just writing words

Zadie

2008-07-24T08:44:00.002-04:00

Woman with red hair by Amedeo Modigliani

Zadie sits drinking a fresh cup of lemon tea out of a small china cup decorated with pink roses. The morning breeze swinging in through the white curtains brushes two strands of red hair across her cheeks and forehead. Only the sound of the wind dangling in the air.

Zadie sits on the wooden chair small drops of blood on the edge of her black blouse. Her hands glide about like wings with each sip. The warmth of the hot tea fuel her cool body, sinking deep down to the end of her shoeless toes. Her skirt edges flowing in the cool breeze.

Placing her tea cup down on the white doily, she smiles at no one across the table. Her lips sticky with lemon tea, slowly press together, sealing in a silent prayer. She shuffles her feet, untangling them, pressing them flat on the cold white kitchen tiles. Succumbed by numbness, Zadie sits and wait.

As the swinging door front door is pull open by the local sheriff, she clasp her hands together, dried red stains on the back of her hands and fingernails. She turns to him with a smile, accepting his outstretch hand as he guides her outside, toward the sheriff's car. He asked if she wanted to put some shoes on but she just keep walking.

Midway, she turns around to see her home once more. The orchid paint chipping off the walls, the chimney with the bricks half falling, the broken window from last night. She blew a kiss to the house, sparkles in her eyes falling down her cheeks. She slides into the back seat of the car, pulling her seatbeat on. She heard the clicking sound and knew she is secure. Her vision suddenly becoming clear. She had stabbed her husband, Mannie. Mannie was being unkind again, bashing her head against the window panes then against the dresser her mother had left her. Mannie, who always make fun of Zadie's working class background, whom hadn't even finished college, could not hold his liquor or his temper.

As she tried to recovered from the double blows, avoiding Mannie's glare, Zadie saw the scissors shinning so bright against dawn's early light. It was the same scissors with the purple handles that she had used last night to cut the thread that she used to sewed the button back on his blue shirt and sealed the hole in the armpit.

It was an awkward attempt but when she saw the red circle on his white shirt, she knew she had caused it. He stared at her, his eyes wide in confusion at first then looking at his blood-stain shirt tail, anger took over. She was on her knees, scissor still in hand, covered in blood. Suddenly she fell onto the floor, a hard blow from his rough hand, blood pouring out of her mouth and nose. Mustering up her strength, she shoved the scissor straight into his chest, barely missing his hearts. She backed away, knowing he would have pick her up and threw her to the floor if could. She watched from the doorway as he fell, face down on the red carpet that he so wanted, scissors still in his chest.

She ran downstairs then to boil water like she always does after each episode. It was lemon tea she craved this time. The lemon scent always reminded her of the days she spent in this kitchen with her mother and grandmother.

Through the black wires, she watch as the distance between her and her house grew farther apart. The sheriff didn't turn on the sirens or the flashing lights. She was grateful for his silence and patience. Zadie sits and smiles as the sun begin to rise, lighting the world around her.

3WW: Avoid, Class, Sticky

Birth Days

2008-07-23T15:45:00.014-04:00

birth days no longer reside inside
my memories, my enclosed haven
the original me could not be found
only a faint image of myself
my doppelganger sits in unused waiting stations
is she me? or am I her?

time opens new exits
to the same place
birthday wishes reverse themselves
going back to the stars
the years still unlive, unburied

am I to be reborn as my other self?
where will I end up?
watching the bright lights everywhere
I wait for my turn

Pen Me A Poem Poetry Prompt: Birth

Gray

2008-07-22T10:19:00.002-04:00

I'm all gray today, not a color nearby
the day sky dimming towards a black afternoon
somewhere between nowhere and goodbye
a boy hums a tune, a lonely lullaby to chase the sun away

Tuesday Title using the line, "Somewhere Between Nowhere and Goodbye"

Dreaming of Lost Mondays

2008-07-21T10:55:00.004-04:00

blank spaces fill my eyes
where words once lined up to be written
tarnish by the appearance of the cloudless sky
the bitter heat spill inside my head
the end of the week so far away

Empty

2008-07-20T09:45:00.000-04:00

your lips quiver in hesitations
your shoes tap in murmurs
nervous silence encouraged
your hands scrawling
invisible words only you can see
in the air a small wail from your heart
clobber your thoughts
your pen no longer thirsty
intoxicated by writer's hay fever
you stare at the scattered empty pages
the hours ticking by quickly
outside the trees dust the ground
orange leaves spoil by wet footprints
the cold sun falter on its arrival
it's the end of another day
or is it the beginning?

