnished silver sung history And your family never deserved such a gem So, with annoyance, I set the bauble free. |
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| Rain I have never understood how people can have blind faith in anything. And, although the rain doesn’t fall like silver bullets here, it might as well. Of course, in the dark, at night, the rain doesn’t bother one much, walking down the choked streets of the slums. Passing through the foggy haze that is ever-present at eventide, my everyday route returns me to the abandoned park of days since past. I run my hand over the wooden gate. Dilapidated swings with their rusty creaking as they sway in the breeze blur into the soft silver of the rain as it kisses the dirty sidewalk. Although it doesn’t rain hard in the slums, it does rain often; and the withered grass, killed from over-attention, looks touched in the night’s shadow, with the mist to mask its true face. As dewdrops bead on individual blades, I see the remains of the daisy ring, dead petals scattered by the wind, and once again I can’t help but be taken in by scenes replaying themselves like a grainy film stuck on a single spot, unwilling to move forward. “Nicky, look! Have you ever tried this before? See, you just make a slit in the stem with your fingernail, and string them together, like so…” Her skillful fingers melded the stray blooms into a single item, a crafted crown more enchanting than one of silver and brass worn by royalty. She placed the piece on her dainty head of fiery-golden curls and it perched at a jaunty angle. Rosie’s vivid eyes flashed green as she shook the rivulet of hair that cascaded down her back. Her lips parted in laughter, and I couldn’t refrain from joining in. “See, Nicky? Oh! I know - you would like one too, wouldn’t you?” She looked up from lowered lids mischievously, and proceeded to weave another daisy decoration, much to my horror. But my protests always fell on deaf ears, and Rosie continued. “Ring around the rosies, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down!” I gazed at Rosie in interest. “I’ve never heard that before, Rosie. What’s it about?” Her bright eyes widened in surprise and she chuckled. “Why, Nikolai! You’ve never sung – well, well, well.” I blushed profusely at my lack of knowledge, and Rosie just smiled wider. “Well, what does it mean, though?” “Ah, who knows? I like it. It’s so carefree, but there’s something about it…” She trailed off, and her expression, deep in thought, was unnerving. “Well!” She suddenly declared, making me jump, “won’t you join me?” “Ring around the rosies, a pocket full of posies – good night, Nicky!” Rosie waved from her cramped doorway as I continued my trek home. As I reached the crumbling structure of gray stone and attempted to turn the jammed doorknob, I sung Rosie’s song. “Ring around the rosies, a –“ “Zatknis, Nikolai! Where did you hear that?” Mother’s angry face filled the doorway as soon as she heard the strains of the song. My head whipped up, blue eyes wide with fright. “Ah – I –“ “Do you know what that is speaking of?” Mother’s voice boomed into the sleepy streets. “The Plague, Nikolai! Never again am I to hear it from your mouth.” She spat onto the street, a strange custom even to me, and she hustled me inside the confines of our miniscule house. I stood, head lowered, in the doorway, and heard loud footsteps from above. “Nik! Welcome home, boy.” Alexei bounded down the spindly staircase and swept me up in one of his bear hugs, his crystal-blue eyes warm with friendliness. “C’mon, ma,” he drawled easily, “Cut the kid some slack. He’s just nine, y’know.” His foppish black hair swung back in his face as he placed me down. Mother sighed. “Alexei, he is so – broodish! And then he goes out and comes back singing songs of death – you never were this way, you know –“ “Maaaa,” he cut in, shaking his head, “Don’t worry about it.” He took loping steps and ducked his head to get into the den, banging the television set to see if he could get anything other than static. A fuzzy black-and-white image appeared – more of his news, shots from the battle that seemed to captivate Alexei so. He plopped onto our beat-up couch slowly and stared at the screen, enraptured. I slid onto the leather seat next to him and took in the details of his face as he watched the new scenes unfold. To me, they flashed across his face in tune with a series of emotions – shock, pride, and