Bitesize fiction. High tide

The sea water was cool around my feet, but the air was pleasantly warm. I waddled around a bit in the shallow water of a narrow stretch of beach, flanked off by concrete walls. It felt like a beach within a room, cosy and private.

An empty table by the wall caught my eye. What use could a table be here, with its legs dipped in the water? To store the bathers' things?

"Vodka tonic!" a voice chimed behind me cheerfully.

I turned around. A young man was beaming at me from a group of equally young, equally enthusiastic people.

"Hello." I replied politely. It barely occured to me that his greeting had been unusual. This was an unusual place after all.

"Are you here for a swim? May we intrude?"

"Go right ahead. I don't mind company."

"Thank you!" He smiled widely. Quite a friendly fellow. He turned towards the sea and stared into the distance for a while. "I advise you to get to higher ground though. The high tide will be coming soon."

"Yes, you're right. I'd almost forgotten about that." I started towards the stairs that led to the top of the cliff, but stopped midstep and remarked: "It's a shame you and your friends arrived here right before the high tide. It will cut your swimming short."

"No worries. We meant to come at this time."

In fact, they were doing something even more unusual than the greeting from before. They were laying papers down on the table. I enquired: "Wait... Won't your papers get swept away by the sea? I don't think you should put them there."

He smiled widely once more. "That is also deliberate. You see, that is our homework."

"Oh?"

"We lost one of our teachers out at sea last year... He went swimming and was swept by the current and drowned." His smile softened and became sadder.

"I'm sorry to hear that..."

"Thank you. Well, he was such an amazing teacher, that our group has decided to pay homage to him every week by studying together and leaving our homework here to be taken by the sea..."

"Oh... Such a lovely tradition! I'm sure your teacher would have been proud of you. Erm, may I add to your offering? I have my notes from my language studies with me."

"Of course! Our teacher appreciated people who wanted to learn. Your notes are welcome."

So I put my papers on the table and we all went up the steps, out of the reach of the soaring waves.

And as we watched together our homework floating off the table, we all felt united by this small moment that we shared.

 

This story is an embrace between the sea and a dream at the edge of waking.

Broken pencil poetry. Van Gogh's ear

Am I going to cheat by digging out an old piece of writing from the past? Yes, yes I am. But it hasn't been published here, so it's just like new.

Almost 7 years ago, I wrote a little poem. I'm not sure what triggered it at that time. But, after dusting it off and reading it again, it certainly feels very fitting to my current situation in life. So, here it is:

 

*************

 

Van Gogh's ear
21 nov 2016

I think the world is far too narrow
As I lay another brick -
I think the wall is far too tall
But I'm the one
Slathering the mortar.

I think the eyes are far too bright
Because they see me in my corner
And even if I bare my teeth
The world is still, still far too narrow.

My back is itchy and I'd really like to scratch
And the cards are still not good
For helping me out with my bluff...

I feel like Van Gogh's ear,
Cut off and given away,
But I can still hear, mind you,
I can still hear it!
The echo is still there
And I can hear it over and over,
Lost in the nooks and crannies
Of this discarded old ear...

*************

As a little interpretation hint, it's still a poem about building one's own enclosing fence, not feeling quite right in the middle of this reality and still being haunted by the past. Well... Some things simply never change.

A "why" on parenthood

There is a subject that has preoccupied me quite frequently, due to it being so pervasive in our society. Children. More importantly, the motivation behind procreating.

I have many friends who already have school age children or newborn babies. They often talk about their children, whether prompted to by me or not. It's obvious the children are a big part of their lives, to the extent that their lives are divided between work and parenting. And sleep.

It's interesting though that most of the things they say about their children are what problems they cause or how much of their time they take up. When I ask if they regret the decision of procreating, most of them are quick to say no, then give me some of the happier stories. Some do have regrets though.

We all agree though that children are a great responsibility and require not only money, but a proper education (no, not just the academic one) and attention and affection.

So I would ask them, men and women alike, what motivated them to have babies. The answers vary and are often a mixture of multiple reasons. I've also noticed some of the reasons nobody boasts about, but which are still very obvious. Here they are, in no particular order:

• Societal and familial norms and expectations. Even if we have more freedom to live our lives the way we want, society and our families still expect us to have one course in life: marry and have children.

• The wishes of the spouse. Sometimes, the spouse wants a child and the person in question feels compelled to make that wish come true.

