I pack the sugar away, and slide away from the counter. I switch the lights, and watch the neon signs flicker off. I untie my apron, and hang it on a hook in the kitchen, and lean back against the sink, and take a deep breath. It had been a long day. And I had met so many different people. Such different characters.
Pancakes. That was how my day began. Flipping pancakes in my kitchen. Flipping pancakes for my first five customers, that showed up at my door as regular as sunshine.
Moris, Genesis, Barney, Travis, and Bailey.
They’d show up five minutes before opening time, each, with their five dollars, and would amble up to the counter and seat themselves right in front of the cash register.
Then Moris would call for me. “Missus Hailey-Jean, now, if you ain’t gonna show us your bright little face, along with those fiiine pancakes of yours, hows we gonna get on with this darn here day?”
Then Barney would tap that bellhop bell I had sitting up there and say. “Pancakes for three Misssus Jean actually, them ladies there wouldn’t want their right little bodies too big for that dress I saw down at Yasmine’s Boutique.”
“Shoot Barney.” Genesis would say, fumbling with the ends of her hair. “I wouldn’t give up Hailey’s Pancakes if the dress was designed by Coco Chanel herself. Humph!”
Then I’d show up from the kitchen, tying the apron around my waist, unable to help that smile from creeping up onto my face.
“Why Genesis, if I’d known you love them cakes that much..... Now right here darl’n, how’s bout I make you a dozen of them cakes with a pint of that special syrup y’all like s’much. Then y’ll never have to worry about fitting into a Coco dress ever. My guarantee!”
We’d all laugh crazy as a look of horror crossed Genesis’ face.
I walk up the stairs that are almost hidden behind the kitchen. I move into my bedroom, and close the windows. It’s started raining. Looking across my room, I notice a small tin cigar case sitting there. I remember who gave that to me. It was Obolong Joe.
He stopped coming ‘round two years ago. I asked about him to some folks. But they all had different answers. Some said he had gone back to Texas, while others said he had travelled all the way to his grave. I stroke the tin box, as if doing so would tell me of the true answer.
Obolong Joe was a downright riot. He was the life of the party. Heck, he was the party. Except you couldn’t really say so at first glance.
Obolong Joe was a cowboy that had accidentally found himself caught in the winds of Chicago. He had often said so himself. He was always dressed in his worn out pants, his long cowboy boots, checkered flannel, leather vest, empty gun belt, floppy cowboy hat, and of course, the toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth.
He would push open the doors of the diner, as if he had just walked into a saloon, of the west. He would slowly take the toothpick out of his mouth, then take a few steps towards the counter, the spurs on his boots announcing his every step.
“Slam me a pint Hailey-Jean.” He would then announce, steady and dreary-like. Then he would slowly push the toothpick back into the corner of his mouth, and would sit with his head hung low until I gave him his pint. Of coffee.
Somedays he would bring his guitar, and would play some toe-jiggling tunes on them which would right drive me out of the kitchen, and urge me to dance.
And then one day, Joe walked in, without his dramatic entry, without his toothpick. Just Obolong Joe in his cowboy clothes. I hadn’t even noticed that he was in my diner until he tapped the bell, and asked for a cup of coffee.
“Obolong Joe?” I asked, hands on my hips, “Is that you? Plain and simple, no Chicago Cowboy?”
He smiled weakly. “I’ll always be a cowboy missus. Always.” (Sigh) “On that note....Hailey Jean, I want you to have this.” (take something out of shirt pocket.)
“It’s just....something for you to remember this cowboy by.”
I laughed nervously. “I’ll never forget you Joe.”
“Well then....this is just...in...case.... Well I’ll be darned, is that the moon I see?”
“I oughtta be ridin’ off about now.” He looked around him at the diner. “Goodbye Hailey Jean.”
“Goodbye.” I said. I was wringing my hands tightly. I had a bad feeling this was the last time I’d say bye to Obolong Joe.
It’s just too darn bad I was right.
I unfold my bedsheets, and blankets, then turn on the television which sits heavily on a weak three-legged table. I Love Lucy is on, and I mute the telly while the theme song rings. I hate that theme song. It gets stuck in my head, and I can’t ever get it out....even when Mrs. Freida Barnsby comes in with her loud voice, and tall tales.....
“When I was a little girl, I used to take music lessons you know. Mmmhmmm it;s true. My music teacher always insisted that I be the lead singer. Ohhh...myy, I...haha....I was always just so humble, Down to Earth you know...just, pleased...oh.... but that was then. Nowadays, oh dear, its a right pity. No one seems to understand how to be humble. I’ll say, they ought to take a leaf from my book....don’t you agree dears? Mmmhmm? See Hailey Jean. I’m never off. Ohh....but you... doo try to add a smidge less bit of sugar in that coffee right....haa right. Don’t worry, I don’t expect everyone to be perfect.”
Oooh, that Freida Barnsby did make my blood boil at times. She was an ample woman who thought that her fashion sense was singular. Her tall feathery hats, thick velvet cloaks, and pointy-toed heels of the most eccentric colours. She often thought that, because she was of England, she was the most sophisticated of all the people that were in Chicago. The rest of Chicago found her most quirky for all the same reasons.
One day Freida came in with a small dog. So small that I almost screamed that she had a rat clinging to her hand.
“Hailey. Hailey! Loook!” Now half the diner was looking at her with their mouths open, and eyes bulging.
“Freida dear....” I asked, I was still shivering from the sight of that rat-like dog. “What EVER is that thing stuck to your arm?”
She shot me an offended look, then looked down lovingly at her pet dog. “This is Frufru. He is a teacup yorkie. Which by the way, is very very ‘in’ nowadays. You do know what ‘in’ means..right Hailey dear, because that expression is not very ‘in’....along with that dress of yours....and is that apron...oh love I hope you do not touch that before you serve me....Ahhh....anyways I’ll have a glass of orange juice...freshly squeezed if you do not mind, and how about a plate of butter biscuits? Yes...that would do very well..... and, don’t bother ringing up the bill until the very end alright dear.....”
God. I think I’ll be indebted to that dog of hers forever for what he did then, because otherwise, she would have gone rambling on and on.....
That dog bit her. Right on the hand that was meticulously fluffing the hair on top of the dog’s head. She screamed loudly, and dropped the dog on the floor, pushing it out onto the streets.
“Fiend! Fiend Outrage! Lords I’d curse like a man, but it just wouldn’t do for a lady like myself! Ohh, my poor soul.” She seated herself at the counter. She sat there quietly for the longest time she ever remained silent. Then she jumped up to announce that teacup yorkies, as a matter of fact were not very in, and that it was a chihuahua she ought to get.
With a high-pitched ‘Toodle-Ooo’ she trotted out of the door, and left me to dread the time of her next visit.
I Love Lucy ends, and I turn off the television. The rain has stopped outside. I get up to open the windows. It smells like wet dirt. That, ‘it just rained’ smell. Heavens I love that smell. Reminds me of when I was a little girl.
Just about as little as AnaBella was. That sweet girl. When she was nine years old, she’d come in every Tuesday to get a Chocolate Malt for herself, and to pick up a box of fries for her little brother.
“Mrs. Jean. Are you there Ma’am?” The sweet soul’s head had barely reached the counter. She’d climb onto the cushioned stools to see me right. “Mrs. Jean, do you remember what I’d like?” She’d turn her head sideways and all her tight blonde curls’d slip onto one side.
And then I’d feign forgetfulness.
“Oh...oh no...Ooh AnaBella, I’mma’fraid I’ve gone and forgotten.
“Oh No Mrs.Jea-ean! You promised you’d remember!”
And so would continue our game-I would try to guess what it was she wanted, and she would giggle tirelessly at how bizarre my guesses were.
But now AnaBella had become a young woman. She was fourteen now, and had outgrown our game. But she never failed to drop by every Tuesday for her Chocolate Malt.
Last Tuesday she came in with her classmate Julianna. Ana began to tell her of how she used to come in as a child, and me and her laughed hours on end. She became quiet near the end.
