fiction – I Write

Traverse

It drives me to the coast of Rhome

It grants me passage to the peaks.

It yearns to harness nightly waves.

But, there in sleep, defenseless, I dream.

Then, realizing, I breathe and then turn away.

Awake, I rise from the warmth of the eve and rise to tangle in worlds unknown,

Traversing to corners and cultures new.

In woods and paths unknown, I unravel wounded threads,

Pass and intrude. In a gentle sweeping and uncovering, it’s trapped.

Hidden, trapped, desiring release.

I rest, waiting. Sometimes it comes.

I rest, waiting. Sometimes it flees.

Seeking. It can’t always be hidden.

I wrote this with those in mind whose lives have recently (and not so recently) been invaded by the terrible choices that other humans make. I can’t understand, nor have I lived this terror myself. But, I’m realizing that this could be my life. It could be anyone’s life, unfortunately. But today, I can only imagine the pain, the tears. But I do care and think about the unimaginable that has become another’s life.

With still heavy lids, I woke up to a strange and terrible rumble, the shattering of glass, the smell of death and screams.

It invaded my dream of sandy beaches and the noise of a children’s laughter.

The terror of today took my life.

Took the life I had known. The life I had grown to love,

My life filled with love, with peace, the smell, the taste, the sounds of home.

That was my life, that was our life, that was our home.

Many, many days before, so long ago, so long ago…so long.

So… long… ago.

And now, I run, I hide, I fear not knowing where to go or where to sleep.

Where do I go, oh where do I go, where do I go, where should we go?

And finally I stop, I only stop because my feet can’t go anymore. I fall exhausted to the

ground. I rest because I have to. I try to.

I sleep. But, my mind forgot how to rest, I recycle the images I can’t deal with during the day.

I awake trembling, searching, but groggy with sleep.

I succumb again…I sleep for a

moment.

Then, it begins again, the noise invades.

This is my life. A life with no home.

When I find I can’t run anymore, or sleep.

I find a corner and I weep.

I weep as a unconsolable child heaving and hugging myself into an ever smaller person.

I desire to disappear, to hide from my reality.

Because this is not life, this is not home, I have no peace, I have no hope.

Help, help, help me from this hell.

Take me away from here. Please take me away far from here. Take me, take me away, I pray take me away, take me away, take me away…from here.

My tears stop in my trembling hand, I hear a whisper, ” I’m here. I’m sorry.”

I look up I cry and I scream, “Why….,” I’m filled with anger…”Why?!…why?!.”

I hear nothing, but silence. It’s strange at first, I look around…wait, but nothing,

For the moment. And then…

The wind moves the trees, and the raindrops begin, quietly…steady..and then a deluge.

The thunder crashes and the earth vibrates with the thunder. It repeats again and again.

I have no fear. The storm reverberates.

And I know, he sees, he feels, he hears, he knows.

I see my trembling hand taken, I feel my hair caressed, I sense my face being touched and I hear…

“I’ll take you away, from here, from here, I’ll take you away from here, I’ll take you. I’ll take you, I’ll take you away, away, away, take you away…take you from here, far away from here. Away from here.

I’ll take you away. I’ll take you away….away from here.

The thunder rumbles, the wind calms, the rain steadies. The storm is over. For the moment. A moment. Just a moment.

For just a moment…

He took me away, away from here. From the hell down here. From all the pain down here, In my life… right here. He took me, he took me, he took me and shook me awake, he took me away.

From here.

Friday’s “reviews”

I’ve read quite a few books now and learning so much. The main thing I’ve learned from good pieces of literature is not just having a story to tell, but how the story was told. For example, in All The Light We Cannot See, multiple character’s stories are told in the forward and backward traveling through time kind of fashion. It was a challenge to follow, as a reader, but in my opinion, gave the story some mystery as well as anticipation.

I can’t imagine the challenge for the writer, but then again, this is Pulitzer Award winning level. Yeah. I also have enjoyed the learning in reading good books. I enjoy smelling and looking at flowers, but I’ve never studied them. In The Language of Flowers, I was able to enjoy an inspiring story while also learning about flowers. Even if the story was about the character overcoming a difficult past, the reader is encouraged to open their eyes to the gifts people possess no matter their background.

