welcome readers & writers! thank you to krowles1981, chuck galle, brian potopowitz and c johnson for your great stories on yesterday's post. i love writing with ya'll.
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it's photog friday! the photo prompt you see here was taken by Beth Forma, a friend of mine and a gifted photographer here in austin. thank you, Beth, for your interesting and lovely photo. this is Beth's second photo to be posted on write away; to see the other (and the stories that accompanied it) click here. peruse more photog friday fun here, here, here, and here.
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what Beth's photo prompted in me:
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Dear G,
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I don't know what to believe about where you are now. I know what I want to believe. I know what I'm afraid of. I know that buzzing in every cell of my body is a kind of wonder at this life, the beauty and complexity of it all. That can't be an accident, can it? That can't just have ended when you took your last jagged breath. I see these little signs sometimes and I don't know how to read them. I don't trust myself to say them out loud, let alone to celebrate them as they really ought to be celebrated if they're real.
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First, on the day of your funeral, in the shadow of a snowy, rocky mountain, we said goodbye while the damp chill of a spring snowstorm (death's minion?) bit its way through every layer of warmth we'd piled on ourselves. But then, in the last minute or two, as if God pushed aside the clouds enough so you could see us, one giant circle of blue sky and light emerged above our heads, and it was snowing through sunshine. For a breath or two we were enveloped in warmth, your love? And now this. If it's random, there must be some kind of goodness at least, bouncing about this world like a pinball lighting up its machine.
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If it's you, or the artist who made you, saying hello - then, well, hello. I love you.
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D
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come write with me! story, poem or creative non-fiction ~ 250(ish) words or less. click on comments below to share. by the way, we're up to 89 followers now (!) do i hear 90? =)
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Dear G,
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I don't know what to believe about where you are now. I know what I want to believe. I know what I'm afraid of. I know that buzzing in every cell of my body is a kind of wonder at this life, the beauty and complexity of it all. That can't be an accident, can it? That can't just have ended when you took your last jagged breath. I see these little signs sometimes and I don't know how to read them. I don't trust myself to say them out loud, let alone to celebrate them as they really ought to be celebrated if they're real.
-
First, on the day of your funeral, in the shadow of a snowy, rocky mountain, we said goodbye while the damp chill of a spring snowstorm (death's minion?) bit its way through every layer of warmth we'd piled on ourselves. But then, in the last minute or two, as if God pushed aside the clouds enough so you could see us, one giant circle of blue sky and light emerged above our heads, and it was snowing through sunshine. For a breath or two we were enveloped in warmth, your love? And now this. If it's random, there must be some kind of goodness at least, bouncing about this world like a pinball lighting up its machine.
-
If it's you, or the artist who made you, saying hello - then, well, hello. I love you.
-
D
-
come write with me! story, poem or creative non-fiction ~ 250(ish) words or less. click on comments below to share. by the way, we're up to 89 followers now (!) do i hear 90? =)
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The Little Waif (I wrote this in 1988. It seemed to fit the photo)
ReplyDeleteIn a land not far, not long ago. In a town upon a high plateau.
There lived a girl upon the road and there she sat where people strode.
The little waif as she was known, there in that place she sat alone.
With locks of gold and eyes of jade, the sparkle gone the face afraid.
Her body wrapped in shambled bits of clothing cut with holes and slits.
And there she sang with voice so sweet and begged for coins so she could eat.
To passers-by she palmed her hand. Their scoffs and sneers she did withstand.
And every night with woe and grief she prayed for just some small relief.
And pleaded so with God above to send her just a little love.
And on that night a storm arose. The cold crept through her tattered cloths.
The people in their homes were warm as the child braved the raging storm.
The wind bit like a daggers tip. The cold, it took her in its grip.
All through the night the storm beat down upon the rise where sat the town.
And when the people went outside they found the little waif had died.
Her body bent as though in prayer. Their crying eyes could only stare.
The people knew not what they had now she was gone and they were sad.