Friday 5: clobber, encourage, scrawl, wail, hay

The girl with no memories

2008-07-19T14:28:00.003-04:00

these stillness fill the nights
lingering in my sensors
outside no birds or planes
slow is the summer heat
gathering its last sweat of tears
from the girl with no memories

Wishing

2008-07-17T14:02:00.003-04:00

A long candle in hand, Anne walks down the narrow path towards the garden where the dead roses laid. In the darkness, she reach for a match inside the pocket of her long black gown. Completely drained from evading Lord Fitch and his cursed, itchy, fat fingers, Anne drops the match. The cold wind gently blowing her curls against her eyes as she reach for another. She could not help but cry as she watched the fire arise shining light on her husband's grave stone. Staring at his name through warm tears, she wished she hadn't found out about Henry's family history or spent her entire marriage scolding him for not having money.

3WW: History, Narrow, Spent

Vivienne

2008-07-17T09:03:00.007-04:00

Vivienne could hide for hours in the dark shadows among the ghosts of night. She never could remember where the habit came from or how it came about. She only knew watching the world from that small corner wakes her mind from the dullness of being.

Vivienne's small bedroom has two huge windows with very tall maroon curtains. Whenever midnight comes around, she would turn off all the nights and close the curtains leaving one sliver of opening. Then she would tuck herself under the covers and wait for her father to come say goodnight. He would kiss her forehead and a big smile would spread across his sad face. Then he walks a few steps towards the door, opens it, linger for a moment then turns around and say goodnight again. After he closes the door, when she hears his footsteps fading away, she would prop up her pillows to make a shape of herself and covers them with the thick sheets. Then crawl on her hands and knees towards the curtains, towards the small opening and slip inside the curtain folds.

Out there across the street is a five-story apartment building. Through their open windows, she saw others revealing themselves in silent moments, never realizing she was watching them as they strip bare their emotions and fall onto their expensive couches crying bitter tears. Her big eyes would widen absorbing their daily grief.

In the second level, a beautiful woman throws up her dinner every night after refusing dessert offered from her husband. Next to her was a young girl who often hides underneath the bed from her stepmother who wants to dress her up in pink clothes when what she really wants was to dress like a boy. Above the girl was a man who had recently shaved off his identity, moved from one level down to this apartment which he had stolen from a woman who seem to have disappeared. But Vivienne knew where she went and she's not happy under all those daisies which she was allergic to.

Tonight Vivienne watched as a new tenant - a man with lots of money - watch porn while paying his taxes. His tan face was often in shadows but Vivienne always managed to see his face clearly. As he drew his curtains close, Vivienne watch his sad blue eyes turning away.

In the place where she stood, Vivienne saw many things, things that might make others quiver with pity or hatred but not Vivienne. Rather she saw herself mirror in their solitary confinement. She was hiding too. Her secret remains in the darkness where everything can be reveal with one light switch.

Many nights of insomnia had not ceased even as the drug she was given had taken over her body. Her mind still sharp, can venture into other people's life without leaving her body or her home.

She often hear her father crying through the walls and fights between her parents whenever her mother comes to visit but Vivienne ignores them. Her only reply when ask if she was okay was a nod of her head. She have stopped using her voice to speak. Her big, brown eyes change emotions but never shed any tears even when her parents told her about their divorce, even when her mother moved out with her little brother. Even as her mother's tear-stained lips kissed her cheeks goodbye, Vivienne's eyes remains dry.

