Fiction, prose

just a moment/lifetime

beautiful bloom blooming blossom

Photo by Juhasz Imre on Pexels.com

 

His breathing, stopped, he found it. Four dimensionally, he opened it.
Its fragility stunned his eyes with convoluted memory tears, while his new inhalations syphoned the colours from the pages – colours that would help him navigate the convolutions –

that’s when he noticed some words were underlined.  She had underlined them! But the ones left untouched – he smiled – they were the portal.

 

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Fiction, prose

“in a daylight bath”

It spilled her beer!
She hadn’t heard the song in a very long time.
Nor the memories.
They had been wrapped. Sound proof-ed-ly. He had helped her, while they had sat on her empty floor, lit by a perpetually coloured dusk light through her only circular window (or maybe it was the wine they shared.  Its name was her favourite poem about life at the time, something that would make her cringe now the wrapping was peeling back…
“Sweet Bitch”!
That was it.
She did cringe – what a horrible poet she must have been!)

And now, astonished at this unwrapped dust falling through her fingers, she blew it away gently, and bought a bottle of wine.
And replayed the song.

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Christian, personal, prose

“it doesn’t matter where we’re from, music brings us together…”

We had the chance to see this extraordinary film today – the Song Keepers.
So gorgeously produced, it covers the story behind the rising fame of aboriginal choirs from Central Australia, continuing a legacy that was started by German Lutheran missionaries in the 1870s.

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personal, prose

this is not about clowns

person holding purple petaled flowers

Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

So here’s a thing, our lives have taken an interesting turn because of a cancer scare for my husband. He has had pancreatitis for years, and we were told a long time ago, he most likely will be a candidate for cancer at some point. Now he has growths in his pancreas. One is not currently cancerous, we are hopefully finding out more soon about the other one. We are remaining optimistic at this point. But they are large growths and one of them is in an inconvenient place and we will still have to make decisions on what to do about them.

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Fiction, prose

She was driving to this song. Her CD player was broken, and kept playing it over. Or maybe she was just controlling that with her mind. Who knew? She didn’t care. She had spent the morning reading and listening and watching and drinking and barely eating, she realised for a moment. She pulled over to get a healthy sandwich or salad, it didn’t matter really because she was only tasting the words of her day, which were stretchy like bland. So the chocolate muffin was perfect.

She laughed to herself when she saw the naked, silhouetted tree. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.

Her head was full of clever people’s recycled words. And she, silent more often than not, confused the clever people. Why did this tree have no leaves?

Full of memories of echoing words, in canyons, on lonely family holidays, she got back into the car. On one of those trips, she had stopped yelling into the canyon, and had started throwing leaves instead. It was autumn, the tree was beautiful like everything you never had, and well, she wasn’t sure why. Or, she just couldn’t remember.

Tears were falling now, as the harvest moon was rising in front of her. She started driving faster, because darn it, she was going to drive through it this time.

 

 

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Fiction, prose

modicum

beach sand

Photo by Josh Sorenson on Pexels.com

 

He studied her blanks, his heart a magnifying glass as he carefully copied out each jot that filled the lens. He often sat back, in surprise and wonder, sometimes awe, sometimes astonishment. Sometimes, sadness, that could not be expressed in any current language, he mourned.

He didn’t have enough colours. But the poetry, brought him to his knees.

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silhouette of graves

Photo by Micael Widell on Pexels.com

When my husband and I married all those years ago, cough…my mind wasn’t prepared for how well acquainted we would become with death, he especially. So much church and ministry life happens quietly, behind the scenes, as it should, and there are these extraordinary, jewelled moments, of being with people before, and as they die. These privileged moments of intimacy, I would not normally have had, and for the most part, I am very grateful for them.

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Christian, personal, prose
Image
Fiction, prose

dehydration

He wanted to insert the right words, but they were deftly eluding him, and he was weary of the chase. So he started tracing the outline of the knots of his depletion. They were particularly prominent this time.

He knew he was full of them and it would take time and effort to untie them, or rather, to hydrate them again to loosening.  He wondered long and hard about it, as he tried instead, to un-knot your words.

I mean, the ones in your silence.

 

 

 

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Fiction, prose

And…

I fell into what I thought was one of my clichéd dreams, filled with doors.
But there was a door that stood out. It stood out because it was familiar.
Still on its hinges despite the relentless wind coming through, I tried to close it.

My neck ached, being in the same position every mourning.

Eons before/maybe last week, I had opened it because I had seen your music through the window of it – blushing colours and adverbs on a stave of missing meaning.
But that was then.
Now it was time to change my glasses. They were tinted, it turned out.

And the door closed.
Gently.

