Snippet: Over chicken soup

Via All Of The Vegan Food (or is it?)

Via All Of The Vegan Food (or is it???)

The following is a snip from a short story I’m working on right now. I love it when kids are like best friends with their parents, usually I find that those cross out the unnecessary drama that depict cliched relationships. What do you think?

I slouched on the bean bag, my dress in a mess. I never slouch. I’m the chick that preaches “thou shalt not slouch” and I’m in a state where I don’t give two ducks, or geese which are actually more nasty.

“Look dad, this is going to sound all poetic and dangerously cheesy but here it is: when love is the religion, trust is king and truth is queen – or whatever – and together they make it work. You do want it to work, don’t you?”

He looked up at the ceiling, lips pursed. Then he smirked, looking a bit evil with eyes red and puffy from crying.

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Frustration: a painting in words

Frustration is defined as the feeling of being upset or annoyed when unable to achieve or change something. It’s a kaleidoscope of mismatched emotions born of my own inability to change, to develop in order to achieve what I possibly can. Personally, it is for – the most part – a two-toned orange and black fighting for dominance and you know you’re down for the count when they beat each other to a nasty mud brown.

Frustration is sometimes like being thirsty. So thirsty and the thought strikes you that, yes, the Sahara had to have been an ocean ages ago. A tall glass of water sits before you. Your frustration can be defined by either not being able to reach it; or having it in your hands, the condensation dripping wetly down your knuckles but finding that you refuse to drink.

Often, no … many times, the orange wins and the black and mud would swirl down and away into the abyss of a sinkhole. And it’s fine for now.

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empty (1)

there is a hole in my stomach

that I dig myself

with scooping hands

shaped with inattention

but I do this absently 

like snoring in sleep

i become aware of this

hollow alcove

when I plunge into waking

when my actions (or inactions)

catch up with me

and I feel in that hollow

a lacking within me

to which only I can or cannot fill

with decision

with conviction 

and with belief in none other

than myself

Coshed over with the fact, 

yet once again,

i am my own saviour 

and my own ruination

– devina s.  

Staccato

He watched as if from afar as his fingers stab and stab away at the keyboard. Surely they couldn’t be his. Neatly trimmed, they look vicious and and unmerciful but yet so graceful in their ministrations.

The sigh that ripples out his chest sucks him back into his body. Surely he must be in purgatory. This knowing he’s not working hard enough, accomplishing less than he possibly could in a workday. But no matter, no matter how hard and long he abused the keyboard he get distracted and plays truant. Ruled by his own impulses. He disgusted himself.

At the end of the long day of doing mostly nothing, the tiredness that swamps him is partly shame and part anger. Tomorrow, he knows, with be identical to today, as the day before that was.

And the day before that.

Bloody hell and damnation. He snatches his hands from the device as if the thing grew teeth. Ah, the small respite from sluggish ruminations hit him like a slap, and he’s grateful. Here, hope dares to bloom and his mind whirs to life as if it had been off the whole time.

I can move forward. I can do this. Plan. I need a plan. The thoughts came in fast now. His mind is clear but it wont last for long. He had learned to move quick to climb up a new rung of the ladder. When his head would become heavy again, he’d be stuck on a new level.

Up up and up.

Runner

I ran like the horses, swift and wild, because I am my father’s child. My breath fogs the air in fluffy puffs, feet barely touching the ground. I feel the ocean to my left, beating a deep bass pulse like my own heartbeat. ‘Mr. Brunner’ said I’d feel better now that we know where I belonged at camp, more like in the hierarchy of things. The pain will stop, he said. And it has, I suppose. But it never really does, does it?

Thrusted into the limelight, I stick out like a barnacle on a ship. Now, I just let the dawn air pierce my lungs; my legs starting to burn a little, getting too hot. That’s okay, though. With a thought, I willed a slight chill over my skin and the clouds of my breath grew denser. I could do this because I am my mother’s daughter.

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The Sea: An exercise in simplicity.

