You Are At The Archives for June 2011

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Never wake the mother bear.


 Hey there =) This week on the Indie Ink Writing Challenge I received my prompt from The Last Astronaut, whose prompt for me was:

"and that's when he dropped the baby."

My response this time might be a bit sad again, so my apologies. I just couldn't help not write this, it wouldn't leave my mind.




Never wake the mother bear

Alexander was looking out the window with a white little teddy bear curled up in his lap — his little sister, dressed in the polar bear onesie he’d chosen, sniffling sleepily in his arms. The morning was foggy, the ground barely in vision as he stared out the sixth storey window, looking for shapes in the clouds to pass the time.

His little bear squirmed, opening one eye from the pale light pouring inside.

“Shhh,” he whispered, placing his finger on his lips. “Mommy’s still sleeping.”

He leaned down to kiss her forehead, cradling her to his chest. She had started crying a few hours earlier so he’d brought her to the window after piling up books on the floor to be able to snatch her up from her crib. 

He looked over his shoulder to find his mother snoring away at the corner of the room, reclined on his kid-sized, shaped-like-a-panda-about-to-hug-you armchair, a green glass bottle with a long neck placed by her side. She loved those; it always had to be green. His Dad had once brought a clear one and she’d thrown it into the wall.

“You’re going to love her,” he murmured against his polar bear’s cheek, pressing his cold nose to her warm one. “She loves playing hide and seek. And she’ll dance with me, too. Sometimes she’s angry but when she sleeps you’ll love her.”

She raised her head a bit, blowing air through her closed lips, making Alexander chuckle. 

“And she loves bears too,” he murmurs, leaning over to growl against her little tummy.

She shut her eyes tightly, her face turning crimson. She must’ve been hungry.

“No no, Claire. No crying. Do you want me to get your bottle?”

A little sound escaped from his baby sister.

“Let’s go, Claire Bear.”

He smiled, hopping off the windowsill, tiptoeing towards the door. He glanced at his Mommy, crouching down to move the green bottle with the long neck. She stirred from the quiet screech on the floor, her head dropping to one shoulder. It would be hours at least till she was close to waking up. 

He held Claire close, shushing her cries, starting to hum the song his mother would play on the piano. The hall was full of scattered clothes and various items, hairbrushes, green bottles, soda cans. He kept lifting his knees up high, going through the daily obstacle course, his arms growing tired of clutching his little bear to his warm chest. He pressed his cheek to hers, trying to soothe her quiet yelps, her cheek hot from hunger. 

He looked up to find the kitchen chairs lying on their sides on the floor, blocking his way to the refrigerator. He drew his tongue over his upper lip to concentrate, holding Claire up while trying to get over the chairs. He pulled his leg upward from the other side of the second chair but it wouldn’t move. He switched Claire to one arm, holding her to his shoulder as he leaned down. His pajama pants were stuck on a nail. 

“Hold on, Claire Bear,” he murmured, pulling at the fabric.

It came off suddenly, causing him to tip over to his back, making Claire slip from his arms and to the carpeted floor in a muted thud, his baby bear growling out in pain. She started crying loudly, her face hot and red, her little arms and legs squirming helplessly in the air.

Alexander crawled to her, cradling her close. “Shhh,” he whispered, kissing her cheek. “I got you. You’re okay.” 

He held her close but she wouldn’t stop crying, the high-pitched wails echoing back from the empty walls. He could hear his mother’s footsteps down the hall, making him hold Claire closer to his face, her forehead pressed to his cheek. 


Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Imagination

 

Imagination

We are imaginative creatures. This, as a rule, makes it hard to define our sense of reality. We live this life in a pendulum between fantasy and real life, constantly in motion. We give abnormalities fancy names so that we can float by them without stressing it into a monstrosity. Abnormality, aberration, anomaly — the pendulum stuck at one end, we play the same record over and over, a song of endless verse.

We are afraid of fantasy, afraid of letting it coat us and our perfectly pointed view of reality, define it however you may. We fear being ill — the to-be-bonkers state that during which we are flown to a closed ward. We give our fancy-named aberrations loosely fitting definitions, which then lead to an almost-false diagnosis that ruins parts of someone’s life, or by contrast drives the medical professional towards insanity.