“Geez Mrs. Jean. I wish I were at that age again.”
I thought I heard some sadness in that voice of hers.
“Don’t we all Love?” I replied. Handing her the Chocolate Malt and box of fries before she even asked.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. It’s terribly boring, and I can’t seem to get enough sleep.
Then I hear loud music outside. Automatically, I begin to think about Alex Malone. That smooth boy who never goes anywhere without his boombox sitting on his shoulders. He is one of my customers too. One of the ones that end up coming late. Much after closing time.
Then I hear his voice outside.
“Mrs Jean!” The music is lowered. “Mrs Jean!!!”
I walk to the window a smile on my face. I know what is coming.
“Yes Alex!” I try to sound as stern as possible, but both him and I know that that is one thing I cannot do.
“Mrs Jean? You think you could get me some of those pancakes? I know I’m late...sorry.....but I’m darn hungry, and my mum’s asleep, an’ I can’t cook....”
“Alex.....” I sigh, but I’m still smiling. I go back downstairs, and open the doors to my diner again. He comes in telling me all about his day.
Pancakes. That’s how my day ends. Pancakes have various compliments to them....syrup, berries..... but what we chose to put on top, is up to us. Whether complimentary or not, life is like a pancake...my life....my life is incredibly complimented by the most entrancing way my customers differ from one another, and how, even after they leave, much like the taste of pancakes in your mouth, they linger.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The In-Between
Okay, For those of you who might not understand the following.. "The In-Between" is about a person who is being taken by the Man Without a Face, (Death) to the in between. Meaning, the person has neither life wholly, nor death wholly.....
The man without the face,
Showed up at my door,
With fright I locked my windows,
And tightened the curtains over.
I slid inside the closet,
And tried not to breath,
For fear the man would find me,
When I least wanted him to find me.
I hear him enter the bolted door,
As if it were open wide,
And I hear the wind through the windows,
To me it sounds like a raging fire.
I hear my heart pounding,
Too loud for my taste,
And slowly light creeps in,
And there's the man without the face.
He is not bad,
It's just his deeds,
He takes us from this world,
And travels with us,
To the other side.
He pulls us from the warmth,
And traps us in the middle,
Where we struggle for the rest of,
Time,
To get to one end of a border.
The man without the face,
Showed up at my door,
With fright I locked my windows,
And tightened the curtains over.
I slid inside the closet,
And tried not to breath,
For fear the man would find me,
When I least wanted him to find me.
I hear him enter the bolted door,
As if it were open wide,
And I hear the wind through the windows,
To me it sounds like a raging fire.
I hear my heart pounding,
Too loud for my taste,
And slowly light creeps in,
And there's the man without the face.
He is not bad,
It's just his deeds,
He takes us from this world,
And travels with us,
To the other side.
He pulls us from the warmth,
And traps us in the middle,
Where we struggle for the rest of,
Time,
To get to one end of a border.
The In-Between
Okay, For those of you who might not understand the following.. "The In-Between" is about a person who is being taken by the Man Without a Face, (Death) to the in between. Meaning, the person has neither life wholly, nor death wholly.....
The man without the face,
Showed up at my door,
With fright I locked my windows,
And tightened the curtains over.
I slid inside the closet,
And tried not to breath,
For fear the man would find me,
When I least wanted him to find me.
I hear him enter the bolted door,
As if it were open wide,
And I hear the wind through the windows,
To me it sounds like a raging fire.
I hear my heart pounding,
Too loud for my taste,
And slowly light creeps in,
And there's the man without the face.
He is not bad,
It's just his deeds,
He takes us from this world,
And travels with us,
To the other side.
He pulls us from the warmth,
And traps us in the middle,
Where we struggle for the rest of,
Time,
To get to one end of a border.
The man without the face,
Showed up at my door,
With fright I locked my windows,
And tightened the curtains over.
I slid inside the closet,
And tried not to breath,
For fear the man would find me,
When I least wanted him to find me.
I hear him enter the bolted door,
As if it were open wide,
And I hear the wind through the windows,
To me it sounds like a raging fire.
I hear my heart pounding,
Too loud for my taste,
And slowly light creeps in,
And there's the man without the face.
He is not bad,
It's just his deeds,
He takes us from this world,
And travels with us,
To the other side.
He pulls us from the warmth,
And traps us in the middle,
Where we struggle for the rest of,
Time,
To get to one end of a border.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Speak Softly
The sound of rain hurts his ears. He winces conspicuously, and hides his head between his twisted knees, and bent arms. I rush to the window, and lock it, and pull the heavy curtains over it, blocking out any sound that might reach his too sensitive ears. I feel much calmer, as he straightens up, his distorted face, trying hard at something resembling a smile. A feeling rushes over much like one feels when a heavy burden is taken from their shoulders. Although I love the sound of rain very much, I must make this one more sacrifice from him. I slowly walk towards him, careful not to make any loud noises, and he cringes as I near him.
He is an ugly child, but I still love him very much. After all, he is mine. His eyes are bulging, and a thick yellow crust outlines them. They are always watering, and remain a pinkish color all the time, and to make it all worse, they are tilted opposite eachother. His nose is wide, and thick, and takes up a good portion of his face. Thin, white flakes are always peeling off of the bridge of his nose. He has a cleft lip, and deep laughing lines around his cheeks, which is ironic, because he cannot smile.
I reach to touch his cheek, the only undamaged part of his body, and he wags at me with arms too thin for any human. My eyes try to avoid his crooked fingers, but one cannot miss them, and suddenly, I’m depressed. Why is it, that the one child which had all the problems God could give, was given to me.
“Darling, it’s because He knew that you were the only one who could love, and care for him as much as you do!” My mother used to tell me this her every living day. Just two months ago, she left to meet her maker. And for me, this fact was difficult to comprehend, after all, she had been with me, and my child all the time. Helping us get through every day of life.
I hear him whimper, and he is squalling in his chair, his thin legs, and bulgy knees wiggling, his arms trying to reach my face. I near him. He winces as he puts his hands on my face, and gently makes an attempt to wipe my tears away. He falls off his chair, and I catch him by his waist, and lift him back into his chair. His eyes are even wider now, from surprise. They are a sharp blue, the color of his father’s eyes.
My husband, was a nice fellow,logical, rich, but very picky about his social status. He was careful to choses his words out in public, and often would send me to affairs scripted on what to say, and how to respond. He would tell me what wines to drink, which people to talk to, who to ignore, and who to treat with acidic satire. I didn’t like it much, but I listened to him, for his sake. Well, the day William, my child, was born, he took one look at him, and told me;
“You know we cannot keep it.”
He spoke about my child as if he were some diseased rat. I told him I would not abandon William, and, quite on the contrary, would raise him with love, with an attempt to make him a fine man.
That very instant, he stormed out of the hospital, with his expensive Giorgio Armani suit flying behind him, and his Berluti shoes clicking sharply against the floor.
I remember that night, because as I cried, the vile scent of sanitation equiptment, and medicine, clogged my senses, and had me vomiting everywhere. That night, everything was going wrong.
Thunder rumbles outside, and he sits up in his chair, as if suddenly interested by some new idea.
“Ssssss...” He makes a sound which I have never heard him make before. “Ssssss!”
I look at him, ignoring the fact that he is trying to get something across to me. It’s hard to believe this is a eight year old child in front of me, crippled, and bent like a paperclip. I want to cry, but something new has formed inside me. A renewed hope. And now I am proud to be a mother of this child. Of my William, because his being with me, and my being with him, shows that we both have the capability to fend off all the problems life hands us.