something that at that young age I couldn’t quite place. Mother, finishing her work in the kitchen, came in to check on us. As soon as she saw what Alexei was watching, red splotches blossomed on her pale face. “Alexei! Not that war again –“ “Ma, I’ve already told you – next time the recruits come through, I’m going. I’m twenty-one. I can go now.” His features were already morphing into that hard-set mask that shot up whenever Mother tried to persuade him to stay at home. There seemed to be something deeper rooted in Alexei’s mind than just patriotism, and neither of us could understand it. “Ma. This is a civil war. Do you understand what that means? Do you really? Because I don’t think that you do.” Alexei shot up from the couch, eyes blazing, and threw the front door wide with a bang. Mother swiveled around and seemed about to follow him, but I could see the lines of defeat in her shoulders. So I, wide-eyed, looked around the door to see Alexei rocking gently on the white porch swing. He looked up when he heard me approach, and he patted the spot next to him wordlessly. I sat. “Oi, Nik,” he muttered, grinning. I nodded. “Ma doesn’t get it.” Alexei looked straight through me with his piercing eyes. “You and she don’t see our situation fully, do you? Just look around you, Nikolai.” He waved his arm in an arc at our neighborhood, at the run-down terraces and cramped cement buildings. “I have the chance to fix this, to beat back those fat rich bastards who’ve been oppressing us since who knows when.” I noticed the frayed yellow book he held cupped in his hands. “Alexei, you read that book a lot, don’t you?” I looked up at him curiously. He nodded, smiling, and ruffled my dark hair. “Yes, little Nik, I do,” he said softly. “It’s a book of quotes. See? You know which one I like?” He flipped to the last page, one with a scarlet ribbon marking its well-worn place. “When the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die.” He nodded again, that pensive look entering his eyes. I couldn’t comprehend his attachment to a book full of quotations, of all things. “This is what we’re fighting for, boy. So you take care of ma and your Rosie for me while I’m away. Oh, and Delilah, too.” He grinned wider as he mentioned his fiancée’s name. “You can do that for me, can’t you, Nik?” I sometimes wonder if I ever truly understood Alexei’s passion for life, or if I ever will. Even now, sitting at a corner booth in an old friend’s restaurant, I can’t help but look out the grimy windows and through my bedraggled reflection into a time where everything was still black and white, just as black and white as the civil war on the television set. “You’ll write, won’t you, Alexei?” Lila’s melodic tones floated over the crowd’s celebration as citizens cheered on family and friends, sparkling and fresh and new in their dashing uniforms. Alexei outshined them all, the smile that never left his face for long set firmly on his visage, joking and prodding everyone until the minute he marched out with the rest of the men in green. Mother’s face was carefully sculpted, not revealing anything, but I think even then Alexei knew what she was feeling. He had a sixth sense of sorts, and as he straightened up from patting my head once more, he faced Mother with an expression I don’t think she ever forgot. His arms wrapped around her tiny frame and she gripped that starched uniform tightly, tears streaming down her face. Rosie and I hadn’t understood at the time, and we just cheered our hero on as he quickly kissed Lila and strode off with his troop. Breaking convention, he let out an “oh!” and ran back towards me. He grabbed my hand and stuffed the tattered yellow book into it, murmuring “Just in case…y’know?” into my ear before his smile faded. His acuteness at times was unnerving. The smile was quickly replaced with an even wider one, as he saluted, turned, and ran back, fading into the sunset with the confetti and cheers of his people. Just months later, on the day of their victorious return, Rosie and I had secured a position at the front of the roped line, shouting and cheering with Mother and Lila at the top of our lungs. Even more confetti streamed, and a fanfare played as the crowded slum streets were inundated with returning troops, reuniting with their loved ones. I waved Alexei’s book in the air, and started a chant: “Al-ex-ei! Al-ex-ei!” Rosie, with her streaming red curls, quickly caught