Our bodies seem to have been designed to both destroy and protect us. We add things to memories and take things out without noticing. We create new memories altogether. We lie to ourselves to survive.

It would be nice to have a little red light on my shoulder that would start blinking if I threw I lie in the air. 

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Five Minute Fiction

Helloow. Did my first attempt at Five Minute Fiction today. The internet didn't swallow up my writing, thank goodness. Here goes... The prompt was: acute



Acute awareness,
My eyes distant lamps on the road.

Trees hug me close,
Whispering

She was right there,
The car was just passing through.

Suddenly it was the dark ditch,
Colored lights in the horizon

And for a moment,
I was in a dream.

For a moment,
I saw nothing.

The scent of childhood

 The scent of childhood

Between ages 1 to 7 (1 to 5 for my little sister) most our time was spent at our grandparents. Our parents weren’t exactly well off then so the nice clothes and the nice toys came from Grandma and Grandpa from my mother’s side. I didn’t mind getting all my clothes from the flea market — hell, I still do — but it was a nice change of atmosphere going to see them.

My Grandma had this Glycerin and Lemon hand cream whose scent filled our clothes and our hair when we were over. It was always combined with the smell of something in the oven — usually blueberry pie. The combination was entrancing in how it made us feel so safe and at home.

No rules of home were to be followed here, we could pull everything out of cabinets and go play hide and seek in the attic if we were really, really careful and remembered to shut the door in the floor.

Grandpa always smelt of fish and wood. He had a little warehouse in the garage where he made things. He’d built us a little house outdoors where we could play; it seemed so huge at the time. The smell of fish always makes me think of him, and makes me kind of happy, even though at my current point of life I would never dream of eating fish ever again. Don’t want the poor little things killed…

My Grandma died when I was seven. They still make the Glycerin and Lemon hand cream she has, so whenever I see a tester at the store I go put some on (sounds silly I know) to feel like she’s around. Nobody makes blueberry pie like she did, she I can never smell that again but… I have a feeling I remember it.


Photobucket

Choosing life


Choosing life

She watches shadows play on his tiny, chubby cheeks, his eyelashes fluttering slightly as the wind breathes out through the window. His left eye is more closed than his right. It remains open just a bit; a general malfunction, a mild distortion that he would grow out of. For now she has the salt-water drops the doctor had given her, so that she could keep her baby’s eye from drying out — three drops every hour, on the hour, never forget.

His small, pearl-like toes twitch inside his oversized woolly socks as something resembling a yawn flees his pink lips, his brows crunched together as though sensing the pillow floating above his head.

She hesitates. 

Her hands are sweaty as she grips the sides of the pillow tighter, inching toward the perfect little face.

He opens his eyes, one still slightly closed but the other wide open, inspecting, scanning the weird cloud-like mass hovering right above his nose. He opens his mouth, his tongue wagging helplessly as a minuscule noise seeps into the air, like a wordless plea.

She closes her eyes, turning her head away just in case, lowering her hands. She feels his ears press against her hands through the pillow; his cry too far away for her to sense it within her heart, for this is not her child. No — three drops every hour, on the hour, never forget…

It is not her child.

She presses down harder as tears trickle down her neck. She glances at the feet with the pearly toes scrambling about the air.

Stop.

She starts lifting the pillow, making sure the little feet are still moving.

“Don’t cry, darling. Don’t cry, Mommy’s here,” she stutters, throwing the pillow aside, cradling him close. She takes the salt-water drops from the bedside table.

“Three drops every hour, on the hour, never forget.”

For now

For now


Let us make footprints
In wet sand, beneath the waves
Leave a mark for now.