“SSSSSSS!” He yanks himself off his chair by flailing his arms, and he lands on his knees. Slowly he begins to crawl towards the tightly closed window. I’m worried that the sound is irritating him, so I draw the heavy curtains closer. He yells loudly, and shakes his head, repeating the hissing sound. Puzzled, I pull the curtains apart, and am surprised to see him try to smile. “Sssss.” He repeats. And I understand now. He wants to hear the rain. I grin and push the window open. The patter of raindrops fills our dimly-lit room, and I can see William bobbing up and down, hissing in joy. I reach out the window, and let the rain fall onto my hand, and lean forward to let the rain splash onto my face. William sees me doing this, and crawls up to the window, and sticks his weak hands out. I help him stand, his weight leaning against my leg, as I balance him by holding onto his shoulders, and as the rain splashes on us both, I cry, my tears amalgamating with raindrops. For the first time, I cry in joy. I cry at a brand new day, and a brand new hope, which shone on a dark rainy day.
He is an ugly child, but I still love him very much. After all, he is mine. His eyes are bulging, and a thick yellow crust outlines them. They are always watering, and remain a pinkish color all the time, and to make it all worse, they are tilted opposite eachother. His nose is wide, and thick, and takes up a good portion of his face. Thin, white flakes are always peeling off of the bridge of his nose. He has a cleft lip, and deep laughing lines around his cheeks, which is ironic, because he cannot smile.
I reach to touch his cheek, the only undamaged part of his body, and he wags at me with arms too thin for any human. My eyes try to avoid his crooked fingers, but one cannot miss them, and suddenly, I’m depressed. Why is it, that the one child which had all the problems God could give, was given to me.
“Darling, it’s because He knew that you were the only one who could love, and care for him as much as you do!” My mother used to tell me this her every living day. Just two months ago, she left to meet her maker. And for me, this fact was difficult to comprehend, after all, she had been with me, and my child all the time. Helping us get through every day of life.
I hear him whimper, and he is squalling in his chair, his thin legs, and bulgy knees wiggling, his arms trying to reach my face. I near him. He winces as he puts his hands on my face, and gently makes an attempt to wipe my tears away. He falls off his chair, and I catch him by his waist, and lift him back into his chair. His eyes are even wider now, from surprise. They are a sharp blue, the color of his father’s eyes.
My husband, was a nice fellow,logical, rich, but very picky about his social status. He was careful to choses his words out in public, and often would send me to affairs scripted on what to say, and how to respond. He would tell me what wines to drink, which people to talk to, who to ignore, and who to treat with acidic satire. I didn’t like it much, but I listened to him, for his sake. Well, the day William, my child, was born, he took one look at him, and told me;
“You know we cannot keep it.”
He spoke about my child as if he were some diseased rat. I told him I would not abandon William, and, quite on the contrary, would raise him with love, with an attempt to make him a fine man.
That very instant, he stormed out of the hospital, with his expensive Giorgio Armani suit flying behind him, and his Berluti shoes clicking sharply against the floor.
I remember that night, because as I cried, the vile scent of sanitation equiptment, and medicine, clogged my senses, and had me vomiting everywhere. That night, everything was going wrong.
Thunder rumbles outside, and he sits up in his chair, as if suddenly interested by some new idea.
“Ssssss...” He makes a sound which I have never heard him make before. “Ssssss!”
I look at him, ignoring the fact that he is trying to get something across to me. It’s hard to believe this is a eight year old child in front of me, crippled, and bent like a paperclip. I want to cry, but something new has formed inside me. A renewed hope. And now I am proud to be a mother of this child. Of my William, because his being with me, and my being with him, shows that we both have the capability to fend off all the problems life hands us.
“SSSSSSS!” He yanks himself off his chair by flailing his arms, and he lands on his knees. Slowly he begins to crawl towards the tightly closed window. I’m worried that the sound is irritating him, so I draw the heavy curtains closer. He yells loudly, and shakes his head, repeating the hissing sound. Puzzled, I pull the curtains apart, and am surprised to see him try to smile. “Sssss.” He repeats. And I understand now. He wants to hear the rain. I grin and push the window open. The patter of raindrops fills our dimly-lit room, and I can see William bobbing up and down, hissing in joy. I reach out the window, and let the rain fall onto my hand, and lean forward to let the rain splash onto my face. William sees me doing this, and crawls up to the window, and sticks his weak hands out. I help him stand, his weight leaning against my leg, as I balance him by holding onto his shoulders, and as the rain splashes on us both, I cry, my tears amalgamating with raindrops. For the first time, I cry in joy. I cry at a brand new day, and a brand new hope, which shone on a dark rainy day.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Bluff
I recall the day as if it were yesterday. I turn it in my head, and try to get the feel of it, but every time I reach for it from my bank of memories, it’s thorns poke me in such a manner, that tears spring from my eyes. Harsh, stinging tears. And yet, as I coax it out, I find a small picture in that film of memory, of an angel of sorts, dressed in a tuxedo too small, a soft wrinkled face, and two grey eyes that never seemed to tell a tale. Tom. I know the name of the angel. He is the one that starts this story. And the one that ends it.
I never doubted the old man. He only always wanted what was best for me, working me through any obstacle that came my way. He never let an evil eye set on me, and treated me as if I were his real child. On the day my father died, Tom came over to me, a frown set on his face, and his eyes somewhat misty.
“Son,” he’d said. “Now don’t you go thinking you’ve lost y’er father. There’s another old man willing to take y’ in any day you want ‘m to.” He pointed at his broad chest, his voice crackling as tears streamed his eyes. From that day on, Tom and I became as close as any father and son get. My mother had gone half mad since the loss of my dad, she would speak in clipped sentences, staring at the floor as she spoke, her hands shaking wildly. In her sleep, she would scream, and wake up panting, telling me to stay away from Tom.For some odd reason, she didn’t trust Tom enough to let him care for us. I lost my faith in her, and then slowly began to worry I was losing her too.
As soon as I came of age, Tom gave me a small job at his farm. The pay was meager, but enough to get by on. He fed me twice a day, and even sent me home with a measurable box full of food for my mom. I really enjoyed my work. I was out in nature all day, cutting weeds, planting seeds, and feeding animals. The one place I enjoyed most was the stables. I had no job there, but the cool musty air brought me much salvation. I would lay in the large stacks of hay, and stare at the shaft of light that broke in through a small gap in the ceiling, just thinking. And then, before anyone could catch me, I would run from there, back to work.
So many instances occurred, in which I realized how humane Tom was, and how I was so unlike. One of them has embedded itself in my past like the blue in the sky.
Halley, one of the older cows at Tom’s farm had become ill. Her knees had become thin, and she wouldn’t eat one blade of grass. She turned her head at water, and would often fall to the floor in exhaustion. One day, when Halley began to foam slightly at the mouth, one of the other workers decided it was time to get rid of Halley. He walked into Tom’s home, and walked out with a small revolver gun which glinted the sunlight of it’s shiny metal skin. Just as the man had cocked the gun, Tom came flying from his front door, his rubber boots squishing with every step he took, and threw himself over Halley.
“You shoot Boy, and you’ll kill us both.”
The worker was much too take by surprise, and dropped the revolver into ankle-deep mud, his mouth gaping open, and his eyes as wide as an owl’s.
“Tom. She’s dying! Let’s put the girl outta her misery.” One of the older workers piped up from behind me.
A fire glinted in Tom’s eyes, and I thought I could hear him hissing. “We’re all dying! Bit by bit everyday! Why don’t you put all us folks in this world outta their misery while you’re at it.” He waited a moment to let his words sink in. I saw the other men look at their feet in shame, but I was still confused. The cow was in pain. Wouldn’t it be doing the cow justice by killing it soon? I asked Tom.
His face softened as he answered my question. “Boy, how d’ya know the cow’s in pain? Didn’t tell y’ did it? We gotta try n heal’er.”I followed suit of the other workers.
Tom wouldn’t hurt a fly, I had learnt that much. But his character was much beyond that, and now I was sure there was something he was hiding.
It was a cold day, and my fingers felt they were going to snap off in the cold. I sprinted from the fields where I was supposed to be harvesting the cotton, and ran into the stables to find refuge from the biting weather. I heaved open the heavy door, and sighed in relief as the warm air rushed to meet my face. I was careful to shut the door behind me, just to make sure that this secret of mine would remain a secret. As I nimbly made my way to the haystack, I found a figure laying atop the tower of dry grass.
