Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category
Gone For Good
The lonely man stood at the end of the pier, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his grey windbreaker as if grasping at buried secrets. A year ago he had been here. And two years ago, and three. It had been so many years now that he could hardly remember the time before he’d stood at the end of that very same pier looking out into that very same sea, thinking the very same thoughts.
I’m glad you can’t be here, because what you would find would only break your heart. We had worked so very hard to get away, to cut clean, to start new lives out here far away from everything we had known. Little did we know everything would go to ruin and we would be left with nothing more than hollow memories. You, so dearly departed, don’t have to know what it has come to. You, love, departed dearly at the best time, before it all came crashing down. And I was left with the broken pieces, stuck trying to put the sky back together, as if I had the power.
I’m glad you left when you did, that you didn’t have to see me be everything you never wanted, hated, feared. You didn’t have to see me miserable, crawling through every day on my hands and knees, barely able to even remember what we stood for, or that we stood for something, or that anything in the world could even be worth standing for.
It’s better that you’re not here, because I couldn’t bear to see your dreams crushed, your spirit broken, your will lost. I couldn’t bear to wipe away your tears, to hold you in my arms, to have to lie to you and tell you that everything will be all right. You always believed in me. It would kill me to see you realise how wrong you were.
You stayed for only the bright times and were gone before the dusk, and it is all for the better. I’m happy you don’t have to suffer with me. I’m happy you believed to the end.
But despite it all, despite everything, selfishly, stupidly, I still wish you were here.
Nobody Nowhere
Image (c) soulsmidwife.com
The young man hadn’t been to work in three days, but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. At the moment, he was floating in a tiny skiff on a serene lake in Nowhere, and as far as the world was concerned he didn’t exist. Back at home, wherever that was—it wasn’t important enough for him to consider right now—his beat up antique of a cellphone had probably keeled over and died of exhaustion from his boss, his friends, his girlfriend, and his family frantically calling to try to get a hold of him, anxious and worried and wringing their hands while he drifted along here, away from it all.
Waking
It was dark the night that I lost you; far away and dark away and so, so cold. The ice creeping up my fingers sent shivers up my spine and down my neck and I reached for your hand in the dimness because you had always been there, and I didn’t need to be able to see to find you.
It was dark, and grey, and deep shadows crawled all along the walls and the edges of my vision the night I reached for you and felt nothing but empty air. Gone, you. Gone, forsaken, disappeared into the wide world, or maybe you had never been and I had dreamt you up like I had dreamt the sun and the sky and the crystal stars.
And I sat there alone in the night waiting for you, wishing for you, closing my eyes and willing sleep to take me to you. And I stared out into that lonely night and wondered where you were, if you ever were, if you ever would be. And I watched as the long dark shadows gathered and grew and took the place of you. And I strained to hear what the night would whisper to me, but the darkness kept its secrets.
When the sun came up again I was still sitting, still waiting, still wishing. I felt the glow of the light on my face and felt my cold body warm and come alive, and I wondered if I could face this day without you. But you were never there, I’d only thought you were, and I had always been alone, and I had always been just fine without you.
—
I dont know why I wrote this or what it means. I just know that I wanted to write and didn’t know what to write about—and so I just let my fingers do the thinking. I’m not sure whether that was a good idea, but I always like what comes out when I just do stream-of-consciousness writing without any plan, any idea, any focus in mind. I’m sure that this, along with similar posts I’ve done, is in some ways my subconscious speaking—I just wish it would speak less metaphorically.
It’s because this is stream-of-consciousness that I’m putting this in the “She” category, even though this one is first person, and the rest of them aren’t.
The Running Man
The low shudder of an arrow as it sliced through the air a mere shiver away from his ear pulled the banner bearer up short, and as it thudded dully home behind him, he closed his eyes to the battle around him. In the millisecond long sanctuary of a blink, all the fight flooded out of him and he was a man again, standing alone on this bloodied plain in shoddy armor, clutching in stiff fingers the cold metal pole that bore the sigil of his already fallen lord. The air around him was cold, crisp, a fragility easily shattered by the clash of metal on metal, the thump of flesh on flesh, and the worst sound, the sound of metal tearing through flesh.
Heart dancing frantically in his chest, the banner bearer opened his eyes and swiveled around to see a fellow soldier splayed crookedly against the ground, the warm red blood still gushing from the wound opened by his arrow—he couldn’t help think that the archer hadn’t been aiming straight for him. The banner bearer watched as the soldier lifted his head to see the staff jutting from his side, his eyes wide and fearful, his mouth agape with pain as the realization that he would shortly be dead dawned upon him.
The banner bearer opened his fingers.
A Different Kind of Story
She’d been sailing for so long now, through blue seas and grey winds and black skies, through storms that, though no more than overly enthusiastic winds for seasoned sailors, were no less than hurricanes for her. She’d been buffeted by gales and tossed about in the waves, and she’d thrown her head back and bared her chest to the coast and let the world take her. She’d loved sailing, and she’d learned to sail alone. She could pilot this ship alone; she’d been doing it all her life. She could go on alone, if that’s what it took.
She could make it, but sometimes in the calm that came in the dark night, and increasingly under the illuminating light of day, she wished she didn’t have to be alone. She wished that she didn’t have to be strong all the time, that she could give that task to someone else and watch him take the prow and steer them into safe harbors. She didn’t need him, but she wanted him, and she was ready to let him in.