• The idea that the achievements of the child will be considered as achievements of the parents. Some parents will also fulfil some of their own wishes through their children.

• To have someone to leave their worldly possessions to after death. The "carry on the family legacy/name/business/genes" reason will also fit in here.

• To have someone love them and also take care of them when they are ill and/or old.

• As a toy or an excuse to go through childhood again with their child.

• To have someone to own and control completely, at least for a while.

• To have someone to love and care for, at least for a while.

• For money. It happens in Romania at least, where some people have children just to get the child support money that the state gives to everyone monthly.

• Because of no or bad contraception. It's not a motivation, but it is a cause of pregnancy.

There might well be more, but these are the ones I've seen most frequently. Some are a bit disturbing and often lead to unhappiness all around.

The core of the matter is that children are a huge responsibility and the decision shouldn't be taken lightly and definitely not for frivolous reasons.

Artificial intelligence

I have often jokingly said that my mind is smarter than I am. That most of my intelligence is artificial.

Let me explain my claim to artificial intelligence.

The mind gathers information all the time, processes it and stores it, most of it without us making a manual effort towards these goals. The conscious mind is left to think, our train of thought following a path we are aware of. But all that information we don't even feel being stored away is still there and can come up, seemingly out of the blue.

I noticed this phenomenon in school a lot but also a recent event reminded me of it. I have been learning a foreign language. A lot of that learning involved simply listening to that language being spoken by natives on their local radio. I also did more formal learning, but I was still just emerging from the layer of utter beginner.

I once wanted to form a phrase in that language. Without even getting a chance to find my words, the phrase just appeared in my mind. It was a more peculiar construction too, using an unfamiliar grammar structure and a tricky word. I verified my sentence with a native speaker and it seems it was completely correct. Of course I was baffled. And a little proud too, although I can't take full credit, my unconscious mind did all the work. It referenced the information stored in my memory and was able to build something new that worked.

I'm pretty sure I haven't said anything new and everyone has experienced that. But to me, it's still utterly fascinating when it happens.

Broken pencil poetry. A piece of madness

I've been exploring some dark artwork. I got inspired. This is a semi-poetry semi-prose piece. It's also a bit dark. I paint my dark artwork with words. And I just wrote whatever came. That is why it makes seemingly no sense and it seems broken.

*****

A piece of madness
01.09.2023


It's night time again and there's only a sliver of life coming in through the lowered blinds. My eyes hurt at how bright the darkness is and at how much I strain to see.
What am I looking at? What is that blackness painted over the far corner?
What is this silence, grated like cheese by the sound of the old fridge?
I blink.
It's dark under the staircase, the tendrils of darkness stretching like a spiderweb.
It's dark over the staircase, where I once stopped a... There is a dark memory looming over the staircase.
The darkness suddenly breaks like a murky mirror. Where is it? Who made that sound? Who broke the illusion?
.
.
.
I need to sleep. I need to sleep, so I can stop dreaming like this.

Broken pencil poetry. The wall

The wall
19.08.2023


He was laying
Brick upon brick,
In smooth rows,
One on top of the other.
"What are you building?"
I asked him, intrigued.
"You'll see," he winked at me.
So I went away.

When I returned,
The bricks had formed
A wall.
Tall, wide,
And without doors or windows.
And on top,
There he was, still putting
Brick upon brick,
The sun shining behind him.
"Is it a wall?"
"Mm-hm."
"But why?"
But he gave no response,
Just winked again,
Playfully.
So I went away.

The next time,
The wall was as wide as the horizon
And as tall as the sun at noon,
But he was nowhere to be seen.
I knocked on a brick.
"Yeees?" came the answer.
"Whom are you keeping out?"
He laughed, then said
"Perhaps you might ask instead,
Whom am I keeping inside?"
He laughed again.
I couldn't see it,
But I'm fairly sure
He just winked at me again.

Bitesize fiction. The girl in black

 

evxlutionrace · the girl in black

 

"Come back for me!" I heard her call as I was running away.

I didn't turn around. I knew she would be there, patiently waiting for me. But she could be my undoing. I had to get away!

The portal wasn't going to be open for much longer. I could see it in front of me, getting closer with each step I took, but still so far away. Would I make it in time? It was already starting to blur around the edges, rippling like the wavelets of a lake. Soon, it would close.