“I had a feelin’ you’d be here.” I jumped as I recognized Tom’s voice, but I was surprised to hear his tone so rough. I saw his shady figure tumble off the stack, and as Tom came near me, the profane smell of liquor made me gag. In the low light, I could barely make out Tom’s face, but by the way he put his heavy hand on my shoulder, I knew he was inordinately drunk. The rough manner in which he shook my shoulder, scared me enough to make me run from there. But I was sure, that no matter what, he would not remember this incident.
Two days after the day I found Tom in the stable, he asked me to stay with him for dinner.
“I’m an old man, and would like to eat dinner with some company before I topple into my grave.”He winked at me.
Although I had grown slightly wary of him since I found him in such a disapproving state, I still trusted him enough to stay late and give him some company.
After we had eaten dinner, Tom told me he had something he had wanted to show me. Slowly, he walked me towards the stable, and my eyes narrowed, and I feared something bad was going to happen. Tom pushed open the stable door, and motioned inside, smiling as if there was a huge pot of gold inside. I realized that Tom did not recall the incident we’d had just recently. I took enough care to look surprised, and walked in tentatively, as if there were large shards of glass on the floor, and I was scared of getting cut. Tom walked ahead to the haystack, and I lagged behind as if in awe.
“It’s a great place!” I said, scolding myself for the puzzled edge that found itself in my voice.
I heard him laughing, and a small pop of a bottle cap. “Come here boy. I’ve got something greater.”
I slogged up to him, and was taken aback to see him handing me a bottle of liquor.
“Take a swig. And then tell me. Tell me you don’t feel good.” He laughed loudly, and took a large gulp of the stale-smelling liquid. He looked me over as I stood there awkwardly, holding the bottle between two fingers as if it were sin itself. “Go on boy.” I heard a growl, almost anger in his voice. Scared, I took a small sip, and coughed loudly. The taste was unsettling, and yet....
Two hours later, I was sprawled on the edge of the haystack, drunk, and talking loudly with Tom. I didn’t know the time, but I knew it was a bit too dark outside. I laughed loudly at a joke Tom had told five minutes ago, and as my laughter died away, I found the stable silent, except for me taking swigs of liquor, and Tom tossing away a bottle, only to open another one.
“You know your father?” Tom began.
“He’s dead I think.” I said stupidly.
Tom ignored me. “He hated me.”I stopped drinking. Even though I was in a state of no comprehension, I was shocked to hear this. “It was because I was a nobody as a boy. And your father was my idol. I always tagged alongside him, finishing his homework when he told me to, cleaning his shoes, making excuses to save his hide at every curve in the road.” Tom took a long drink. “He used me like one uses a sock. Once he outgrew me, he tossed me. Just like that.” Tom spit on the floor. Then there was a moment’s silence. “I’m glad he’s dead. And you should be too, otherwise, think, where would you be now, in another school, like a little school boy? You’d never learn to be a man.”
“My father was a good person.” I said loudly. I heard him throw his bottle to the ground, and it shattered.
Feeling uncomfortable, I staggered as I stood up, and told him I needed to go home. He just grunted.
When I got home, I saw my mother sitting up in bed. “Home!” she shrieked. “You’re home. Ohh! Trust....don’t trust him. He killed your father boy! He’ll hurt you!” She screamed. I ignored her, lay down and closed my eyes. Before I fell asleep, I heard her say something about a foul smell.
The next morning, I woke up feeling foggy. I realized I was late, and began to run towards the farm. As I reached the cotton fields, one of the workers turned and said Tom was calling me. Unable to clearly recall what had happened last night, I was scared that he would be mad at me for being late.
“In the stable.” I heard the man call after me.
When I walked through the doors of the stable, the smell of last night’s liquor hung heavy in the air. “Tom?” I called.
I saw him standing next to the haystack. He turned around, and the man I saw was so unlike the Tom I knew. His eyes were crazed, and his white hair stood up in every angle. His face was stretched into a horrid grimace, and he resembled the devil himself.
“You are your father’s son.”He growled, and pulled his pistol from behind his back. My heart began to beat fast, and as I tried to run towards the door, Tom grabbed my arm, and pushed me to the floor. He growled, and cocked his pistol which was aimed right at my heart. All I heard was a short blast, and felt a sharp pain in my heart. I heard my mother’s words ring in my ears. My vision began to blur, and it faded entirely, just as I thought for the fifth time in a row, I hate that man.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Wooden Rose
Day was dafting. Night was near. Time was not good, not good at all. I crawled on my elbows to hide behind a large terra cotta colored boulder. My shotgun was dragging along with me, its strap creating a dangerous rash on the right side of my neck.
“Lasp behind soldier, Lasp behind!” a low voice crackled through the walkie-talkie in my pocket. It was speaking in code-though it had proved not to be too efficient. When they said ‘Lasp Behind.’ they meant for me to fall back, gather ammunition, and return to the war, to win…or die trying.
A shadow shifted from a spiky bush across from me.
“That’s a negative.” I denied the order. If an enemy was across from me, I wasn’t going to lose the moment.
The crackled from the Walkie-Talkie silenced.
I dragged my body slightly further along the dusty sand, and lifted my shotgun into position. With a jaunty shake of my head, I nodded my helmet into position, and took a deep breath. Shifting the gun slightly into a groove in the rock, I pulled the trigger. Boom. Boom Boom. The thundering sound of eleven bullets echoed around the deserted area.
The shadow around the bush froze, and fell slowly to the floor. A dust cloud lifted around the bush, and I noticed the soldier’s head was peering from the side of the spiky leaves. I pulled for another bullet- precaution, not the sadistic joy of overkill.
Feeling as hollow as the inside of my gun, I walked over to the motionless body.
My tears didn’t run. Not anymore. I knew I had to do this. I bent near him, and ran my fingers over his fresh blood, running crimson over the dull green of his military suit. I stared for a long time at the red liquid on my fingers, the carefully rubbed it on the crusty cross dangling from my neck.
“I pray to lord-may your soul rest in peace.”
As I stood up, I noticed the crinkling rustle of paper. I glanced down. This soldier’s pocket was open, and the corner of a paper was flapping sharply in the hot wind.
Gingerly, I grabbed the thick, smooth paper between my thumb and forefinger. Slowly, holding my breath at a rather shocking feeling of anxiety, I tugged the paper out.
A page. White, and blank, stared up at me. I laughed at my self, the hollow noise ringing in the deserts.
(I now realize, how foolish I was-not having turned the paper over, but I realize that was the path I took, to avoid truth.)
The wind blew sharply again, a corner of the paper, rolling in the wind, revealing-color. My laughter stopped short.
With my two coarse hands, I gripped the paper, and turned it. Slowly. Carefully.
A photograph.
My throat choked up, and my heart swelled. Or shrunk. I couldn’t tell, but I did know, the feeling, was horrible. It was guilt…and sorrow. The guilt was caused by the sorrow, and the sorrow, by the guilt.
The sorrow was there for the mother and son in front of me, the ghost of their presence captured in a 6 by 8 frame.
I stared coldly at the young brown eyed lady, sporting a thin, dark blue t-shirt, which bulged abnormally around her belly, and at the blond baby boy she held in her arms.
My heart throbbed again. The speed of my blinks began to grow rapid.
“Aaugh…God” I cursed, wiping the tears streaming down my face. Two sloppy tears splattered the curled picture.
That’s when I noticed the writing. In neat writing, good as type, it read:
Stanley, and Ginny ‘Ginerva’ LaStef
I looked down at the soldier lying at my feet. In golden thread, the name Justin LaStef was stitched in his military suit, near his chest.
The raindrop tears grew into a thunderstorm.
“Great God!” I groaned. “I ruined a family. Another family….” I buried my face in my hands. “No…NO” I bellowed.
The afterlife wasn’t looking too bright for me.
