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In the tides of life rage fuels resolution, and patterns emerge from paradoxes, only for all to dissolve into their eternal ebb and flow.
Whatever these words might mean to you, whatever emotions, memories, dreams or ideals they call forth, share it with us in no more than 800 words.
Fiercely reaching yet afraid of letting go. (756 words)
He wakes. Slowly. Reluctantly. To a feeling of being underground. Air heavy and thick with dust. Throat dry and aching. Eyes full of grit.
He is pinned, lying sideways on a surface, twisted and unforgiving, one arm beneath his hip and the other across his chest. He cannot feel his feet, or his legs. But there is no pain.
How long has he been lying there? Is it dark outside? It must be dark, otherwise why is it so cold?
He should not have been there. His mother had warned him to stay away from this part of town, but his uncle had scoffed and told him his mother was scared of all the wrong things and he would keep him safe.
Had he been with his uncle when the building collapsed? Is he here somewhere, trapped in this underground prison, with a mouth full of dust like his own?
Water. He would give anything for a mouthful of water right now. Was it yesterday he played with the boys and their super-soaker – the boys from the narrow block of apartments to the left of his own – filling the giant plastic water pistol with water from the tank on the roof? The water had been hot, not cool, warmed by the sun. Bitter tasting.
Are they looking for him? The rescuers? Will they be allowed to come to him, or will they be told to stay away? Will he still be alive when they find him?
In the darkness, he imagines the colours in his uncle’s garden. The purple flowers that look like butterflies. The white snowball flowers that his uncle is so proud of and won’t let anyone pick. He has never seen snow and it is on his list of things to see when he gets a job and moves to a country where he can send money home to his mother, so she won’t have to work at the hospital. He is the man of the house now.
He smells warm bread from the bakery on the corner and is reminded of the time the shopkeeper scolded him and told him he didn’t have enough money for today’s bread, but that he would give him a loaf from yesterday for the money he had. Returning home and his mother taking the bread from his hands, wearily, and returning it to the shop. And scolding the shopkeeper for cheating her son.
He promised his mother that he would do better and that he would teach his sister to ride a bike. But he was mean. Cruel. When his sister cried as she fell off, he called her a baby and told her he wished she had been a boy. A boy wouldn’t have cried like that. A boy would have been brave.
But she was brave. She had stood up to those boys who had bullied him. Determinedly. Hands on hips, lips pursed and her little face set. They had laughed at her, not unkindly, scolded him for hiding behind his sister, then pulled her hair and made her cry before they ran off. And he had been angry with her for embarrassing him by making him look small. He had pushed her away, watched the hurt ripple across her face. She had not spoken to him for the rest of the day, even when he tried to apologise.
Where is she now?
He tells himself he can be brave too. Like his sister. He will not be scared. Even though it is hard to breath and air is being dragged into his lungs through a filter of grit. He cannot lick his lips, there is no moisture in his mouth. Just dust.
He wants very much to have a tiny piece of chicken the way his mother cooks it – with butter and spices from the market. Melting in his mouth like chocolate.
Something crawls down his spine.
He imagines he can hear boys laughing but that can’t be true, can it? Nobody will laugh if a boy is missing, except, perhaps, those boys who had pulled his sister’s hair.
There. Does he see light? Yes! Yes! It is light! Too bright for his eyes but he refuses to close them. He wants to shout and reach out toward the light, but his voice is like a starter motor full of sand – it will not turn over – and, still, he cannot move. Dare not move.
The light will need to come to him.
A rhyming effort from me for this challenge
<u>All in my head</u>
Emotion, bright as a shooting star, trails across the bowl of dark-light, caught
crackling and spluttering, straining against the speckle and spackle of midnight thought.
I feel it drift, almost mutely, into a cascade of unspoken dreams, tumbling, and falling
slowly, into an open mouth of endless sky-flow shadows , curling and running. Still calling,
and quietly humming, it loops into quietness where reedy seas suck it softly, down to the deep
well of solitude, waking ambition, unfulfilled yearning, and the timeless, soft, restless, sleep
of endless imaginings.