on, and joined me. Mother and Lila were smiling radiantly, and we all kept up the chant: “Al-ex-ei! Al-ex-ei!” And yet, as the returning crowd thinned out onto the streets, our relentless cheer faltered. We could see the first of the funeral march, bringing a dead stillness with them as they progressed. The first anguished cry we heard sent a horrifying chill through my bones as the bouquets friends had bought dropped and were crushed to the ground. Sobbing and wailing was the new chant of the fallen victory, and a page of Alexei’s quote book flashed through my mind: “We have won, but we have paid the price.” We waited until the last line of burgundy coffins rode through the crowd, and I saw it first. The frozen smiles on our faces completely shattered as the perpetually-smiling portrait of Alexei’s face shone at us atop its wooden bearer. We didn’t need the man in uniform to come up to us. And, although they showered us with purple ribbons declaring bravery, I didn’t stop to listen to what it was that Alexei did. I didn’t need to hear it from someone who didn’t know who the hell he was speaking of. And so I ran, the tears streaming down my face. Mother and Lila didn’t cry. They had used up their knowing tears the day he left, the ghost of his smile always haunting the air it vaporized into that twilit eve. Rosie was the one who followed me; crying, as well. She found me curled in a ball at the park, fists pounding the earth at the injustice it was. She was the one who held me close that evening when everything was broken. And somehow, even at nine years of age, through the throbbing pain in my chest, Rosie’s soothing voice calmed me, which was more than even my mother’s was capable of. And I knew then that there would never, ever be anyone quite as beautiful as Rosie was in my universe. Rain dashes the sooty window in Donovan’s shop, and I realize with a start that I’ve fallen asleep. Blinking, I sit up stiffly and chance a glance through the panes once more. I stop dead, amazed. Standing at the corner, in the inky blackness, is a flash of golden strands entwined in ruby locks, and those ever-present green eyes flash laughingly at me before disappearing around the street. I dash out the door of the shop and run blindly through the streets, sloshing clumsily in deep puddles, reaching desperately for a wisp of something more real to me than the solid rain, pounding incessantly in a steady rush through my ears. “Nicky, it’s so beautiful here, isn’t it?” Rosie stood on the riverbank, letting the rain cleanse and clarify her thoughts. She stood with eyes shut, head tipped backwards, rain spilling everywhere, soaking her thoroughly. I was never one for words – they never came easily. I stood and watched, aloof, remote. Rosie’s 20th birthday and I couldn’t think of anything worth giving her – anything but a few choice words. The only problem was, the damn words didn’t come. And although there was a ring to accompany them, there was still something missing. “Rosie…” She turned, eyebrows quirked, teasing smile on her face. “Ah, so the robot can speak!” I glowered. Rosie merely giggled. “Rosie, this is serious.” She looked at me curiously. “Serious? Well then, I’d best pay attention, hmmm?” She sat cross-legged on the ground. “Now. What could possibly be serious about my birthday?” “No, no, no,” I groaned. “You’re making it worse.” Rosie shot up at this, curls bouncing. “Ah-ha! Now that you’ve insulted me, you’ll have to catch me to tell me your oh-so-serious thing!” She shot off into the dark, the rain muting her echoed laughter and making her vanish into the mist before I could even stutter a restraint. I hadn’t noticed her expression; one that conveyed that she knew, she knew something pivotal was going to happen tonight. If only I had, too. “Rosie, come back here!” I ran after her, not nearly as graceful. Whenever I came close, the hem of her light dress disappearing around the corner was the only glimpse of her I got. Finally, at one corner, I saw her stop and turn to look at me, laughing, “Ring around the rosies, a pocket full of posies” – Spinning headlights, mindless swirl, endless vortex. Say something – anything – nownowNOWNOWNOW, NIKOLAI! An ear-splitting screech. A splintering crash. Shattering glass. The crunch of the wheels as they sped off into the distance. Words had always failed me, and at this crucial moment, the apex of my life, they had failed me the