At birth, she was pronounced dead on arrival. But somehow they managed to pump breath into her. Alive, she wasn't any better. Endless hospital stays, lost childhood days created a hallow in her heart. One that grew bigger each day as her body gets weaker. She could not cry even if she wanted to. It was a condition her doctor said was temporary but somehow ended up being a permanent state. How ironic she was name Vivienne, a name that means life.

Having only a few years left in this world, Vivienne wants no part in crying. That is not her. Engross in the lives of others, she is happy. Happy to know there are no happy people in the world.

Fiction Friday: Pick a character who loves the dark, and tell us why. Avoid the obvious choices: stealth, monsters, sex, and anything else you immediately thought of.

Postcard Dreams

2008-07-15T20:55:00.010-04:00

I compose these words
faltering from the tip
of this ballpoint pen
spellbound scribbles
on four by six postcards
stamped to arrive on
the doorsteps of strange lovers
of unrehearsed verse

I just sign up for August Poetry Postcard Fest. You write your poems on real postcards and send them out. I will be doing this for the whole month of August and might even post some of them here. Who knows maybe they'll come out better on paper than on the web. Anyone interested, go here to sign up.

Black

2008-07-15T11:34:00.003-04:00

stung by the splendor of sudden black
cognizance rush through my veins
a million locked spaces of night splits open
heartache has enter
in darkness I hunt for luminous flux

Tuesday Title: Stung By The Splendor of Sudden Black

Farewell

2008-07-13T11:47:00.003-04:00

with this farewell
abound with gratitudes
we celebrate this moment
time well spent
writing and dreaming
on an island so huge
everyone you meet
writes your name on virtual papers
sailing around the world and back
without this sanctuary
life would not be so sweet
inspirational lyrics permanently
stamped among the islanders
and beyond

Writers Island - Last Prompt: “Farewell, Gratitude, Celebration”

Myth

2008-07-13T08:13:00.001-04:00

the body of myth
saccharine with promises
inimical ghosts

One Single Impression: Myth

Through a window

2008-07-12T20:17:00.002-04:00

her rose-colored cheeks press
against the panes
eyes looking straight through you
through the thick lands of trees
to the sea of green
where her heart sits next
to the man that she loves

One Single Impression: Through a window

Folded Pictures

2008-07-11T05:21:00.013-04:00

In grandfather's cigar box, I pull out a photo album of folded pictures. Each marked with names and dates on the back side. These were delivered to me this morning by the post office guy with the strange brown and green eyes. He winked at me but my lips stayed in a straight line unable to think of a respond.

As I unfold them, the scent of mildew and cigars mingle with the summer air. My grandparents in their own fashion suits and dresses strike out at me with their half-smiles. Their unhappiness was quite vivid in each and every shot. They were married for nearly fifty years arranged by their parents even before they were born. The sadness in my grandfather's eyes never faded even after his death a few years back.

The wind pick up then, sending the sheets to caress my cheeks. The scent of clean soap reminded me why I moved all the way out here to the country and away from my wife of ten years. The divorced papers signed and sealed sat inside the old antique desk, a gift from my grandfather. It wasn't that I didn't love my wife, it was she who didn't love me.

As I begin to fold the pictures back, I heard the sound of glass breaking. After putting the photos back in the cigar box, I race to the front of the house and found a broken window done in by a baseball. I turn around to see the kid with the gapped tooth smiling at me. I held the screen door open gesturing for him to get his baseball. He nodded his head in thanks as he walked away. This was the second time he had broken a window but it had never occurred to me not to forgive him. His freckled cheeks reminded of me when I was foolish and young.

I walk back to the backyard to hang the laundry but couldn't bring myself to finish. I wasn't use to being up this early but somehow doing the laundry at this hour seem to be the thing to do these days. The cool wind continue blowing the sheets like dancers in the sky. I sat under their canopy of joy and cry.

Friday 5: grandfather, photo album, post office, broken window, folder

Last Stop

2008-07-09T21:49:00.002-04:00

As sleep took over, my body slumber along with the train. In a few moments, "Last stop" starts to echo in my ears. I open my eyes to see my reflected blue shirt in the window pane, creases on my left cheek. I must have been leaning against the pane.