For no one in the town did see the little child’s silent plea.
They buried her atop a hill when all was quiet, all was still.
And every one that evening sang the songs the child did sing.
A hundred days and one they wept. In waves of grief the town was swept.
And every time the wind did roar and they were locked behind their door.
The sounds they heard when they were safe. The wailing of the little waif.
Button, Button. William. William Button.
ReplyDeleteNot here, yet, that child is always late.
Does anyone know where Billy Button is?
He's tied up in the office- Suzanne mumbles.
Okay can someone go and knock on the office door? We are ready to start our lessons for the day.
David slips out of his seat- I'll get him.
David struts down the hallway past the "lockers" no combination locks on these, the only numbers are etched in stone. He swings open the door and sticks his head in the office. - Billy Button you're supposed to come with me. Homeroom's started.
Billy slinks out of his chair, what a way to start eternity. Late as usual.
Hi.- he says keeping his head down- I thought they said eventually you grow out of high school.
That's what we all told ourselves- David laughs- here's your locker. Remember your combination 1-9-8-1-2-0-1-0 if you ever need a rest from your education.
He's was gone. It was a fact and there was nothing I could do about it. There was a lump in my throat the whole ride home as i sat in the back seat of the car. I watched the city lights move by lighting my face then leaving it dark. Just like him. The car was quiet like my heart, and as it drove to or house i realized i was being taken farther from him. I hadn't spoken to anyone but the congregation at the funeral since it happened. There i had spoken about the friendship we had had, and the person he had been. Had been. I felt sick and empty. There was a ache in my heart and a hole in my stomach that when on and on, with the knowledge that he was gone.
ReplyDeleteDevastating doesn't come near being strong enough. Desolating, desecrating, plundering, ruinous, shattering, demoralizing. All combined could not express the incomparable emptiness she had been left with. It began as a bad hair day, not some cliché, her curls ruled her unruly head, giving unruly it's meaning. The filter in the coffee maker had folded over so the coffee ran down the side and leaked past the little plug that allowed you take the pot out and pour a cup without having a sizzle fest on the heating unit., so the coffee sizzled on the heating unit, and she burned herself trying to wipe the stuff up because it kept drizzling down on her hand. The coffee tasted like tea. She snapped a heel on the curb - the only luck of the day was it happened right in front of her brownstone's door, so could run back in and find another pair to wear.
ReplyDeleteBut half way down Thirteenth Street he had come jerky whizzing by her, in the unsmooth way unicyclists do, mostly forward but the little pause, move, move, move, pause, back, move, move, almost but not quite bobbing along, catching your attention. At one point he did a little circle, the unicyclist did, and she saw he was dressed and made up as a mime. White face, the plus sign crossing his eyes, Red Rubber Ball cheeks, bowtie lips, the eternal smile, the Derby cocked like Al Smith's. Arms aspread, marvelously non-alar-like, balance pieces poised at awkward angles. She smiled at him, she beamed at the world, she laughed out loud and crunched her brow in anguish as he jumped the curb into the middle of the lane the truck was stupidly speeding down and shrieked as the BLAM! preceded the screech of brakes.
The news story told his name, and the next day the ME pointed out the vault his remains chilled out in, and said, yes, she could leave the bouquet in the handle bar. Maybe this day would be better.
This hotel sucks. I mean really... the room service is non-existent, the smell is atrocious (I hate flowers), way to much people traffic at odd hours (what's up with the early morning crap), and my bed is rock hard and cramped.
ReplyDeleteI have taken to sneaking out at night. Pretty much almost no one is ever around. And if they are... well, one glare from me and usually they leave me alone. Come to think about it, I probably look quite a sight. I haven't shaved in years and my breath... well, must be awful. I am going to go with a nice green tint with hints of very old sandwich with just a touch of dead mouse.
So do yourself a favor and don't check in here. Find a better place to stay or if you have pretty decent digs, I say enjoy 'em. It is only downhill from there. Or underhill... hahahahah. Oh man, I kill me.