“Soldier. Listen, I need you to fall back. Fall back y’hear?” This time, General Armstrong was ordering me personally.
I nodded. Then, realizing that the general wouldn’t see this movement of mine, I pressed the button in the side of the Walkie-Talkie, and spoke, my voice as cracked as the signal. “That’s…..a positive?” I said, my mind wiped numb for everything, except the murder written by my hands.
~*~
“Damien.” Someone tugged on the other side of my bag. I turned around, and smiled.
“Roma. I need you to let go of my bag dear!” Roma pulled up a faulty pout, and shook her head, her black hair tossing about.
“No.” She whined in a childish voice. I chuckled.
“I’m not going to war yet Roma.” She let go of the bag with a silent gasp, a shocked look now expanded over her face.
Horror shook me. “Roma!” I dropped my bag, and jumped to her side. I grasped her by the shoulders, and shook her. “Roma!” I whispered, looking down on her face. Her big, light brown eyes were now swimming with tears, and her pink lips were trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
“I almost forgot.” She whispered, her voice quaking. She sniffled, and wiped her tears away. Her hands trembled at the collar of my shirt, as she smoothed it out, and pushed me slightly away from her, to get a full look at me. She nodded, and smiled a small smile, that left my heart faltering.
I smiled, and pulled her into a hug, pressing my cheek against the top of her head.
“I won’t be gone long.” I promised her, holding her at arms length. “I promise you.” She nodded understandingly. I smiled, and bade her a goodbye…
“Damien…Damien!” A voice echoed somewhere between the present, and the past, and then I realized where I was.
My head jerked upwards, and hit the metal of a jeep. My mate Camden Moone sat across me, shaking my knee.
I groaned, and rubbed the back of my head, glaring through half-closed eyes at my friend.
“We’re being transferred to the Second Base. We’ve got a hostage situation going on there.”
“Our side, or…”
Camden looked up grimly. “We’re missing five soldiers, two of which were shot at 5:10.”
I looked at Camden quizzically. “Soldiers attempted a rescue.” He explained.
I winced, and my hand jumped to the cross. “What are we supposed to do?”
“Same.” Camden said shortly, pulling out a paper from his pocket. I was fleetingly reminded of Justin LaStef. Except, Camden looked nothing like LaStef.
Camden had brown short cut hair, like the rest of us, and blue eyes, big as headlights.
“We’re supposed to take hostages?” I asked naively.
All the soldiers around me shot odd looks at me. “Oh.” I mumbled, now realizing that we had to do the same as the soldiers at Second Base-try to retrieve the hostages.
“Honestly Damien.” Camden sighed. I saw a smirk play across his face.
I groaned at my foolishness, and closed my eyes to rest my head against my seat. “How long until we get there?”
“Two days.” Camden said, following my lead.
“That’s a long time.” I whispered.
Camden nodded. “It’s a long mission. We better rest up as much as we can, but some of us have already started…” he said slyly, obviously referring to me. I grinned sheepishly, and scooted my head further back.
“That means, some of us will be able to rescue more than others.”
With that, I dozed back to sleep.
~*~
I wandered the streets of London, trying to find the perfect gift for Roma. I wished for her to have something to remember me by when I went to war. I passed a small shop, which looked like it was just barely getting by. ‘The Knowing Of Gone’ it was called. For some reason, I was attracted to its homeliness. As I pushed open the door-and it opened rather easily the low jingle of chimes announced my arrival. The room was dusty, and the golden glow of light, which dappled the room, shone upon the flying particles around an old pink chair.
“A story.” I mumbled to myself as I went to feel the thin cloth of the pink couch, trying to imagine its story, or the one of its owner. After a while, I began to feel rather alone, and I must admit, a smite bit like a trespasser.
“Hello.” I called out; surprised at how timid my voice sounded when it bounced around the walls. “Hello?”
A shuffling noise came from behind a small counter. I feel a bit ashamed admitting to this, but I did, at the moment, feel-what is it called? Scared out of my wits.
“Oh dear! Children! Growing more and more impatient these days, but what can I do?” A low huff of breath and-“I’m coming deary!” From behind the counter, a stout old lady hobbled out. Thin grey hair curled around her head, and her deep grey eyes twinkled with childhood. She resembled the ideal grandmother, what with the extreme touch of a light pink shawl wrapped about her.
“How may I help you?” she asked, her arms folded across her chest, her head cocked to one side.
“Uh…” I began. My eyes darting to the many corners of the room. “I need something to give to my fiancé. While I’m gone-for her to remember me by.” I said awkwardly.
“War?” she asked bluntly.
I nodded.
She sighed as if in despair, and vanished again behind the counter.
She came back with three boxes. “Take a look at these.” She said, setting them out separately on the counter. I walked over, and peered into the boxes.
The old lady hustled me back, keeping my peering gaze away. She tenderly picked up a mirror. “This is Aphrodite’s mirror.” I looked at her. She tossed her head. “Well, that’s what I call it anyways.”
She handed it to me gingerly. “If you look into it, and long with your heart to see anyone you love, you will.” I looked at her with the gaze of a non-believer.
“Well test it if you must!” She said raged. I looked into the mirror, and to my surprise, I saw the clearest image of Roma, bustling about the kitchen preparing my favorite, dumplings with spicy apple broth. It was as if she were right behind me.
When I looked away from the mirror, I noticed the old lady was grinning wildly at me, and wagging her eyebrows. “Whaddi tell’ya?”
I smiled, and set the mirror down. “No, I don’t want her to look in, and find me shooting at some one. It would overwhelm her!”
The old lady nodded knowingly, and put the mirror away. “How about this?” She pulled a small silver ring from the second box. It had a heart shaped red gem on it. “If you long to see someone, then this ring will pull up the exact form of them. Full form.” She added for emphasis.
I held the ring in my hands, and thought despairingly of my sister, and there in the room stood her full form, smiling and waving at me, her light brown hair curling at her shoulders.
I smiled at the lady. “Brilliant!” I praised her. “But I think it would make her more desperate for me to come back home. I don’t want to arouse that within her. Longing you know?”
The lady chuckled in response, and set the ring away. “Well this is the last memory gift I have.”
Out of the long, and slender box, the lady pulled out the most delicate looking rose. “You won’t be able to test it dear, but you have my word for its magic.”
“What does it do?” I asked, lost in the beauty of the flower.
“It warns you, or rather…informs you, when some one you know is…gone. Passed on rather.” My heart suddenly felt heavy.
“How do you know?” I asked her.
She smiled sadly at me, and bent into the drawer of the counter. She pulled out a rose-exactly like the beautiful red beauty in my hands, except for the fact, that it was wood. “My son.” She said, stroking the petals of the rose. “War.” She chuckled bitterly.
She turned her thoughts to me once again. “When someone you love is dead, the living rose turns wood. It doesn’t need watering, because it doesn’t die, until the owner’s own does, if you know what I mean…”
I nodded. “I’ll…. I’ll take it.”
The lady nodded, and began packing up the rose.
That night, I gave the rose to Roma, and told her about it’s magic.
“I’ll put it here.” She had said, pointing at the thin crystal vase in out cabinet. “But promise me, that you’ll never let this rose turn wood?”
I smiled. “I promise.” And in the back of my mind, I thought if I was really going to be able to fulfill this promise.
~*~
The jeep stopped in the middle of nowhere. A dull green tent was set up, it’s cloth swaying slightly in the dry, and heated wind. I shaded my eyes with my hands, protecting myself for the light of the sun, and the bits of sand that were threatening rather, sensitive eyes. All the soldiers remained seated in the jeep for a split second, as if they were reluctant to leave the safety of the jeep. The driver got out of the jeep, and handed each of the soldiers a small stubby pencil, and a piece of paper. Once all the soldiers were given the writing materials, the soldier who had drove the car explained what they were supposed to do.