Melt pt. 10




WARNING: MILD EXPLICIT CONTENT
Read more »

Monday, June 20, 2011

What I love about summer

In response to Sunglight After Rain

+fruit, especially strawberries
+no schoolwork (usually)
+going to the market in town
+seeing friends and relatives that live a bit further away
+sleeping in
+turning nocturnal at times
+how the sun barely sets here
+the smell of the forest after rain
+ice tea
+butterflies <3
+going to amusement parks
+having PLENTY OF TIME TO WRITE
+ice cream
+seeing friends
+making sand castles at the beach
+going to my stepdad's cabin
+Midsummer's Eve
+how the clouds turn pink
+how everything is greeeeeen
+flowers
+movie marathons during rainy days
+running in the warm rain
+swimming while it's raining <3
+having time to play videogames
+reading BOOOKS
+sleeping in a tent
+seeing cute little kids play at the beach
+getting to be with my little brother
+having more time for crafts
+getting to be with my Lizbear aka mygirlfriend =3

What about you?

Your hands are all I need

Your hands are all I need

 
Crippled twilight plays
With the curtains, a specter
We will be safe here.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Melt pt. 9




Read more »

Drenched


Drenched

She walks the street slowly,
Painful shoes
Painful beauty,
The rain a whisper above her head

She thinks of what they said,
Too beautiful to know better,
Painful shoes,
And a lack of brain.

“The world is vain,”
She had been told
At only five years old

Holding a blue umbrella,
Her rubber boots drenched,
“The world is vain,
So you better make amends.”




 ---------------------------------------

Physical beauty.

It can open doors - and can also shut them.


Write a scene in which a physically beautiful character is somehow impacted by that trait. If you are doing non-fiction, you can write about yourself or someone you know.


Come back and link up here Friday. Word limit is 600.

Blind beauty


Blind Beauty


I’ve always been a bit skeptic of the concept of physical beauty. How is it physical if it’s merely visual? Why not just call it visual beauty? Physical beauty, in my book, would cover both inner and outer beauty, the whole person as they are. We are physical beings; our physique consists of senses of which vision is only one. 

What if we were blind?

Physical beauty would indeed become physical, wouldn’t it? Our very much visual definition of beauty would vanish and be substituted with what we receive via the senses we have left. Would we think sounds and scents and textures beautiful? Would our sense of beauty be more of an abstract than a physical concept?

I tend to ponder these things, being a professional over-thinker. When it comes to texture, I have no clue in what is beautiful. By simple logic, smooth, soft surfaces would be pretty or beautiful and rough surfaces, by contrast, ugly. But if the surface is smooth and soft what is there to feel? One piece of the surface is no different from the other… Sounds a bit like the stereotypes through which we define beauty, doesn’t it? Mundane, not exactly original but at the same time fascinating, pure… It depends on the person, the viewer, I suppose. 


I, for one, can find beauty in ugly things. I don’t see it just as a visual, objectified thing. But that might just be me. I don’t even seem to know what beauty is.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Triviality


Hellow. I was almost late, again, for Indie Ink this week because I have been traveling to my Dad's cousin's place for some dance courses and only got internet connection after a few days. This week I was challenged by Manju, whose prompt for me was:

"Sometimes we are not aware of our surroundings as much as we should be. We use the phone, listen to music, read a book and so on...but fail to notice some really simple pleasures around us. Write about the different things you noticed today. Yes, there has to be something different you will see otherwise you are not looking enough;)"

Here we go then.


Triviality


We seem to be living in a world taken for granted. We seek only what we desire, and let little things pass us with the rest of the trivial, insignificant layer of the world. I opened my eyes again this week — and, to tell the truth, I am overwhelmed. It is no wonder our senses only take a certain slice out of the world. I felt sick with information, about to burst with too many things to see and to hear.

So how do we see the little things without ending up fat with information? I tried not to actually seek things but just let them come to me, not let them pass me like they usually do but catch them at the very last moment to get another glimpse.

Work:

Everyday — during my summer job, I mean — my stepdad or my mom drive me to work with them. I noticed a slight crack on the windshield, one that looks like a water drop. I actually thought it was one until my mother said it wasn’t. I peeked through it with one eye closed, receiving weird looks from the driver’s seat.

And about my mom’s car…

I had already noticed something that made me a bit smiley and giggly, thanks to my lovely not-actually-one-sided mind. I suppose it’s weird of me to get a reaction like that just because the license plate has the letters UNF. I’m sorry people but it gives me some nice flashbacks. I’m allowed to be a bit childish at times.