She had been writing for so long: stories of other people’s loves, of other people’s heartaches, of other people’s heartbreaks. She’d watched them come to life under her pen, smile and love and laugh; she’d given love to souls that didn’t exist outside of paper and dreams. She’d written so many stories. They were all here, pages and strewn pages, littering the floor, some of them crumpled and torn and stepped on, some of them still damp with ink. Stories and stories and stories she’d written of love, and none of them her own. And in the corner lay a stack of yellowed paper, smooth and neat, untouched. Ready for the pen.
And there was a whole new stretch of sea she’d never sailed before and yearned to sail, but couldn’t on her own. Like a soldier who has never seen battle and never felt cold steel tearing through his flesh, in her naivete she almost welcomed all it had to offer: the pain, the turmoil, the anguish, and the sorrow. She could only dream about what lay in wait out there, but she was ready to send her heart out onto the frontlines.
She was ready to write her own story.
For What He Was
It hurt her, to have to watch him cradle a half-empty bottle of beer. It hurt to see his beautiful eyes glazed and bloodshot and to see the red pain behind them. It hurt when he looked up at her unable to focus on her face and couldn’t recognize her to remember that she cared about him more than she cared for her own life.
She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sober, or the last time she’d seen him outside of the house, or the last time he’d spoken without the alcohol coloring his words. She remembered when he’d been strong, and vibrant, and happy, and tried to see behind the ashen locks of hair that obscured his face the boy he had been.
It was all she could do to remember that he was still human, that he was still her best friend, that she still loved him, because whenever she looked at him all she saw was a stranger. And she wanted to cry and maybe grab a bottle and sit down right beside him but she couldn’t because he needed her for more than that. She didn’t know if she was helping or making it worse or if he would be better off without her, but she couldn’t leave him. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, but she was the only one who still remembered him, and because she was the only one who remembered him, she couldn’t break.
Sometimes she hated him, and in those moments she found it hard to convince herself he would come back to her, and she wanted to give it all up because she knew she was better than this, better than who he had become. She knew she deserved so much more and out there in the world there was so much more for her, and she had loved him once but he was no longer the man she loved and there was only so much of herself she could give. And she would almost walk out that door. But, by god, sometimes he would smile at her, and, by god, when he smiled she saw the old fire behind his eyes, that rare spark of light, his soul shining through, and when he smiled at her, she saw the boy he had once been. And oh, but he had such a beautiful smile. And she knew deep inside that no matter who he was, no matter what else happened, if only for those rare smiles, it was worth it.
The Deserter
The Deserter sat at the small wooden table, a dinner of lamb stew and potato growing cold before him. He wasn’t paying attention to it; he was watching his Conscience. She sat by the fire in a red velvet armchair pulled out of a novel, her head bent elegantly over a pair of mud-caked combat boots. She had a butter knife in one hand and was using it to scrape and chip at the grime. A large sheet of coarse white linen laid spread on her lap to catch the falling debris.
The Deserter said, “Where were you when I needed you five years ago?”
Chasing Stars
catchingfireflies.typepad.com
I had that same dream again last night of you dressed all in ocean waves, white foam, salt spray and clear sky, while the rainbow fish swam all around you singing our song. I reached out for them and they darted away from my fingers, away and away to their cavern in the sea. And you looked at me with moonlight eyes and asked me where your fishes went, so we ran hand in hand on the beach but we never found them.
That was the year it rained all winter so we stayed indoors and explored the shadows of the firelight. You thought you saw monsters along the flames, ghouls and ghosts with white fangs and huge eyes so I wrapped my arms around you because I loved yours around me, and I never saw them but I pretended I did and I knew you were pretending too.
That was the year the stars fell from the crystal heavens so we ran with our arms spread wide catching them. You spun around with stars and planets hanging from your arms and shining in your hair like a galaxy twirling round and round until you fell onto the grass. We wove baskets from the reeds by the river while the night watched and we put the fallen stars all inside and we closed our eyes and flung them up into the darkness and watched as they rained down all around us until the field was studded with diamonds.
And when I opened my eyes it was that night again with the heavens all empty and black and that’s when I realised you had taken all the stars with you.
So I’m a wanderer now, splashing through the coast over parking lots and arcades looking for those stars and the one who took them. Sand slows my steps but I hug the sea searching for flashes of rainbow fins, but the only song I hear is the clouds drifting across the sky faster than I run. In every shadow I see monsters, and my arms my swords I use to slay the night.
I ask the moon where my stars went but she just winks and I realise you have her too. And the trees by the road whisper as I sleep under their branches and wake to a moonless sky. So I open jars of summer sun and ride the waves away, because you took the stars but I have the sun and while it burns I forget I need you.
The Outcast Prince
“I met her when I was fifteen, do you know?” The Prince said, staring deep into the fire over his cup of wine. “She was thirteen that summer, standing on the rafters throwing stones at the birds. I taught her how to throw them quickly and soundlessly and with deadly accuracy. She hit one, killed the poor thing, and then she cried and made me carry it down to the gardens so that we could give it a proper funeral.” The corners of his mouth curved upwards with the hint of a smile. “I’ve never given a crow a funeral before.”
“James,” The Prince’s best friend said, using the personal address, “You shouldn’t blame yourself. No one could have seen it coming. Your kingdom could have been betrayed a hundred ways. They were gathering around the doors, ready to pounce. It could have been anyone.”
A Belated Memorial Day “Tribute”
What must it be like, to be sixteen, underage and not yet a man, but to know that your country needs you and that you love it too much to tell it to wait just two more years?