“This could be your last night in our beautiful world,” several soldiers flinched at the way the aged soldier said these words. It was almost as if he was a professional. “We want you to write to your friends and family-and remember, they must all be addressed in one letter. On our way back to the camp in Richote, we will personally make it possible that these letters are delivered to your beloved. Because we don’t want them to have to know that you are gone, when, instead of you on your arrival day, comes a box, with all your belongings, and a note that says, ‘Your husband/wife/daughter/son was very loyal to our country, and we take it an honor, as well as misfortune, that they could not survive in this fight to save our country.” The old man wiped his misty eyes. “We don’t want that at all.”
Damien shuddered at the thought of Roma finding a box on the doorstep, before realizing that the rose had turned. He didn’t wish for it, but there was a fifty percent chance that this was ought to happen. All the soldiers knew, because this rule was printed in each of their fates.
The other soldier spoke now. “You have ten minutes at the most, then we must hurry…” This soldier’s voice was soft, and jumpy.
Everyone nodded, and began to scribble on their papers.
Damien just stared at the yellowed paper. What would he say?
He looked up at Camden, who was writing away, his handwriting neat and loopy.
Damien looked down at his paper again. Then he began to write.
‘Dear mom, dad, Izabel, Tim, and Jojo, my little pup, and my dearest Roma.
First off, I want to tell you all that I leave each and everyone of you very very much, especially at this moment in time. Mom, I really miss your cooking now-this camp food isn’t anything compared to your cooking ma. And Tim, I can’t wait to come back and beat you at football. It’s quite obvious that you cheated last time, but that’s okay, because this time, I'm not going to go easy on you… Izabel, love, don’t worry. I will be there in time for your wedding, and I will walk you down in dad’s place. Trust me, because I promised you right? That everything would be perfect on your wedding day, and that I will be there to celebrate it with you all? Tell Jojo I say hi, and give him a bacon strip. For my sake. The poor pup is always walking around asking you for food, but you all are such, that you don’t even notice!
And Roma, I shall be there for our wedding as well. It shall be fantastic, much like Izabel’s wedding. Don’t worry about how clean the house should be when I get there, because you know as well as I do that I like our home messy. (It looks cozier that way.) But I must say, that you should probably make those fantastic apple dumplings of yours. Mmm, my mouth is watering just thinking about them….
And so are my eyes. Mom, Tim, Izabel, Roma. I know you all know what can happen to me here. I’m not telling you to expect it, but be ready. . More like, prepared. I’m trying as hard as I can on my part, being as cautious, and careful as I can, but you know a soldiers life. Full of surprises.
Don’t forget,
I love you all,
Damien.
Damien signed his name, folded his paper, handed it to the soldier, and stepped into the tent Ready for instructions. Ready, for anything
~*~
A bullet passed by me, and collided with the thickness of my bulletproof jacket, leaving no impact on me, except for a racing heart. I sprinted to the safety behind a crumbling building. Around me, shouts, and orders echoed, the calls of newborn birds, falling to their death…
Camden had told me that our soldiers were being held in the building across from the International Restaurant, a drab, and unhygienic place. I glanced around me, and noticed a huddle of four or five men, all dressed in black, their bulging eyes looking at everyone threateningly. Above them was a sign that read:
Good Night Hotel
I observed that all the windows in this building were sealed shut. I strained my neck to look across the street, and to my advantage, the building across from the hotel, was none other than the International Restaurant.
“This is it.” I said to myself, and with that, I snuck towards the entrance of the Good Night Hotel.
~*~
Back in London, Roma was asleep, snuggled in the warmth of her bed, comforted by the warmth of her dreams. Downstairs in her house, which she had so tirelessly cleaned for the arrival of Damien the next day, a rose lay in a crystal vase.
Roma was so attached to this particular rose. It was as if her life were caught up in it. Maybe that’s why, everyday, the first thing she would do was check for the life of this beautiful rose. She would descend her staircase praying that her rose was still as soft, and alive as her cat, Tigger.
However, at this moment, Roma was asleep, and assured the rose was alive, and glowing with beauty. She wasn’t there to see her precious rose fight for life, the tips of its petals and leaves turning hard, and wooden, then soft and alive. How long would this rose fight off its death? Slowly, the rose turned to wood, first its petals, then its leaves. A great, and terrible beauty, a truth, any possessor of the rose wishes not to face. A truth, Roma would find gaping at her, its perfect beauty, mocking her loneliness.
“Lasp behind soldier, Lasp behind!” a low voice crackled through the walkie-talkie in my pocket. It was speaking in code-though it had proved not to be too efficient. When they said ‘Lasp Behind.’ they meant for me to fall back, gather ammunition, and return to the war, to win…or die trying.
A shadow shifted from a spiky bush across from me.
“That’s a negative.” I denied the order. If an enemy was across from me, I wasn’t going to lose the moment.
The crackled from the Walkie-Talkie silenced.
I dragged my body slightly further along the dusty sand, and lifted my shotgun into position. With a jaunty shake of my head, I nodded my helmet into position, and took a deep breath. Shifting the gun slightly into a groove in the rock, I pulled the trigger. Boom. Boom Boom. The thundering sound of eleven bullets echoed around the deserted area.
The shadow around the bush froze, and fell slowly to the floor. A dust cloud lifted around the bush, and I noticed the soldier’s head was peering from the side of the spiky leaves. I pulled for another bullet- precaution, not the sadistic joy of overkill.
Feeling as hollow as the inside of my gun, I walked over to the motionless body.
My tears didn’t run. Not anymore. I knew I had to do this. I bent near him, and ran my fingers over his fresh blood, running crimson over the dull green of his military suit. I stared for a long time at the red liquid on my fingers, the carefully rubbed it on the crusty cross dangling from my neck.
“I pray to lord-may your soul rest in peace.”
As I stood up, I noticed the crinkling rustle of paper. I glanced down. This soldier’s pocket was open, and the corner of a paper was flapping sharply in the hot wind.
Gingerly, I grabbed the thick, smooth paper between my thumb and forefinger. Slowly, holding my breath at a rather shocking feeling of anxiety, I tugged the paper out.
A page. White, and blank, stared up at me. I laughed at my self, the hollow noise ringing in the deserts.
(I now realize, how foolish I was-not having turned the paper over, but I realize that was the path I took, to avoid truth.)
The wind blew sharply again, a corner of the paper, rolling in the wind, revealing-color. My laughter stopped short.
With my two coarse hands, I gripped the paper, and turned it. Slowly. Carefully.
A photograph.
My throat choked up, and my heart swelled. Or shrunk. I couldn’t tell, but I did know, the feeling, was horrible. It was guilt…and sorrow. The guilt was caused by the sorrow, and the sorrow, by the guilt.
The sorrow was there for the mother and son in front of me, the ghost of their presence captured in a 6 by 8 frame.
I stared coldly at the young brown eyed lady, sporting a thin, dark blue t-shirt, which bulged abnormally around her belly, and at the blond baby boy she held in her arms.
My heart throbbed again. The speed of my blinks began to grow rapid.
“Aaugh…God” I cursed, wiping the tears streaming down my face. Two sloppy tears splattered the curled picture.
That’s when I noticed the writing. In neat writing, good as type, it read:
Stanley, and Ginny ‘Ginerva’ LaStef
I looked down at the soldier lying at my feet. In golden thread, the name Justin LaStef was stitched in his military suit, near his chest.
The raindrop tears grew into a thunderstorm.
“Great God!” I groaned. “I ruined a family. Another family….” I buried my face in my hands. “No…NO” I bellowed.
The afterlife wasn’t looking too bright for me.
“Soldier. Listen, I need you to fall back. Fall back y’hear?” This time, General Armstrong was ordering me personally.
I nodded. Then, realizing that the general wouldn’t see this movement of mine, I pressed the button in the side of the Walkie-Talkie, and spoke, my voice as cracked as the signal. “That’s…..a positive?” I said, my mind wiped numb for everything, except the murder written by my hands.
~*~
“Damien.” Someone tugged on the other side of my bag. I turned around, and smiled.