Okay. So, I always go to the office through the parking garage and another hallway — in the parking garage there is a light on the ceiling at each place, it turns red or green depending on whether it’s taken or not. There’s also always this around middle-aged man who walks around at the same time as us, who you’d think, by the sound of his feet (clip-clap like heels), that he was a woman.

At the office, only one of the seven plants is real. All the walls are white except for one which is a reaaaaally pale pink. All the women working in the same area have husky, smokers’ voices but only one of them actually smokes. The files I was scanning smelt like a really old library (no wonder, they were from the seventies), and it made me feel really content, since I absolutely love libraries.

At lunch, people were organized in tables by in which part of the company they were working, which reminded me of some movies with their cliché high school cafeterias. You’d actually be frowned upon if you sat at the wrong table! If you worked in advertising, it was their table you sat at, if you worked at the law department, you sat at their table… Bizarre!

Home/At Mom’s:

My little brother — almost two — has gotten most of his facial expressions from my mother. I noticed this as I looked at them, and how he would have the exact same expression match the exact same feeling or place. He has this little curl in his hair right above his forehead, so his hair will only, and ONLY, be combed in one direction if you want it to look nice. He tends to sway back and forth if he has something yummy to eat which makes me absolutely melt.

My mother is always licking her lips when she’s concentrating, so in the end she’ll have this thin red line above her upper lip. I’ve inherited that from her, I only noticed now. My stepdad picks his nose in the living room (EW) when I’m on the computer and he thinks I’m not looking. He also always spits in the bathroom sink when he leaves the bathroom (double EW).

The sun sets at my mother’s house so that there are these thin rays of light that seep through the wooden blinds they have at the terrace. There are airplanes flying over the house all the time. I have gotten used to it and had forgotten about the noise. The man in the next house never seems to be wearing a shirt. They have three cars and a boat. I despise them for some inexplicable reason.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

No hugs.

I was in psychiatric hospital from April to June 2010. The rooms were cold, with white walls and loud air conditioning. I always fell asleep watching the wall, the shadows portrayed on it by the blinds. It’s not as if nobody was nice to me, they were, it was just that I never really had been used to the cold, professional sort of status that I had to keep with nurses and fellow patients. No hugs, no holding hands when scared, only a few pats on my back or on the back of my hand when I cried my eyes and lungs out because my father declared he no longer knows me. The closest I could get to physical affection was during group therapy every Thursday where we might play some sort of game or other that was supposed to help us but didn’t.

The worst of all was when the visits went from once a week to none. When my phone was taken away from me. When I wasn’t allowed to see my parents. I got to a police investigation, because of which my father would no longer hug me because he was afraid it. I won’t get into that because it would hurt too much and technically, I’m not even sure if I’m allowed…

I brought my teddy bear along to hospital. Silly me, carrying a teddy bear around at sixteen. Truth is, he was the only object/person I could hug. I’ve had Mumur since I was two, he’s worn out and lovely to cuddle and smelt like home, unlike my clothes, which I had to wash at the hospital. I kept him in my bag so that the smell of home wouldn’t go away. After a month, though, it did — which made me hug him even tighter. I would go to bed right after our designated evening snack/medication moment at eight pm. I would put my iPod on and shut the world out while curling up against my Mumur. I would sleep for twelve hours every night, thanks to my medication, with nightmare after nightmare accompanying me, no longer able to cry because I’d done it too much and because I didn’t get what I wanted, what I needed. I felt like a tiny, helpless baby, crying for hours on end until there was no more power left in me.

I suppose a part of me deserved it. I had taken the wrong path in trying to make it through hell. I fell for the wrong person. Also, it appeared my memory was failing on me because what was my truth was a lie, a lie that could have put both of my parents behind bars. Being caged in a room with no lock, no security, no privacy, without any contact into the world — and no hugs, that was what hospital was like.

I can’t believe I went there by choice.




"This week we would like you to write about how the show of affection has played a part in your memory.
Choose a time when either the abundance or lack of affection (either by you or someone else) stands out, and show us.  Bring us to that time.  Help us feel what you felt.
Then come back and link up your post on Tuesday, June 14."

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Mommy's on a business trip.


Hello. I was almost late with my post to this week's Indie Ink challenge because a) Blogger's been acting funny all afternoon and b) I haven't been able to write all week because of my summer job so I got writing today. 