most. Crimson puddles, diluted by the gentle prodding of the rain, slipped through cracks and drains in a never-ending torrent. The blood didn’t stop for a long, long time. Life ebbed from green eyes, and a weak voice finished. “Ashes, ashes, we all…fall…down. Oh. I’m sorry, Nikolai,” she murmured weakly, eyelids fluttering, “You had something important to tell me, didn’t you?” My mind was a black hole, the words withered on my lips. They were gone. I was gone. Rosie was leaving me. I clawed desperately at any words that would surface, but none. Nothing. It was as if I were the one dying and not she. She shook her head and smiled peacefully as her last breath escaped her, and the two violent hues I associate even now with that night – that crimson red and vivid green – both dulled at the same time. I realize much too late that it is an illusion I am running after, finding myself at that hateful intersection and noting my escalating insanity as I rush headlong into the street. It is déjà vu, or my memory has become as clear as the present, because this time the blinding lights are in my eyes, and all I see is blackness. White, everything is white. The white nothingness I am in, the white air that I’m not breathing. Not? Is there even air? White clothes, white space. White mind, white thoughts. Wait. White clothes? I note that there are others here, many people – it is not what I would have expected from heaven, for it looks just like an open park in earth. There is a fountain, with gently whispering water. And although the scene with luscious green grass and softly swaying trees seems so familiar, there is a sense of peace and unity that was never in the mortal world. Children with pets, families united, certain others going around and talking to new arrivals – they show up every minute, looking shocked and disoriented, until they see their loved ones rushing towards them and they utter cries of joy. No, this is not at all what was expected. My thought process reassembles itself in the presence of two beings, and I know that I must be far above heaven. Although they were speaking to one of the countless personages, they turn. Long, cascading scarlet hair and green eyes wide with horror as they turn and notice me here. Horror? His are the same, but a sharp blue in contrast. Black tufts of hair fall in his eyes as they lock with mine. Rosie is in shock, absolutely terror-bound as she hesitantly walks towards me. And I still can’t understand why. “Nikolai Korsikov.” I nod. Of course. Who else would I be? “What -? Why’re you here?” “What?” Rosie makes utterly no sense here, in this place that must be heaven. Perhaps? “But I – I’m dead, right? Honest to goodness.” “Y’ain’t dead yet. And you need to get your ass back down there.” Alexei folds his arms, not smiling, for once. “You still need to look after my book for me, right? Among other things.” I can not believe them. I haven’t seen Rosie for seven years, and Alexei longer! So how-? “We’re part of the welcoming committee, you see,” Rosie begins. “And I - I just can’t believe it! You’re still a long time coming, Nikolai.” I can feel a dull throb in my arm begin to pulse. “But, Rosie – Where am I? Where are we?” Rosie smiles suddenly. “This isn’t what you were thinking of when you thought about the afterlife, huh?” “And, since I’m here…” Alexei cuts in. “I’m sure you’re a bit confused as to where you are, hmm? Well, get this: it ain’t heaven. And it ain’t hell, either,” he adds, as he sees my shocked face. “Then what…is it?” “Well…” Rosie quirks her head to the side, as if searching for words to describe this place. “I guess…You could call it “Spiritual Paradise”? At least, that’s the closest phrase we could come up with. Y’see, you don’t go straight anywhere after you die. Because what if you never knew about the truth of the matter? What if you weren’t taught? So, it’s absolutely unfair to judge people immediately after death. Plus, that’s not the plan. So, Nikolai…This is where we are until the Millennium. And, in the meantime… you’re not supposed to be here yet.” I cannot comprehend all this revelation at once, and I try to sort it out in my quite useless mind. “But why? Why don’t you want me?” Her eyes widen. “What? Is that what you think? Oh, you silly boy! That’s not it at all – it’s not time, Nikolai. You’re not done.” “But I don’t want to be there, dammit! Rosie, you –“ “Oh, Nicky.” She shakes her head slowly. “If you think