Posts Tagged ‘Media’
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.
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.
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.”
Black and White Formal
Willowy girls in red, green, purple, gold and silver, the purest ivorys, the deepest ebonies on the arms of sharp young men black and white in tuxedos swirled around the room that wasn’t the auditorium of the city hall tonight but a magnificent ballroom hung ceiling to floor with shimmery pale blue. The music pulsed through bodies, soft and smooth and ethereal, gently guiding the dancers that flowed across the gleaming floor.
She was there, radiant and glowing in silver, a very angel casting light and hope into the faces of whoever she deigned to shine on. She was one among many, but she was the only one for him.
Desperate Measures
(c) Webjam.com
The young man stood at the tip top of the tall building, his head thrown back. He was a little addled, this man. A little crazy, a little out of his mind, insane, disturbed, mental, unstable, troubled.
Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was the one person in this crazy world who had it right, who knew that sometimes you had to make the biggest sacrifice of all to achieve a little attention, to make a difference. Perhaps it wasn’t such a stupid thing to do to turn heads, to make people start thinking.
And oh, he will turn heads when he is splattered all over the pavement way down below, his bones shattered, his limbs twisted from the fall. People will be talking about him for days, he thought, gritting his teeth in determination.
Papa was a Vagabond
She wondered, as they lowered the casket that held her father’s body into the earth, just how many tons of soil went above six-feet-under, and how the lid of the coffin could hold all of it without collapsing inward. She wondered how long it would take for the tenacious creeping roots of dandelions and daisies to take hold over the site, how long before the grass would grow over the grave. She wondered if the worms would bump their soft pink heads against the maple-wood coffin as they bored their way through the soil. She wondered if it would be cold down there, colder than it was up in the air on this September morning as she stood all dressed in black mourning the father she never knew.
The General, the Dawn, the Meadow
Senlac Hill, the site of the Battle of Hastings
The general stood on the edge of the precipice looking down onto the pristine green meadow. Nestled between rolling hills, it lay dewy and glistening and still and peaceful. The general knew that when the sun came up, which wouldn’t be very long now, it would bask the valley in its soft golden light, rendering it glowing and verdant and beautiful. He wondered how long it would be before the animals–the little sparrows, the foxes, the squirrels and hares and deer–came out to frolic.
He wondered how many of those woodland critters would be able to run fast enough to escape the bloodthirsty cold sharp blades of two determined armies.
The general wanted to sink to his knees, to raise his arms to the sky and beg the gods to strip him of his honors, his medals, his glory. Here, in this dawn, standing over this meadow he was soon to destroy like the many that lay desolate and smoldering and bloody behind his advancing army, the general just wanted to be a man. He wanted to shoulder his share of bags, to have to stand watch before the guard fire deep into the night, to have to wait his share of rations in line, to rush into battle brandishing the banner of his land and shouting the name of his king. It was too much, sometimes, to be a leader. The general didn’t want to think anymore, he just wanted to follow orders.
Most of all, the general didn’t want to have to be the man responsible for destroying the beauty that lay before him…and for what? Another army defeated, another little square of land taken for country and king? It hardly seemed a worthy sacrifice. In a few hours he would give the command to charge down into the green and when they walked away at the end of the day, all they would leave behind them would be death, ruin, and decay. It was too much, sometimes.
It wasn’t his fault, the general wanted to shout to whoever was listening. It was too much to stand before his army day after day in his greaves and helmet and armor carrying his spear and pretending to be a man when he knew there was nothing manly about this senseless killing. It was too much sometimes to see the trust and loyalty in the eyes of his men, to hear them shout his name and swear to him their fidelity. He wanted to tell them that they shouldn’t trust him, that he could very well be leading them into battle, that if they followed him maybe all they would come to show for it is a grieving wife and fatherless children.
Yet how could he? He was the general, and he had to stay strong. The fate of his homeland, of these tens of thousands of soldiers still sleeping quietly in the camp behind him lay in his hands. He couldn’t give in, for the sake of his country, his sovereign, and that of his two little boys at home who played so fiercely with toy swords and swore that someday they would be great generals like their father. If only they knew their father would do anything to spare them that fate. It didn’t matter that 99 days out of 100 he was admired, he was great, and he had honor, glory, dignity, if for that one other day he felt less than a dog.
But it didn’t matter. There was a reason he had risen to the office of general, after all. Because at the end of the day he was the one man out of hundreds that could look at the smoking trampled ruin of what had once been a perfect green meadow and give the order to move out and march on to the next meadow and not look back. He was the one man they looked to to send men to their deaths, to look the enemy in the eyes and shout an attack. There was a reason he did what he did so well, the general knew. So he cast one last long look down into the valley, took a deep breath of the cool dawn air and beckoned forward his commanders, who had been waiting quietly and patiently behind him, to discuss tactics.
By midday a shepard standing looking down between the hills would see only the sunlight reflecting off the armor and spears of two armies, hear only the clashing of steel and screaming of dying men, and smell only the rank odor of blood. He would turn away, muttering to himself, glad to be rid of the scene.
But then, the lowly shepard doesn’t have the steel-cast heart of a general.
Lifting the Glass
He realised, as he was pouring cold milk into his bowl of cornflakes, that he no longer missed her.
It was such a foreign thought to him. For so long, for months on end, night after sleepless night, day after drab grey day spent longing for her touch, missing her had been his default setting. He’d been missing her for so long that it had become a part of him, a bone-deep ache that at turns threatened to consume him and simmered quietly in the back of his mind. He would hear her laughing next to him when he watched TV, miss her splashing him with water on purpose when she handed him the dishes to dry. He would hear phantom ringing from his cellphone and rush to pull it out of his pocket only to find no calls, no texts. Mornings were the worst. He would wake up and, still groggy from sleep, try to put his arm around the girl that wasn’t there beside him. He would blink, confused for a few seconds, and then the hurt would settle in again and he would pull himself out of bed to put himself together for work.
It had snuck up on him, this not missing her, or rather the missing her had snuck away one day and he hadn’t even realised it was gone. He had thought for so long that he would no longer be the same again, that he would be empty for the rest of his days. He had been wallowing for so long that he’d forgotten how to be happy again, even when the memory of her wasn’t here holding him back.
Breaking
“Hi Rachel,” he said, standing on her doorstep.
“Hey,” she gushed, and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh Matt, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I forgot. I was on the phone with T–well, I lost track of the time. I’ll make it up to you. Look, let’s go out now. I know a place, an adorable Russian place, just let me grab my coat.”
She did look like she was ready for a night out, too. Satiny red dress, distractingly low cut, provocatively short, ebony curls that shone in the glow of the streetlight. She stood there like an angel, back lit and radiant, and for a moment he almost forgot that he had spent an hour sitting, waiting at a table reserved for two lit with candles and two glasses of red wine sitting growing warm. He forgot–almost–that he still had the three red roses in his hand, and that they had grown droopy now, and that he now probably smelled more like pasta than his 70-dollar cologne.