This week I was challenged by Peter de Wolf, whose prompt for me was:

"Voicemail is left on your phone, but it isn't for you."

And be it known, I did not cheat on this! You might think so when reading the post... 


Mommy's on a business trip

The evening was crawling in as I shut the computer. Sundown was being slow, last few rays of light piercing my eyes with a familiar kind of sting. It was raining a little, half of the sky cloudy, half of the sky a brilliant blue. I pretended to be inside a bubble as I sat, curled up against the greenhouse wall. I had carried in an old, ragged armchair last summer to have my own secret hideout, mostly for reading or late-night writing. I sat there now, my toes a little hyper from the cold, moving around in that way my mother used to call disgusting.

My God, quit that already! You don’t want your toes to stay like that, do you? All curvy and in wrong directions — that is disgusting, disgusting…

I dug out my phone to hear it again. Wrong number, but it was beautiful. A man’s voice, echoing as though in a church or a concert hall, it was breaking up every time he reached the high note of a consonant-filled word — as though he was singing within his speech. He was drunk. No other person in my life had sounded so beautiful when drunk.

I held the phone to my ear, listening.

No new messages.

I searched through my calls to find it, only a few missed calls from my mother catching my eye. He had to be there. He had to be in my phone. I looked through my phonebook for a name. What was his name?

William.

I dialed the number.

A woman answered, leaving me wordless for a moment. “Hello?”
“Yeah—“ I stammered, curling my toes. “Is William there?”
“Oh, dear—“ she muttered. Her voice was edgy, like his.
“What is it?”
“I, uh—“ she mumbled, as though moving away from the phone. “Who am I speaking to?”
I shut my eyes, thinking. “Lily.”
“Lily?!” Her voice went up a notch, breaking up at the end.
“What—“
“I hope you’re happy now.”
I opened my eyes, staring at my reflection from the glassy wall. “What are you talking about?” I said, my voice shaking.
“You filthy little—“ she paused, breathing noisily. I began to panic. “When I get my hands on you, you bitch—“

I threw the phone to the wall.

I could hear my mother call my name outside the greenhouse.

“Fiona! If you don’t come out this instant I will lock the greenhouse for the rest of the week! Do you hear me? And give me back my phone!”

Playtime was over. I kneeled down, crawling to the phone. It had come to pieces so I put it back together before holding it to my face while deleting William from the phonebook.

That is disgusting, disgusting…

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Melt pt. 8

Part 1     Part 3     Part 5     Part 7
Part 2     Part 4     Part 6


Melt pt. 8


I slouched down beside her as I focused on the titles flashing on the black-and-white screen, shown beneath them a man walking around his suitcase at the train station, one hand dug deep into his pocket while the other holds onto a cigar. His monologue, apparently too long, made Emily sigh, a frown masked as a smile crossing her lips. 

“Davey—“ she mimicked his voice, “the boxer!”

“Shut up and let me watch!”

“You don’t think he’s attractive, do you?” she mumbled, raising her eyebrow at the screen — Davey “the boxer” was examining his eyebrows while scrunching his face into what seemed like something between a raisin and an upset baby. 
“God, no! He’s too—“ I paused, pondering, “hairy.”

“Oh my, look at that chest hair—“

“I know!”

“I can still see it even though he’s wearing a shirt.”

I felt my heart lurch to the left as her shoulder brushed mine. My body was just as scrunched up as Davey’s face had been on-screen, my muscles seemingly unable to relax. I bit down on my tongue as the movie tiptoed on, slowly, as though it was being rewritten because of the tension stuck inside my cranium. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” she said, holding her hand up towards the television. “Who’s the lady?”

“That’s his neighbor, Gloria.” I glanced at Emily. Her face was lit up in an almost mischievous grin, a thin gap between her lips showing the tips of her teeth. I looked at the screen and back at her again. “What?”

“She’s not wearing a bra.”

“Yes she is!” I objected, switching to sitting on my knees, staring at the woman walking around her apartment in a turtleneck sweater and a skirt. I’d always loved her hair the most.  I took in a breath, rolling my eyes. “Em, that’s in the fifties, bra’s were different.”