*trigger warning: there are short edits and flashing lights/strobe effects in this video

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Fiction, prose

No One is Around, pt 1 of 2

(Revisited with audio of my reading)

"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what 
to do and it's so much easier to make out the words 
if you press your ear against the stone." 

He hated this place. But she promised it would 
be the last time. And it had started to snow. 
It would hopefully slow the others down. 

They needed to leave. He was too scared to look 
at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful 
she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting 
from the tears frozen on her face. 

He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.

 

 

Lyrics:
 mother they are coming again
 they come to shoot what we already lost
 mother they are coming again
 our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
 they come to jail the things that i have seen
 father they are coming again
 burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“

Safer Ground, part two

 

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Fiction, prose

Safer Ground, pt 2

(Revisited with audio of my reading)

no one is around (part one)

She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything?

But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always 
heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen 
to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang 
instead. The words she had taught him when they met, 
years before.
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before 
they never saw him again.
 "Little girl, there's safer ground..." 

That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.

 

 

Lyrics:

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Fiction, prose, Uncategorizable

those middle paragraphs

Rushing to the coat check, she was trying hard not to obsess over him not believing something she had said in the car. He had said it was absurd.
It was making the skin on her arm itch.
Irony did that. Well, in particular contexts. She wasn’t sure what this was.

She had felt so warm while they were driving and had wondered if she were overdressed. But then, he was the one who was filling the car with decorated axioms, making sure to remind her how insightful he was.  She had cringed wearily, then chuckled at the awful jokes forming in her mind – she started thinking she didn’t need her wisdom teeth when she digested his words, only her incisors. She could try to be environmentally friendly, she supposed, and recycle all of this packaging, but it wasn’t even pretty.

And now he appeared with two effervescent glasses, as her arm started to bleed.
She was allergic to champagne, she had told him in the car

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Fiction, prose

map

Her breath pliable, she crouched down in that corner, the one that didn’t fit like a glove.
Her movements were whispers, soft and borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember, but they had told her to use them in times such as these. The movements abandoned her though, as she started crying the music her mother used to sing to her.

 

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prose

conative dysfunction

My chest knocked again on its wall with a growling of deep hunger for sleep. But the words were reading themselves to me in a quiet urgency of a recognizable introvert. And as I jotted down some thoughts in response, I noticed that my handwriting changed with the pen I was using. Do handwriting experts take that into consideration? Do they even exist anymore? I had only written a paragraph and my muscles were already tired.

What about graffiti? Is it still a thing? I don’t mean art. I mean, senseless/tragic/manipulated violation of blank spaces. I mean, we have the internet now.

 

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personal, prose

confession

A while ago, I had some pretty serious depression. And I knew it was depression for a lot of reasons, but most disturbingly, I had lost complete interest in music.
(This blog has been some wonderful therapy.)

Over the last week, I have felt moved to spontaneously sing love songs. I haven’t done this for a very long time, when I think about it, and, admittedly, it was over chocolate. But still, it was a very good sign.

I confess, though, there was some slight collateral damage…

Me: (opening fridge and seeing the chocolate chip hot cross buns I had forgotten about. My heart bursting into the chorus of “Silly Love Songs” by Paul McCartney and Wings.)

I…….LOVE…….YOU…….
(notes dripping smiles)

Husband: (in another room) Awwww, I love you too, Honey.
(Pause. A very distinct pause).
Did I hear you open the fridge?

I kid you not. He actually asked me that. And then he said:
Are you actually singing to the hot cross buns?

Now kids, we will be married for twenty two years this June. That is a whole other post that I probably won’t write. But, I will say, we are at a point where we can laugh heartily at our foibles, rather than be so offended by them. Well, in this scenario, I can only speak for myself when I say that I wasn’t offended.

I am pretty sure he was laughing, too. And not in that sympathy way…pretty sure…

(I did find it alarming, however, that he knew exactly what was happening without witnessing any of it. Come to think of it, being a sort of introvert, that kind of offends me.)

But I really did think it would be a one off deal. The whole thing surprised me. Until a couple of days later, after we had a glorious evening meal outside in the spectacular autumnal caress of divine weather known as autumn – he had cooked up a lovely, well balanced summer meal for himself, and I had a punnet of strawberries and a snickers bar, you know, the things I would imagine you would pick from the trees in the garden of Eden.

I took our dirty dishes (or in my case, packaging) inside.

Sunshine,
my only sunshine,
you make me happy…
is, of course, not what was
BURSTING OUT OF MY HEART AS I HELD THE CHOCOLATE WRAPPER…

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Fiction, prose

fugitive (draft two)

photo challenge 12

The water stung her eyes.
Darn it, it must be the black and white. Probably too acidic.