Memory stretches like an old lion, shakes its head, and recalls the sleepy warmth of times long past.
Of birthdays shared, of gifts exchanged. Of broken bonds of friendships, pledged to last.
Now merely deeds, and faces, swimming in a sea of thoughts, all swirled, connecting,
summing up my past. I see sweet success and faltering fails twined in tandem, reflecting
and merging into the bottled view of life achievements. Still, I smile, recalling glitter-sprinkled
Christmas days, filled with the rustle and tear of unwrapped presents and paper wrinkled,
so quickly and cast aside all forgotten, on the floor of childish excitement.
Here in my head I pull those twisted clouds of fancy from the pink and pulsing centre of thinking,
and keep spinning out my dreams, my hopes and fears, in patterned words all sparked and blinking,
like star-shine, in dark places .These things light the way forward. Forward, into that place unknown,
yet still cast shadow-bright melody on the broken shards of all my yesterdays, also lying, windblown,
but steadfast, on the path I walk. Creativity, the wellspring of calmness, touches everything internal.
It is the core of my breathing, waking, time. It is the writer of my life’s voyage; my journeys journal,
and holds the pages of me together in a song.
Love, curls long fingers through memory’s tousled mane, plucks at my heart and smiles, projecting
strong easy warmth as it touches everything. Like the shelter of parent’s arms, protecting,
it carries the scent of baby’s skin, soft on my own, brings echoed laughter, of family and friends,
and teases with the fervent kiss of lovers entwined and curled in the bed of life’s odds and ends
that I can’t forget, even if I wanted to. Here too, coiled snake-like over love, the salty, sweet, scent
of sex lingers, as a memorial, nudging memory and reminding me of potent times spent
touching and touched, enfolded in passion.
Sorrow, shedding soft tears, ebbs, gently, into small corners of my being, leaking like a rusty sieve
for a father gone, a mother failing, for someone needing more care than I know how to give .
Quietly, she lays on my casket of emotion, crooning sad psalms without meaning, or ending,
And, though it seems small, this feeling is huge, like the wide-open sky, or a mountain, unbending
against all effort to soothe it. Such bitter sadness falls, icy as snowflakes, perfectly formed.
She’s unwilling to bow, unwilling to break. She will not be stoppered, she will not be warmed.
She simply sits, crying sad songs to my soul.
In the shadows of loneliness, and impotent as a fettered dog, my rage, mutters and whines
as it scratches the wounds of injustice and betrayal. Sometimes it howls and sometimes it shines,
sparking in the gloom-light of adversity, while picking at the discoloured bones of my work .
Often, it’s not rage, baying, and twisting, but white-hot revenge reaching out in the murk,
secretly packed, full, of cruel venom. It’s the kind with no cure, the kind that’s barb-hemmed,
and sharp-tipped. Yet, kissed by hope, such fury, and vengeance, can swiftly dissolve, or quickly bend,
slowly spiralling away, into oblivion .
How easily the intricate patterns of my beginning, and end, roll and flow through the years,
collecting boxed memories, and shaded, cracked, images, veiled and festooned, in laughter and tears
that dance in the shadow of life, and the enigma of death as they unpluck the ragged structure of time.
Often moving too quickly, or without reason, everything slides, birdlike, trilling, into sublime
melodies of stored experiences, glazed in fine dust, or set in crystals, that hum, glow and glisten.
Dreaming and waking, elusive and free, here, is the sum of me, caught, safe, in my head, but if I listen,
somewhere, within me, the bell of finality echoes it requiem.
730
What’s Brought to the Table
796 words
Grace was sitting on the floor of Lily’s bedroom, leaning against Lily’s wardrobe. She looked at Lily, who was lying on her single bed with her arms spread wide like an act of supplication.
Lily had just said she was aiming for paradoxy. Grace wondered what psychodrama had produced this.
‘Life,’ Lily continued, ‘is more interesting when it’s contradictory.’
Grace remained silent. She wasn’t allowed to sit on Lily’s desk-chair. The desk itself held Lily’s laptop, some books borrowed from her university library and a stack of notes for an essay. Lily had said the essay was complicated and that her desk and chair were part of the psychic space she needed for thinking. Grace knew this meant she, Grace, mustn’t intrude; she was somehow inimical to thinking.