She tilted her head, placing her hand on my knee. “I can see her nipples.” 

“Emily!”

“Well, sorry. It’s not my fault they’re jumping out at me like that.”

I laughed, closing my eyes. Her hand was still on my knee. “I’ve always loved her appearance. But I hate her voice,” I said, mostly to myself.  “It sounds too artificial.”

“I have a feeling something else about her artificial too,” she said, biting her lips together so as not to burst into laughter like a little, slightly perverted child. I remained silent, cherishing the feel of her hand on me.  It was always like this, watching a movie with her: incessant commentary, hysteric laughter and high-pitched cries — the latter only making its appearance during horror films. This sort of physicality, however, was new. 

I grabbed my glass of ice tea from the tabletop and took a sip. “Emily?”

She turned around, focusing both eyes on me. “Yes?”

“I—“ I shook my head, biting at my lips.

“What is it?”

Before I could say anything I heard my phone start buzzing in my bag again. “Shit.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly, looking down at her hand.

“Do you want me to answer?”

“I’m not actually sure what sort of difference that would make, if any.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she said, her voice rising. She lifted my head with her fingertip underneath my chin, staring straight into my eyes, the sudden connection sending waves of fear down my arms. “Tell me what he did and I won’t answer.”

I shook my head, hot tears dripping down my cheeks. She dove for the bag, grabbing my phone. I flinched as she raised it to her ear, smiling sadly at her poor attempt of not sounding angry.

“Hello?”

She turned her back to me, strolling towards the wall. I hugged my knees, shrinking against the couch as I listened to her talk to my stepbrother. I shut it out, examining my toes through my socks. Seven, seven point five, eight…

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Pregnant Barbies

 I remember a lot of things from my childhood by heart. Songs, books, moments, toys… But, to be frank, translating them takes the loveliness out so let’s use something I can convert to an international version.

When I was around four or five my best friend lived in the apartment building next to us. We’d come and go from one apartment to the next, coming in unannounced, sitting at the dinner table at whichever end we chose. Our parents didn’t actually mind, they’d been friends for a while and it took some of the load off the other two while we rummaged around the yard or ran around one of the apartments. I still remember the smell of the hallways (which, might I add, wasn’t always that pleasant since some neighbors sold homemade vodka), and remember counting the steps when I walked up to my friend’s door.

We loved to play in closets. Our younger siblings weren’t allowed in closets so we felt superior to be able to play in a dark room with a closed (we pretended it was locked) door. And what on earth did we do in a closet that was so intriguing? Our barbies and various other toys (usually ponies) would jump off shelves to deep unknown voids or waters, depending on whether they were astronauts or mermaids or if I was easily persuaded to play with the only male barbie. Our absolute favorite thing, for whatever odd reason, was to have one of the barbies pregnant. 

Naturally (or, rather, unnaturally), since we did not have baby barbies but the whatever-their-name-was kiddie versions instead, we stuffed them (naked) underneath the Barbie’s skirt and then sealed it at the ankles with a rubber band. We thought this was the most logical way of doing it, and that after about twenty minutes the baby would be born (as something resembling a five-year-old with a very big head) and… we would get bored and do it all over again, or maybe toss both the “baby” and the barbie off a shelf.

My mother banned playing in closets soon, though, since my sister was getting too upset — she’d climbed into a full bath with all her clothes and her diaper on while the others were in the kitchen. We’d looked for her for hours until we found her, soaked through and twice as heavy as usual since the diaper had sucked up a lot of water from the bath.

It’s funny how I remember the color of the walls in the closer, or the amount of shelves on the right side (though it might be wrong since my counting skills at age five weren’t that pro), or the place where my Mom kept her sewing machine.

I suppose we all have memories that stay with us better than the others. For me I think it was the repetition that made it stay in my memory. There was a time we spent an hour in the closet at least once or twice a week.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Melt pt. 7

I decided to take part in Red Writing Hood this week. Their prompt for this week gave me a spark of inspiration for continuing Melt. Check it out:

This week's prompt is all about character development.
We'd like you to write about what your character wants most.
...
Do you know what you want most? Does your character? Write a piece of 600 words or less and come back to link up here Friday.



Read more »

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