it’s hard for you not to be able to see me, think how hard it is for me to be able to see you.” This shuts my mouth. “Oh, Nicky, you’re so oblivious! Why don’t you see? I never left! Why don’t you try believing? It’s not your time now, but... Please. Promise you won’t forget. You have a mission on earth, and, even more than that, you haven’t come to understand something yet, something mightily important. ” Her gentle smile returns to her face, and it’s one that I’ve been longing to see for what feels like millennia. I take a step backwards, and another, and another. Subconsciously, I trace a path through time. “You’re still ignorant of this purpose, because you’ve been brooding, of all things -” she laughs, and this strikes me as the purest sound I’ve ever heard, “and I don’t mean that in a bad way. You didn’t know about this, all this” she waves to the people behind her, and I nod. “And neither did I. So don’t think I don’t understand, Nikolai, because I do.” Those verdant green eyes look right through me, into my very soul, and I don’t doubt her words. “You know, Nikolai, you can’t progress up here until you know with surety who you are on Earth.” And, as this dawns on me, I agree unknowingly. While I’m sinking back into blackness, I vaguely see a tear roll down her cheek and that smile shine on her face as Alexei appears, waving to me and grinning, at her shoulder. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. A groggy metronome drills its way slowly into my brain, and I realize that it hurts now. My eyes slowly float open, and everything’s white again – but it is a different white, not a sweet softness, but a professional cool. Monitors and tubes and many, many bandages – but I am alive. A white-suited man with hair to match winds his way in with a clipboard, and he peers at me through rimmed glasses curiously, with not just a hint of amazement. “Boy,” he says, “by all rights, you ought to be dead. You’re quite the little miracle-man – everyone’s talking about you.” This seems to be all he came to say, but as he turns at the door, he leaves one last remark: “You must have one mighty powerful guardian angel, Mr. Korsikov.” I smile. “Two, actually.” As soon as I am able, I walk through the hospital doors and into the first droplets of a crystal rain. Its soft plummet to the earth touches me somehow, and I let it wash through me. While others scuttle by holding dark umbrellas, I walk, face upturned, eyes shut, heart open. And I can taste her in the water; and it’s her that’s caressing my face, and not the cool shower. It’s then, when I’m laughing, stared at by the wandering people, that I know for a surety. I believe you. I believe. |
| QUOTE (Sadhana @ Jun 4 2008, 09:00 PM) |
| I read the prologue of that story so far, Pyra, and I love how imaginative it is. I tried doing fantasy books for a while, but I failed miserably. :lol: |
| QUOTE (Materia Thief @ Jun 5 2008, 03:56 PM) |
| Lute, your apology poem(s) strike me as rather odd. The first one strikes me as specifically sadistic and the second one seems to contradict itself, as, the person apologizes and then says that the family 'did not deserve it'. Both seem to also be more straightforward apologies than anything else, which might spring from the fact that the subjects you chose to apologize about are rather, err, "exotic" as compared to say a thing of plums that someone ate because mmmm, plums. The pieces you provided show a rather specific destructive impulse--saying that the person intended to destroy it, rather than on a whim. Why would the apologize after their intention? As well, I'm curious, why the french? With your novel--when does it take place, or, more importantly, where? There's no set-up or setting established, although the assumption is Russia due to the names. Why are they there? What for? How does "Rosie" know the song "Ring Around the Rosies" in its typically American format and why is it not in Russian? The same goes for the American slang. As well, be careful be careful of trying to sound "overly poetic" in your imagery. Your first paragraph is rather convoluted with its figurative language and in some parts can seem to the reader to be more the stringing together of pretty words rather than any sort of deep connection between two images. For example, why would the frequency of rain be compared to silver bullets? Why is the rain "kissing" the ground rather than just falling upon it? |