The lights above flicker a few times and then fall into darkness. My eyes blink in secession trying to get use to the dark but then the lights came back on. Outside the window, I can see the empty platform brightly lit by rows of florescent lights. I was still underground. The conductor or someone operating the train announced "Last stop" as if shouting an order instead of an announcement.

I walk outside the train and hear the slamming of the train door. Surrounded by unfamiliar colors and deco structures, I look for the name of the station but found none. There's the waiting/seating area but the benches looked old-fashion. I turn back to the train but it has already started moving away into the dark tunnel. I turned back to the walls and saw movie posters but there's no inappropriate graffiti on any of them and they seem to be movies from the fifties. The whole station was clear of trash and the floors were not covered in their usual black gums.

I was told this was a shortcut but I must have slept through my stop. I need to get back on a train and somehow get back to the right stop. The echoes of my fake leather boots bounce in the air but never quite falling back down. The silence as I paused in my steps makes me quiver. I hear nothing but my own breathing. I felt the hair on my whole body standing up as chills fill every tips of each strand and outpour into hot jerks of uncomfortable shakes.

The sudden sound of a train behind me send a temporary relief but when I turn around, there was no train. The wind bust through me but there was no visible train, only the sound passing me by and evaporating into the air. Silence once again fill the station. Panic scream in my head but then I calm down as I start to think maybe I am dreaming. I pinch my cheek and felt the pain but to accept this as reality was far beyond what my brain can take.

My boot slowly move against the ground silencing their echoes with each pause. I hear someone calling my name or at least it was my name but the sound was too far away but before I can respond, it faded.

I begin to look for an exit but both sides of the tracks ended with walls that curved towards the ceiling. I press my fingers against the cool tiles. They felt solid and real. I ran to the other side and did the same thing and felt the same coolness.

A sudden wind blew in my face. The sound of a moving train begin to surface but then it just subsides. But this time there was sound passing by me.

Now in full panic mode, I scream for help but my cry got sucked into silence as soon as it hit the air. My vocal cores seem to be stuck, unable to make any more sounds. I try to speak but there was no voice of my own.

Then a train came. One that I can see with my own eyes. It open its doors but instead of seats, there were solid concrete decorated with pink roses. At least it looked solid.

Out of curiosity, I poke one finger on the rose surface and it fell through like butter. I quickly pull my finger out. What was that???!!! I must be dreaming or else...but my thought trail off as the concrete begin to melt like ice cream on a summer's day. As the concrete slides to the floor of the train, I can see the familiar orange seats and silver poles. Just as I thought there was hope, the whole train begins to melt, falling onto the dark tracks. A great mass of silver and red laid on there looking much like a science project gone awry. Then the station walls start to sink like a Dali painting.

I was too freak out to react. I thought my eyes were tricking me but then my boots starts to sink down into the ground. I try to pull them out but it was like quick sand, the more I struggle, the more I sink in.

As my surroundings begin to melt, I saw sitting not far from me was a girl, looking straight at me. She looked familiar and as I look closer, the more familiar she gets.

I scream at her to help me but she shook her head and shout back at me, "Only you can help yourself!" I recognized her then, she was me but only older with more maturity in her face. I scream really I need her help but she kept on smiling sitting so still on the bench. But then she too melted away into the ground.

I sank deeper and deeper unable to cling to anything. Soon I found my feet touching solid ground. And as I grew familiar with my surrounding, I realized I was in a station very much like before but now there were tons of people all me. All of them in their own thoughts, unfazed by my appearance. I shake off parts of a tile off my boots. I felt strangely relief but at the same time wonders if this is reality.

3WW: Inappropriate, Order, Shortcut

Three Feathers

2008-07-08T14:11:00.004-04:00

three feathers fall a heart
three feathers grasp within
an angel's dry fingers
brokenhearted tears
turning into a white raven
flying into the clouds disappearing
into the heavens of the sun

Tuesday Title

Character

2008-07-08T11:18:00.001-04:00

Saw this at Write Anything and had to try it.