“Roma. I need you to let go of my bag dear!” Roma pulled up a faulty pout, and shook her head, her black hair tossing about.
“No.” She whined in a childish voice. I chuckled.
“I’m not going to war yet Roma.” She let go of the bag with a silent gasp, a shocked look now expanded over her face.
Horror shook me. “Roma!” I dropped my bag, and jumped to her side. I grasped her by the shoulders, and shook her. “Roma!” I whispered, looking down on her face. Her big, light brown eyes were now swimming with tears, and her pink lips were trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
“I almost forgot.” She whispered, her voice quaking. She sniffled, and wiped her tears away. Her hands trembled at the collar of my shirt, as she smoothed it out, and pushed me slightly away from her, to get a full look at me. She nodded, and smiled a small smile, that left my heart faltering.
I smiled, and pulled her into a hug, pressing my cheek against the top of her head.
“I won’t be gone long.” I promised her, holding her at arms length. “I promise you.” She nodded understandingly. I smiled, and bade her a goodbye…
“Damien…Damien!” A voice echoed somewhere between the present, and the past, and then I realized where I was.
My head jerked upwards, and hit the metal of a jeep. My mate Camden Moone sat across me, shaking my knee.
I groaned, and rubbed the back of my head, glaring through half-closed eyes at my friend.
“We’re being transferred to the Second Base. We’ve got a hostage situation going on there.”
“Our side, or…”
Camden looked up grimly. “We’re missing five soldiers, two of which were shot at 5:10.”
I looked at Camden quizzically. “Soldiers attempted a rescue.” He explained.
I winced, and my hand jumped to the cross. “What are we supposed to do?”
“Same.” Camden said shortly, pulling out a paper from his pocket. I was fleetingly reminded of Justin LaStef. Except, Camden looked nothing like LaStef.
Camden had brown short cut hair, like the rest of us, and blue eyes, big as headlights.
“We’re supposed to take hostages?” I asked naively.
All the soldiers around me shot odd looks at me. “Oh.” I mumbled, now realizing that we had to do the same as the soldiers at Second Base-try to retrieve the hostages.
“Honestly Damien.” Camden sighed. I saw a smirk play across his face.
I groaned at my foolishness, and closed my eyes to rest my head against my seat. “How long until we get there?”
“Two days.” Camden said, following my lead.
“That’s a long time.” I whispered.
Camden nodded. “It’s a long mission. We better rest up as much as we can, but some of us have already started…” he said slyly, obviously referring to me. I grinned sheepishly, and scooted my head further back.
“That means, some of us will be able to rescue more than others.”
With that, I dozed back to sleep.
~*~
I wandered the streets of London, trying to find the perfect gift for Roma. I wished for her to have something to remember me by when I went to war. I passed a small shop, which looked like it was just barely getting by. ‘The Knowing Of Gone’ it was called. For some reason, I was attracted to its homeliness. As I pushed open the door-and it opened rather easily the low jingle of chimes announced my arrival. The room was dusty, and the golden glow of light, which dappled the room, shone upon the flying particles around an old pink chair.
“A story.” I mumbled to myself as I went to feel the thin cloth of the pink couch, trying to imagine its story, or the one of its owner. After a while, I began to feel rather alone, and I must admit, a smite bit like a trespasser.
“Hello.” I called out; surprised at how timid my voice sounded when it bounced around the walls. “Hello?”
A shuffling noise came from behind a small counter. I feel a bit ashamed admitting to this, but I did, at the moment, feel-what is it called? Scared out of my wits.
“Oh dear! Children! Growing more and more impatient these days, but what can I do?” A low huff of breath and-“I’m coming deary!” From behind the counter, a stout old lady hobbled out. Thin grey hair curled around her head, and her deep grey eyes twinkled with childhood. She resembled the ideal grandmother, what with the extreme touch of a light pink shawl wrapped about her.
“How may I help you?” she asked, her arms folded across her chest, her head cocked to one side.
“Uh…” I began. My eyes darting to the many corners of the room. “I need something to give to my fiancé. While I’m gone-for her to remember me by.” I said awkwardly.
“War?” she asked bluntly.
I nodded.
She sighed as if in despair, and vanished again behind the counter.
She came back with three boxes. “Take a look at these.” She said, setting them out separately on the counter. I walked over, and peered into the boxes.
The old lady hustled me back, keeping my peering gaze away. She tenderly picked up a mirror. “This is Aphrodite’s mirror.” I looked at her. She tossed her head. “Well, that’s what I call it anyways.”
She handed it to me gingerly. “If you look into it, and long with your heart to see anyone you love, you will.” I looked at her with the gaze of a non-believer.
“Well test it if you must!” She said raged. I looked into the mirror, and to my surprise, I saw the clearest image of Roma, bustling about the kitchen preparing my favorite, dumplings with spicy apple broth. It was as if she were right behind me.
When I looked away from the mirror, I noticed the old lady was grinning wildly at me, and wagging her eyebrows. “Whaddi tell’ya?”
I smiled, and set the mirror down. “No, I don’t want her to look in, and find me shooting at some one. It would overwhelm her!”
The old lady nodded knowingly, and put the mirror away. “How about this?” She pulled a small silver ring from the second box. It had a heart shaped red gem on it. “If you long to see someone, then this ring will pull up the exact form of them. Full form.” She added for emphasis.
I held the ring in my hands, and thought despairingly of my sister, and there in the room stood her full form, smiling and waving at me, her light brown hair curling at her shoulders.
I smiled at the lady. “Brilliant!” I praised her. “But I think it would make her more desperate for me to come back home. I don’t want to arouse that within her. Longing you know?”
The lady chuckled in response, and set the ring away. “Well this is the last memory gift I have.”
Out of the long, and slender box, the lady pulled out the most delicate looking rose. “You won’t be able to test it dear, but you have my word for its magic.”
“What does it do?” I asked, lost in the beauty of the flower.
“It warns you, or rather…informs you, when some one you know is…gone. Passed on rather.” My heart suddenly felt heavy.
“How do you know?” I asked her.
She smiled sadly at me, and bent into the drawer of the counter. She pulled out a rose-exactly like the beautiful red beauty in my hands, except for the fact, that it was wood. “My son.” She said, stroking the petals of the rose. “War.” She chuckled bitterly.
She turned her thoughts to me once again. “When someone you love is dead, the living rose turns wood. It doesn’t need watering, because it doesn’t die, until the owner’s own does, if you know what I mean…”
I nodded. “I’ll…. I’ll take it.”
The lady nodded, and began packing up the rose.
That night, I gave the rose to Roma, and told her about it’s magic.
“I’ll put it here.” She had said, pointing at the thin crystal vase in out cabinet. “But promise me, that you’ll never let this rose turn wood?”
I smiled. “I promise.” And in the back of my mind, I thought if I was really going to be able to fulfill this promise.
~*~
The jeep stopped in the middle of nowhere. A dull green tent was set up, it’s cloth swaying slightly in the dry, and heated wind. I shaded my eyes with my hands, protecting myself for the light of the sun, and the bits of sand that were threatening rather, sensitive eyes. All the soldiers remained seated in the jeep for a split second, as if they were reluctant to leave the safety of the jeep. The driver got out of the jeep, and handed each of the soldiers a small stubby pencil, and a piece of paper. Once all the soldiers were given the writing materials, the soldier who had drove the car explained what they were supposed to do.
“This could be your last night in our beautiful world,” several soldiers flinched at the way the aged soldier said these words. It was almost as if he was a professional. “We want you to write to your friends and family-and remember, they must all be addressed in one letter. On our way back to the camp in Richote, we will personally make it possible that these letters are delivered to your beloved. Because we don’t want them to have to know that you are gone, when, instead of you on your arrival day, comes a box, with all your belongings, and a note that says, ‘Your husband/wife/daughter/son was very loyal to our country, and we take it an honor, as well as misfortune, that they could not survive in this fight to save our country.” The old man wiped his misty eyes. “We don’t want that at all.”