‘Really,’ Lily said now, ‘it’s quite odd that you’re the eldest and I’m the one who’s nearer to having a career.’
‘FFS,’ said Grace, getting up.
#
In the kitchen Grace sat at the table with her palms against her temples and stared at the kitchen sink. Lily was so pompous. On top of that, at university she had a boyfriend, who somehow put up with her.
At the garden centre where Grace worked she watered the plants every day and tidied them into rows on the slatted tables, closing the gaps left by customers who’d lifted out what they wanted. The garden centre had a café whose wooden tables and chairs had rough-hewn legs, meant to look rustic. The café served light meals, ice creams and cakes. Customers paid at the till at the counter’s end. Further on from the counter was the swing door into the kitchen and Grace tried hard never to watch this door. One of the chefs, Amit, wore his beanie low on his forehead, showing off his eyes. He had attractive hands. The thought of them gave a frisson to her view of biscuits and puddings. Grace imagined him feeding her cake with his fingers.
Amit had a girlfriend.
#
A few days later, Grace was in the kitchen at home. Mum had left crumbs round the toaster so Grace wiped them up. Dad had left a coffee mug on the table so Grace put it in the dishwasher. On a shelf beside the cooker a row of big glass jars held different shapes of pasta. She straightened the line of jars.
Lily appeared with red eyes and a puffy face.
‘What’s up?’ said Grace.
‘Jake is leaving me.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lily took a shuddering breath. ‘He said it wasn’t working out for him.’
She gulped. ‘He mumbled then he cut the call.’
She wept and Grace made her a coffee.
#
A week later, Grace listened to Mum saying she was worried about Lily who’d stopped working, wasn’t going out anywhere and sat watching TV. Her university studies were going to suffer.
Grace thought the upset would do Lily good.
#
At work Grace finished watering the bedding plants and went to the café for her break. Lily was sitting at a table.
Grace stood over her. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Mum said I should come out.’
‘I thought you didn’t like this place.’
At home Lily always looked down her nose whenever the garden centre was mentioned. Today she could have gone to a different café.
‘I don’t feel up to anywhere–’ Lily looked round the half-full café ‘—anywhere edgier.’
Amit walked past the tables on his way to the kitchen. Grace saw Lily watching him. When the swing door closed behind him Lily said, ‘You didn’t tell me there was anyone here who’s actually sexy.’
Grace wanted to walk off but forced herself to sit down and have coffee.
#
The following week she was alone in the café when Amit brought her coffee to her.
‘Your sister’s been here again. She’s flirty, isn’t she.’ He still held the coffee. ‘A bit needy?’
Grace studied his face. If Lily was being a nuisance, Grace would murder her when she got home. Or do something – she couldn’t yet think what, not with Amit standing there.
‘Her boyfriend left her,’ she said.
‘I’m going to a new job, in a restaurant.’
‘Oh. That’s… Congratulations!’
She kept a smile going. The worst thing would be to look needy.
He put the coffee on the table. ‘Your refreshment before you go back to nurturing the plants. That’s what you do isn’t it?’ He smiled.
‘I…’ She shrugged and managed to laugh. ‘I suppose so.’
#
The gap Amit’s news had torn was mending, just a little. She’d been seen as something other than incomplete.
She wondered about a new job, in a plant nursery, and perhaps with more demands and responsibilities.
It was as if all she’d needed was a different view.
Apologies, Knicks, I’m not going to submit anything this month – torn three ways with something that will not knit.
Stevie
There was an empty spot on the sparkling, granite countertop where the coffee maker should be.
“Where’s the coffee maker?” I asked.
Alice slipped a saucer in the dish rack. “I tossed it.”
“You did what?”
“It caught fire this morning.”
“It does that from time to time. Unplug it, blow on it twice, and it will be fine.”
“You can’t be serious.”
A year of marriage, and I was already regretting it.
“Besides, the coffee was tasting bitter,” she said, “even after I cleaned it.”