In the The Martian, even though I’m not a technical geek ( I wish I was!) I could still enjoy how the author used humor to lighten the undeniably terrifying aspect of being left alone on the Planet of Mars. Had it not been for the comedic relief, I might not have been able to read this book. So, humor, sarcasm and well placed cuss words granted realness to a gifted main character.

Now, after reading quite a few books, I might be falling forever into the rabbit hole of literature, never to be found again. Thank you writers for keeping your dreams of telling us great stories. You’re appreciated!

Promoting a story

I wrote a story with my friend. Our story, Extraordinary Girl is a novel about a young woman who finds her way in the world despite her many obstacles.

For whatever reasons, I’ve not promoted it before, but I knew that the time would come for it to be out there where it belongs. (In the hands of readers!) Truly, it was not written for only ourselves to enjoy.

The process of writing a novel, even a short one, is long and tedious. It reminded me of when I was pregnant with my children. The first stages involved much preparation, excitement and thrill. But like pregnancy, the last stages of writing the book became tiring, heavy and frustrating. Birthing a book involved time, energy and even money to get enough of the kinks out.

And then, after completing the process, and reaching the end of a long race, I learned that the end of one process was really the beginning of another process, in which I wasn’t completely ready. And that process is promoting the work, our work. It is not a process I was familiar with, nor frankly willing to get acquainted with at that moment.

I mean, wasn’t it enough our story was out there, published on Kindle? And if it was written to be read, and put on a proverbial “shelf”, then it would be found and read. Right? Wrong. And honestly, I knew that. But hey, it was out of my hands, at least.

When I read about promoting a story, a piece of my soul immediately rejected the idea. Nope! Not interested in putting our work (hard work) out there to be criticized and rejected.

But now? Well, after months and month of working in other “arenas”, doodling, blogging and such, I’ve finally reached the point where I’m ready to promote. I’m no longer worried about the “public-eye” or ratings or inevitable rejections. All those things are not the measure of truth.

The truth is that what my friend and I did in writing a story together is an accomplishment and a beginning of a dream realized. To become writers. We created a character that we both believed in and birthed her story. We wrote. Yay us!

Psst…

I didn’t write today, and it’s okay…the world won’t end, no one is taking grades today. Relax, pull down your shoulders and breathe…

Yes, I’m talking to myself and anyone else who has high standards for themselves like I do.

No, I didn’t write, but I did do a “brain-cleanse” of sorts. I thought a whole lot about the world at large, my kids, and other random stuff. Sometimes that’s what I need especially after an especially heavy brain-load of information.

I had writing class last night and so today, I decided to put my energy into cleaning the bathroom tiles. How does that dark stuff accumulate in between the tiles? It’s so annoying! Anyway, manual labor like that helps me process thoughts, the news of the world and the details of my small life.

I’m coming close to finishing another draft. That’s what I’ve decided to call it. A draft and it’s liberating to call it what it is. It’s not a complete book. Simon and Schuster isn’t knocking at my door just yet. But, it’s a goal completed, and that is an (or will be) accomplishment.

Until then,

~peace amigos.

A new day

Yesterday, I kinda went on a preaching tangent, but that’s what wine and such can do. Today is a new day filled with possibilities, I’m sure.

As I sit in my backyard, I’m thinking back on my vacation and decided to remember it this way. Did I say “vaca” yesterday? Ugh.

1. Her faraway thoughts came to the surface and came forth, not quite as tears, but as an extra liquid layer to her green eyes.

2. His movements were robotic, as he walked into the bar. The drink in his hand had failed to erase the tension in his jerky movements.

3. Her forced smile belied the depression which stormed her mind.

4. To herself, she danced in a free spirited fashion, but to others, she appeared awkward and almost “monkey-like” in her attempts.

5. They moved as one on the dance floor as she stared and imagined the movements horizontally.

6. Her teacher tried to rub the tiredness from her eyes unsuccessfully and left more lines in the wake.

7. She forced herself to look at the clock on the wall, as her father shuffled in slowly from the kitchen. As he passed, she gave him a smile hoping that her love would give him more time.

8. The irritation bubbled over and spilled out in correction to her mother and later formed a pit that lodged itself in her stomach.

9. She lay head spinning on the soft sheets contemplating whether or not to sleep in the toilet or not.

10. As she lay in her childhood bed, the memories tackled her into fitful sleep.