Damien shuddered at the thought of Roma finding a box on the doorstep, before realizing that the rose had turned. He didn’t wish for it, but there was a fifty percent chance that this was ought to happen. All the soldiers knew, because this rule was printed in each of their fates.
The other soldier spoke now. “You have ten minutes at the most, then we must hurry…” This soldier’s voice was soft, and jumpy.
Everyone nodded, and began to scribble on their papers.
Damien just stared at the yellowed paper. What would he say?
He looked up at Camden, who was writing away, his handwriting neat and loopy.
Damien looked down at his paper again. Then he began to write.
‘Dear mom, dad, Izabel, Tim, and Jojo, my little pup, and my dearest Roma.
First off, I want to tell you all that I leave each and everyone of you very very much, especially at this moment in time. Mom, I really miss your cooking now-this camp food isn’t anything compared to your cooking ma. And Tim, I can’t wait to come back and beat you at football. It’s quite obvious that you cheated last time, but that’s okay, because this time, I'm not going to go easy on you… Izabel, love, don’t worry. I will be there in time for your wedding, and I will walk you down in dad’s place. Trust me, because I promised you right? That everything would be perfect on your wedding day, and that I will be there to celebrate it with you all? Tell Jojo I say hi, and give him a bacon strip. For my sake. The poor pup is always walking around asking you for food, but you all are such, that you don’t even notice!
And Roma, I shall be there for our wedding as well. It shall be fantastic, much like Izabel’s wedding. Don’t worry about how clean the house should be when I get there, because you know as well as I do that I like our home messy. (It looks cozier that way.) But I must say, that you should probably make those fantastic apple dumplings of yours. Mmm, my mouth is watering just thinking about them….
And so are my eyes. Mom, Tim, Izabel, Roma. I know you all know what can happen to me here. I’m not telling you to expect it, but be ready. . More like, prepared. I’m trying as hard as I can on my part, being as cautious, and careful as I can, but you know a soldiers life. Full of surprises.
Don’t forget,
I love you all,
Damien.
Damien signed his name, folded his paper, handed it to the soldier, and stepped into the tent Ready for instructions. Ready, for anything
~*~
A bullet passed by me, and collided with the thickness of my bulletproof jacket, leaving no impact on me, except for a racing heart. I sprinted to the safety behind a crumbling building. Around me, shouts, and orders echoed, the calls of newborn birds, falling to their death…
Camden had told me that our soldiers were being held in the building across from the International Restaurant, a drab, and unhygienic place. I glanced around me, and noticed a huddle of four or five men, all dressed in black, their bulging eyes looking at everyone threateningly. Above them was a sign that read:
Good Night Hotel
I observed that all the windows in this building were sealed shut. I strained my neck to look across the street, and to my advantage, the building across from the hotel, was none other than the International Restaurant.
“This is it.” I said to myself, and with that, I snuck towards the entrance of the Good Night Hotel.
~*~
Back in London, Roma was asleep, snuggled in the warmth of her bed, comforted by the warmth of her dreams. Downstairs in her house, which she had so tirelessly cleaned for the arrival of Damien the next day, a rose lay in a crystal vase.
Roma was so attached to this particular rose. It was as if her life were caught up in it. Maybe that’s why, everyday, the first thing she would do was check for the life of this beautiful rose. She would descend her staircase praying that her rose was still as soft, and alive as her cat, Tigger.
However, at this moment, Roma was asleep, and assured the rose was alive, and glowing with beauty. She wasn’t there to see her precious rose fight for life, the tips of its petals and leaves turning hard, and wooden, then soft and alive. How long would this rose fight off its death? Slowly, the rose turned to wood, first its petals, then its leaves. A great, and terrible beauty, a truth, any possessor of the rose wishes not to face. A truth, Roma would find gaping at her, its perfect beauty, mocking her loneliness.
A World Of Emotion
Today I looked outside my window,
and I saw the sea.
A roaring, crashing, splashing sight,
Full of misery.
Who will be there to soothe its plight,
to soothe its anger away?
Who else can see its its
foaming madness?
At the tip of every wave.
Today I stepped outside my door,
and looked down,
upon a nest.
Empty, bare, with few feathers,
as the remnants of its past.
The loneliness of this nest, struck as new to me.
The longing of warmth around it,
once more,
the song of want and pain,
whistled through my soul.
Tonight, I pushed my curtains aside,
and saw no moon aglow.
It's children-all the stars-twinkling,
what made their hearts so sore?
They saught their mother far and wide,
blinking tears away.
When one could not take pain any longer,
it broke, and fell away.
That night, I saw many stars fall,
with a spray,
of brilliant light,
the fire of their hurt,
soon washed away,
in the blackness of the night.
Today I saw some parents bade,
farewell to their daughter,
as she was blown away-so gently,
by a knight of chivalrous manner.
They cried, and waved their handkerchiefs,
in the pale blue sky.
What is goodbye-
I had not known,
until I saw the tears in their eyes.
Out in my garden, as I roaned,
I saw a flower tilt.
And the beauties around it too-
began to tilt.
Shared sorrow?
of sorrowful death?
I hath not the answer.
But whatever tis was,
it was shared.
Now I know,
That even nature cares.
That night in my dreams,
or was it a nightmare?
I saw a great tiger roam.
A majestic white coat,
embossed with black,
eyes yellow,
like glowing coal.
It's teeth were sharp,
curled by a pink tongue,
as it extended its legs and roared.
Then the tiger nestled on the floor,
and rubbed its wet pink nose.
Contempt was written all over his posture,
as it lay in the dark foliage.
What fear did the greatest hunter face?
being king of its world-
no one could control his fate.
it was he who decided,
on others' life and death.
he who counted their days.
But as I awoke the next morning,
one question still whispered on my lips.
This world so full of emotions-
flaying about the brim of patience and tolerance,
did it reach him at all?
As he lay on his belly and yawned-
For him, were all this articulate, and specific rules...
Gone?
and I saw the sea.
A roaring, crashing, splashing sight,
Full of misery.
Who will be there to soothe its plight,
to soothe its anger away?
Who else can see its its
foaming madness?
At the tip of every wave.
Today I stepped outside my door,
and looked down,
upon a nest.
Empty, bare, with few feathers,
as the remnants of its past.
The loneliness of this nest, struck as new to me.
The longing of warmth around it,
once more,
the song of want and pain,
whistled through my soul.
Tonight, I pushed my curtains aside,
and saw no moon aglow.
It's children-all the stars-twinkling,
what made their hearts so sore?
They saught their mother far and wide,
blinking tears away.
When one could not take pain any longer,
it broke, and fell away.
That night, I saw many stars fall,
with a spray,
of brilliant light,
the fire of their hurt,
soon washed away,
in the blackness of the night.
Today I saw some parents bade,
farewell to their daughter,
as she was blown away-so gently,
by a knight of chivalrous manner.
They cried, and waved their handkerchiefs,
in the pale blue sky.
What is goodbye-
I had not known,
until I saw the tears in their eyes.
Out in my garden, as I roaned,
I saw a flower tilt.
And the beauties around it too-
began to tilt.
Shared sorrow?
of sorrowful death?
I hath not the answer.
But whatever tis was,
it was shared.
Now I know,
That even nature cares.
That night in my dreams,
or was it a nightmare?
I saw a great tiger roam.
A majestic white coat,
embossed with black,
eyes yellow,
like glowing coal.
It's teeth were sharp,
curled by a pink tongue,
as it extended its legs and roared.
Then the tiger nestled on the floor,
and rubbed its wet pink nose.
Contempt was written all over his posture,
as it lay in the dark foliage.
What fear did the greatest hunter face?
being king of its world-
no one could control his fate.
it was he who decided,
on others' life and death.
he who counted their days.
But as I awoke the next morning,
one question still whispered on my lips.
This world so full of emotions-
flaying about the brim of patience and tolerance,
did it reach him at all?
As he lay on his belly and yawned-
For him, were all this articulate, and specific rules...
Gone?
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