This memory did look good on her wall, but she couldn’t remember why it was there.
She had dived in, of course, to find the details, but the pain in her eyes caught her off guard.
Being two dimensional, also caught her off guard. It shouldn’t have. But it did. She was new at this, after all.

New plan –
to back away from this old plan. To get back, at least, to three dimensions.
It would, surely, all come to her then,
when she caught the now…

+++

My chocolate levels have oscillated today, and with them, the way I feel about this piece. I took it down for a while, then rewrote it a little. So sorry to those of you who read it earlier. But this is definitely a work in progress…more like some doodling…and the character found herself laughing in the mirror a little as time went on…

 

Featured image: my own

 

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a little fun or something, personal, prose, Uncategorizable

Surprised by a blogging award, namely, Liebster!

Thanks to my friend erroneous choices, we are having some fun with the Liebster Award, ie, she nominated me. Thank you dear friend ❤

She feels as I do, and that is, I have never really understood blogging awards, and haven’t really got involved with them, (apart from one over a year ago) no offense to anyone, but I so enjoyed reading the questions posed to her and her answers. Actually, she combined the questions from two different awards so I am going to keep on with the fun and just pick and choose…

1. What drew you towards the art of writing?
This is a good question…I have felt so shy and awkward for most of my life, I guess, as for a lot of people, it was a way to express myself, and hopefully make some sense of my thoughts in the process. I sometimes wonder that when I was little I subconsciously did it as a memory tool, because my memory is not that great. I remember I always liked to write everything out, even in the air, words, numbers, math problems…I liked to visualise it, and I loved the way certain words looked. Yikes, am I rambling? Sorry…

2. What is the one thing you like about yourself and why?
Um, I have never really liked this question.
But, if you insisted, I would say I do laugh easily. Especially at myself. I can have a good time, even when things are not going so well.
But it has helped to diffuse a number of tricky situations…humour, laughter is powerful – Captain Obvious 🙂

3. What is that one change you want to see in the world?
That people would stop yelling. Literally, figuratively, all kinds of ly-s. (Unless it is for humourous purposes).

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a little fun or something, General bewilderment, personal, prose, Uncategorizable

it begs a poem, doesn’t it?

pin cushion (2)

I was recently at my parents’. 
And I saw this-

a small pin cushion I had made for my mother when I was in high school, when I first learnt some cross stitching.

I can’t believe my mother is now eighty years old, and she is still using it!

Her sense of humour well and truly intact, as that spear of a needle in its right ear, was, initially, right in the middle of her forehead (that innocent bunny’s, not my mother’s).

It is funny about memory, because I had completely forgotten about it, of course, but as soon as I saw it, I remembered how upset I was that I had made a stitching mistake on its left ear. And I had somehow missed a couple of stitches on the other ear.  My sweet mother didn’t want me to fix it, but I remember how utterly crushed I was.

Yesterday I watched a video on a science site about intelligence.
Behold a short conversation I had with my husband this morning:

Me: I watched a video yesterday…blah blah…and it turns out I could be a perfectionist.
Husband: slowly closing refrigerator door…
come to think of it, I can’t describe, accurately, the look on his face…

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General bewilderment, personal, prose

resemblance? reassemblance?

Sigh.

I am on Facebook. And a number of things have happened recently where I have really re-pondered social media.

Then a pastor friend posted this video about Facebook, including interviews with a couple of the original players. It was timely. If you find yourself with a spare 15 minutes sometime, I really recommend you watch it. You may have already seen it, and I know a lot of you have the same concerns etc. (Something I have loved about WP, it seems that generally there is a shared spirit amongst users that it doesn’t become toxic like these other platforms. Of course, it does sometimes, but overall, my experience has been wonderful. I hope yours has too.)

(It does have a clickbait title, unfortunately. But it is a very worthwhile video.)

I have thought about ways to be a little more real on here, too..I did record myself reading one of my poems, but I have had trouble uploading it. Not a hard process in theory, and I followed all of the steps, and it is still not working. I will persevere…

In the mean time, I thought I would add a selfie I took today. I really don’t like taking them, so there won’t be more for a while and it is in black and white because, geez, I don’t want to be that real… Plus, I didn’t want to make you jealous, northern hemispherers, by showing off my tan 🤡 Actually, it isn’t a big deal. I hardly wear makeup, after all.

selfie 25Jan18

And now it is really warm outside, and in the spirit of taking my ponderings seriously about screen time, I am signing off for now to go have a drink with my husband. Hopefully catch you soon as I really do love reading and looking at all of your amazing work! Take care WPers. Let’s make a better world…or at least, try.

Vanessa

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