Lissa no longer wish for happiness instead she wish for uncontrollable rage that can rip through any fearful thoughts that might cross her mind. In the hopes that she might see herself as someone more stable and less insane. Driving extremely fast in her pick-up truck, she knows no destination but plans on going very, very fast to anywhere but her small enclosed life. Chasing nothing has always appeal to her even at a young age. Now driving across the Atlantic, she met a hitchhiker with six fingers and no last name. Even as she opens her car door, she knew her life will never be the same again.

Raindrops

2008-07-08T05:30:00.000-04:00

sky
sweating raindrops
ice cream dream

Hidden

2008-07-07T06:13:00.000-04:00

her arms hug herself
her eyes wish for an end
in the darkness she saw
his face awash
in coldness slowly
forming a cloud
fading into white sheets
naked in the arms of her bed
she cradle her emotions
prolonging them in the small
hidden spaces of her mind
days walking around
searching for the pieces lost
in the ending of her thoughts
she saw herself yesterday
mad but showing no madness
her face turn to a smile greedy
in her voice she spoke
of living with the dead
but is she dead?

See the image that inspire these words - Monday Mural.

When the world ends tomorrow

2008-07-05T18:48:00.001-04:00

strange how calming your azure eyes
reflect in the gold ring on your finger
a sparkle reminder of love binding
here in the garden that grew
without rain I wait for you
the hem of your dress
softly brushes the ground
the glint of your tiny magnifying glass
around your neck swings
in sad rapport's' shading sunlight
remembering times decay
your head takes a backseat
to your heart I wait for you
witness by a priest
love's promise in your eyes still
when the world ends
tomorrow you will be by my side

Friday 5: priest, ring, garden, magnifying glass, backseat

Chid

2008-07-05T12:58:00.003-04:00

From J&R Snap magazine, July 2008

dreams of rarely risk days
appeal is no end in itself
abandoned message
intertwines the rhythmic world
bend your ear for
here is the titular
it truly is a stroke fittingly enough
with the slashing kinetic slamming
hyper-masculine tendencies
equally unfamiliar for us
ecumenical spirit always

Tomorrow

2008-07-04T10:16:00.004-04:00

Furious words invade her mind as she scribble her latest discontent. She imagines breaking every bone in her body with just one fall down the long flight of stairs that leads outside. Each breath she takes cause her to throw more frustration into her hands and onto the faded yellow pages.

If she wasn't so weak, she would be outside searching for new air that might breathe inside of her. Alone in a huge house possessed by darkness, she often drag herself towards any area with light.

She sat at her old desk surrounded by all her books. As the sun dives into the horizon, she pull the handle to the single lamp on the desk. All day her hands keeps scribbling, the left hand then the right hand, words that might mend her or break her.

The lamp flicker once then fade out. She continues in the darkness. Thousands of screams echo in her head, one louder than the other, each fading slowly into stillness until there's a slight blur of memory, greying in her mind.

The lamp flew back on, lighting her thoughts, scattered below and above the blue lines. She try to read them but couldn't make out the odd shapes and long lines. Her head clear of thoughts now had stopped spinning.

Sleep drives her body as she crawls between the sheets. Tomorrow. The word pops into her head. How strange it sounds to her now. Tomorrow will be the day. Tomorrow she will start living again.

Fiction Friday: Write like Fireworks…write fast, write down random thoughts, hurry through it. And don’t even reread it today—you can always come back to it tomorrow.

A different world

2008-07-02T15:45:00.004-04:00

Charing Cross Bridge by André Derain

There in front of him is the orange door with no knob. He walks closer and saw in the darkness, surrounding the door was a pile of door knobs. Each a different shade of silver, all shining with urgencies. Jonathan stood, puzzled, unsure which knob he should be using to open the door. He was told by a old man with cat whiskers to go here - here where he will be able to get home. All he has to do is open the door with the right knob and he would be back home, in his own world.