While studying, Charles Trenet’s La Mer  came on the radio. I had to drop my pen, sit back and close my eyes. I knew the English translation and I also know it meant more than what it says. A bittersweet melody. Behind my eyelids, in my mind’s eye memories fall like feathers. Monochrome movies, a tavern by the seaside and wind blowing in from the windows, and the scent of soap. I remember rainy days and reading about Harry, Ron and Hermione when I’d read all over the house to be at peace with my thoughts. A simple song can be a key to memories so precious that I’d tuck them away for safe keeping, tucked away so well that I’d nearly forgot.

This was an exercise I participated in one of my tutor group’s discussions. the topic was simplicity, saying more with less. The best thing is pulling work from memory, like I did here. We had to comment, or “self reflect” on our pieces, which was refreshing because though I’d usually make comments at the back of my mind while writing and editing (ohmygods I now realize I’ve been doing a crap job at that) I never actually pay attention. Hope you liked it.

On a side note, La Mer literally translate from French to The Sea but some of you might be familiar with the English version, Somewhere beyond the sea (listen to the Bobby Darrin, Robbie Williams and Kevin Spacey versions!), while still charming loses some meaning from the original, according from comments on YT.

Cheers,

Devina 😉

Picture It and Write!: The Great Library

Hi everyone, I’ve yet a again disappeared! I’m now taking an online course at Goldsmiths in Cert HE in English and man is it a challenge. I’ve decided to take Creative Writing and Introductions to English Language this year. I’m freaking out because:

1) I’m new to independent study and timing myself is a tricky and is altogether intimidating.

2) Ohmygods, the reading, the analysis, the note-taking! My head is going to explode and to top it off my textbooks haven’t arrived and it’s like 3 weeks in. Do you see my problem?

Deep breaths. I’m scared but I must try, I keep telling myself. Creative Writing encourages a regularity in writing, practice they say is essential. So I practiced on one of Ermilia Blog‘s PI&W entries (I haven’t written one in ages). Here it is.

old booksPhoto via Ermilia Blog. Click to see original post.

The sconces high on the walls sent shards of light bouncing around the large room, by the time it reached  the bottom it had evened out so that the old man, surrounded with books and parchment, could manage to read. He sat slightly bent over a scroll, eyes quickly scanning its length until they stopped abruptly on a spot almost at the end. He gasped, a little thing, and started off in a hacking cough disturbing the dust motes in a flurry.

As soon as he was settled, long nimble fingers quickly sought and sorted through flat sheets of vellum to his left. Mumbling under his breath, “Oh my … yes … yes … Interesting.” Pages shudder in the quiet, causing little echoes to ebb out the high windows and into the night.

A sudden exclamation, “Impossible!” Even faster now, with a quill in a hand stained with dry ink, the scholar scribbled away on a new sheet, tiny and precise but managed to be near intelligible, perhaps even on purpose. Given his somewhat unkempt appearance one would say he’d been here for a good many hours.

Then, “Yet again it could be! The Chinese, too, had made quite detailed observations … it could be possible …”

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Reader, I am

You dance the waltz

Of uncertainty

Envisioned citadel

Blown away

Like a house of cards

But like the escapist you are

You found a rabbit hole

Within the brittle husks of trees

Right there solidly in your grasp

With it you smother the fabric of the present

Even for a little while

The lazy exhales of a saxophone

Drowns the pestering flies of noises of reality

In a plane of impossibility,

You find yourself suspended there,

In that unshakable place of strength

A sense of home you create and take with you

Whichever way you roam.

© Devina S.

Picture it and Write: Fly

Here’s my piece for this week’s Picture it and Write!

– Silent dying by Laura Makabresku. Via Ermilia Blog, click to see original post.

This isn’t right, he thought for the hundredth time. Mathew stood well within the reach of the shadows in the corner of the room. The old women, oh these women, their wills were thousandfold the force of their heavy wrinkled and gnarled hands. They had gotten it in their heads that Petr must live. Why, he’s far too young for this fate.

Fools. Who are they to decide against nature? Petr, the rambunctious lad he loved and knew, the boy who wanted to fly. Pretended to do so as he ran down the hills at breakneck speed just to feel the wind. If he’d been allowed to die in proper peace would have turned in his grave at the very though of such imposed suffering his soul must endure. It pained Mathew to see his friend binded to this lingering existence.

The soft light of dawn stroked Petr’s pale immobile face, a picture of perfect, undisturbed rest. Continue reading