“That bitterness is character. Character that can only be honed after a decade of use.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“Stevie’s been my coffee maker since I was at university.”
“What kind of grown man has a name for a coffee maker?”
The glimmering granite spot where Stevie sat mocked me.
“Where are Stevie’s stains?”
“I cleaned it. That was gross.”
“Those puddles were how Stevie reminded me it was time to patch the seals.”
“That coffee goop was attracting ants.”
“Did the garbage truck pass already?”
“They passed an hour ago, when you were in the shower.”
Of all the times, the garbage collectors could be on time, it had to be when Stevie was in the bin.
She sauntered towards me, rested a traitorous, sudsy hand on my chest. “I was going to surprise you for your birthday, but since you seem distraught by me saving us from being burnt to pieces by throwing out that fire hazard …”
She could have dumped the blender, microwave, nut milk maker. Why Stevie?
She returned, heaving a lump of a box. “This is the all new Magnifica coffee machine, imported from Italy. It cost me a fortune, but the smile this will put on your face makes it worthwhile.”
“I don’t want a fancy machine.”
Stevie brewed cups that got me through funerals, broken relationships, and that horrid day I had to put down my cat.
“It responds to your voice, shout for an espresso, and presto, you’ll have one,” she said. “Super-fast brewing time, and you can program it to play your favourite music while it brews. It cleans itself, too. No more wasting time washing, more time for you to paint or hike.”
She rested the contraption on the table. Pecked my cheek. “I got to get ready for work.”
#
For the next thirty-two years we were married, I hated that I enjoyed the Magnifica coffee. Loathed that it was awesome it played my beloved tunes while brewing. Despised it lasted three decades.
Each morning, she said, “You could try my green tea since Magnifica coffee makes you so miserable.”
“Never.”
The only thing worse than enjoying Magnifica coffee would be liking green tea.
Word Count: 462 words
Heya lovelies,
Apologies for the day-late decision making. I’ve been oout and aboout with my egg, enjoying our midterm break from work and school, and foolishly saved the reading until the final day of the month because I wanted to take in each piece at the same time, rather than read as submitted, and also to give everyone who could, a chance to submit.
@sandradavies and @athelstone, you are forgiven!! It would be hideous of me to disappear for two years to complete my Masters only to grouse because someone didn’t make a single monthly comp, lols.Onto me thoughts as follow:
@seagreen: So good. So gripping. And too real. I was invested long before I reached the end, when the light appeared and the stakes tightened to their most intense. I think you occupied the head of this character beautifully, and it burned. Is it the light of being discovered? Or the light of the hearafter? Horrifying not to know that, or what it was that he felt down his spine. Gorgeous.
@purplewitch: Ambitious and beautiful and masterfully done. There is such effortless flow here, taking me somewhere lovely and complete unexpected. Some place hopeful and wise, I think. It honestly feels like an epic of the human spirit. I can’t say it enough, this is so, so well done!
@libby: A quiet slice-of-life stroll through sisterly love that beautifully captures the unspoken complexities of sibling bonds – the mix of envy, protectiveness, and small resentments that blend into a unique, enduring connection. Lots of tangible warmth and small yet significant moments. I really enjoyed this one!
@alex: A quick peek into marital strife that seems harmless on the surface while involving all the nuance of what it means to make the thing work. The give and take; the compromise and humor that sees the best of us through that thing to the end. Brought a smile to my face. An enjoyable dip into knowing what works best, and spotlighting the world’s most glorious beverage no less, the importance of which simply cannot be overstated ☕Really happy with each offering. They are fine, fine things. And now onto the arduous bit where one must choose:
Congrats to @seagreen! Her piece engaged and gave me a thorough rattling. One felt and lingering right in my bones 🙂
Congratulations to Seagreen, and to everyone else who supplied an entertaining and impressive piece to October’s comp. And to Knicks for setting it,
Thank you for setting Octobers comp, Knicks.
I enjoy seeing how differently we all approach the monthly challenges. this months were wonderfully varied.
Congratulations to Seagreen for such an atmospheric winning offering.
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