As Jonathan walks near the orange door, he wonder if he should leave at all. As he ponder his decision, an old man wearing an orange jumpsuit came and starts sweeping the knobs into a pile. Jonathan started to scream at the old man but stopped. What would it matter? Did he really want to go home?

The old man pause in his task and stare at Jonathan, leaning his hands on the top of the broom, indifferent to Jonathan's cries.

Jonathan wanted to say something but he couldn't think of anything reasonable. He stood there unsure of what he to do. He wave his hand signaling the man to continue.

The old man started to sweep the knobs into piles and then pour them into a wheelbarrow, then went off walk off with the knobs leaving one silver knob on the ground.

Jonathan picks it up, examining its silver, smooth surface. Then he place it against the door, feeling a magnetic pull as the knob begin to glow and hiss, opening the door. A blur at first but then he could see his house not far from him. The large apple tree he planted in the front yard, not ten years old, his beat-up truck in the driveway, his blond-hair wife laying in the front yard, getting a tan, her back facing him, bikini loose underneath her.

Does he want to go home? Is this what he wants? How could his mind change so fast in only forty-eight hours?

Forty-eight hours ago, he was just another married man living in a house with his wife and no children. But then he was swept into this new world where everything looks like a work of art. He didn't know how he got here, he only remembered he was here the moment he hung the replica of a André Derain painting in his small library. He was admiring the colorful textures with his fingertips when he suddenly found himself inside the painting. He assumed he was dreaming so he wandered farther into the painting.

Everywhere he turned, the colors seem to grow brighter. The pavement seem to be made of soft cotton and yet solid underneath his feet. He wiped his eyeglasses on his shirt tail but find he didn't need them to see which was unusual considering he's totally blind without them.

A yellow bird flew past him and he dropped his eyeglasses but it didn't crack like he thought it would. He picked them up and decided to place them inside his shirt pocket. He felt cool and relax even with the sun beating down on him. The sky was the most magnificent blue and the clouds, well, he just couldn't think of a word that's good enough to describe it. It was overwhelmingly calming for him to be in such atmosphere.

Jonathan felt thirsty and as he looked around the place, then a street vendor appeared with ice cold juice, his favorite flavor in fact, raspberry-lemonade. He wanted to paid for his drink but the vendor boy shook his head. As Jonathan walked farther, he felt hungry and there appeared a cafe serving his favorite - tuna salad on rye. Again, he didn't need to pay.

As he wandered the colorful streets, strange people started to invade them or rather they appeared out of no where. A few wearing the strangest hats like a Picasso painting. Others wore such bright clothes almost straight out of a Chagall work of art. Jonathan felt like running around and shouting with joy at the top of his lungs. He was surrounded by the most surrealist images and yet they all seem to make him smile more.

As the sky grew dark, Jonathan slept under the moon on the softest park bench, softer than cottons. When he woke up, he was reminded of what's awaiting at home. He has a mortgage, a wife he couldn't afford, a truck which he cherished but unable to drive since his wife insisted that she needed a spa weekend and that he can get his old junk fix another time.

As he wandered back, he got lost. An old man with long gray whiskers told him the direction without Jonathan ever asking.

Now here he stands a the threshold between this world and his. Does he really belong there? Did his wife even wonder where he was for two days? He watch her bare back as she turn her head to the other side away from the sun. From what he can remember, it is a Sunday, a day he usually stick himself in his library which was more of a small closet since his wife insisted that she need a recreation room for herself. He thought he would miss her but not one moment did he thought of her. Jonathan smiles and takes a few steps backward. Back to the place he was happiest.

3ww: Indifferent, Pour, Reason

Forgotten

2008-07-02T09:58:00.003-04:00

article from Metro, June 9, 2008, page 19

the morning stopped to
pose as if leaving answers
eased by ending alone
morning playfully nipping at him in circles
"there's nothing" he said
right now nobody
can figure out any answers

Sweet Drifter

2008-07-01T11:21:00.003-04:00

a sweet drifter
you are
a savior with no purpose
dashing in and out
leaving a scent of memory behind
a pink rose
with my name on it