A quick, sharp jab and I was knocked off my feet and onto the ground. What?

"I said, come back for me!"

Her voice was shrill and inhuman. It couldn't be... Had she already been corrupted?

I lifted my eyes to look at her. She stood there, towering tall, taller than before and it seemed like she was elongating, up towards the sky. Oh no...

"Why did you run? Why did you leave me? Don't you know I need you?" she screamed like a banshee.

I got up quickly, glancing at the portal. It was already narrowing, like a pair of eyelids closing. My last chance was fading away. I had to run now, or else I'd miss it! My foot stepped towards it, but her yell cut across the air like a knife, halting me.

"Don't even think it! You belong here. With me!"

I breathed slowly and looked up at her. Into her eyes. The girl in black. With black, abyss eyes.

She looked back at me. No... She was looking through me. She was no longer capable of seeing anymore. She knew only rage and it was blinding her.

"Come here," I whispered to her softly.

She frowned.

"Come here and talk to me," I insisted. "Come into my arms."

I lifted both arms towards her. For a long moment, she didn't react in any way. Then I saw something break in her, a tension releasing. She crumpled to the ground.

I knelt beside her. She was small, smaller than before. She was shivering, but her black eyes now held a soul again. She looked at me through her tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "The thought of losing you made me lose my mind... I'm so sorry."

"I know. Don't worry. We all break sometimes." I closed my eyes and held her in my arms as she wept quietly. Her body convulsed with tears. We sat like that for a while, until the trembling stopped and the tears flowed no more.

She looked up at me.

"Thank you," she said simply. Then she looked around. "Oh... but the portal. It's gone."

"Yeah..."

She turned towards me again. "Look into my eyes."

I did. Her black eyes, dark as midnight on a cloudy sky. Their darkness seemed to glow and grow, expanding out of their rims.

"What is this?"

But she didn't reply. Those eyes were no longer eyes, they were a rippling dark pool, overflowing over her entire being. Soon, there was nothing left. Nothing left of the girl in black. Instead, there was a portal.

I screamed.

There was no answer, just the portal's surface, rippling from the edges towards the centre. She was gone. She had given herself away so I could escape.

So I could move on.

I caressed the pitch black surface gently and then I stepped through.

 

************************

 

PS: I have added the song that inspired this piece. I might do that again in the future, if it feels relevant.

Broken pencil poetry. Dear Suzie

This will be a poem I wrote many years ago, in high school. I have recovered it while rummaging through my memories. It's a bit dark, be warned. Well, you know, metaphors...

Actually, I recall there was a second part to this. Some of my very old poems are still stuck on my old PC and laptop and I have yet to recover them...

*******

Dear Suzie,

How are you doing?
Me? I'm not so great,
mommy beat me up today.
But breakfast was good,
got a big plate of gravel
and downed it with some water.
I even asked for a second serving
and she gave me all the bowl,
so nice of her! I said thank-you
and left my teeth on my plate
to be given to the poor.

But the past weeks have been so bad!
They made me go out in the streets
and beg for love with a broken cup in hand.
Everyone kept passing by, not looking,
not turning round, not even once,
and one who did smile down at me
proved out to be a liar;
he broke my cup against the floor.

Next I went out by the corner,
auntie's fiddle in my hand
and I played till crack of day,
with a shard of the old cup beside me.
I was no longer begging,
but now trying to win their hearts
with music made by me and others alike,
with lively dancing tunes
and heart-breaking wails of the fiddle's strings.
I played and played until my ears turned deaf,
yet all I ever got from it
was a sideways scornful look
and them spitting in my cup,
old piece of an old useless cup.

I then turned to cold dark alleys
that hid inside them lonely strangers
with hollowed eyes and ragged clothes,
pale skin and alluring legs.
I went among them and they made me one of theirs,
taught me how to look for men
who took us with them and again I tried
to earn a piece of warmth from them,
but the coins they paid me were cold
so I took my broken cup and left.

I even covered my face with a cloth
and entered banks and markets
and menaced them with my broken cup
to give me their hidden loved possessions
and feelings money could still buy,
but they just laughed again
and let the men with sirens take me away,
clutching the same old cup in my shaking hand.

They took me to a dark place,
a room with walls of steel,
they gave me a name tag and told me to behave.
The ones around me simply stared,
too lost in their own sins to see my plead.
When in the end they did,
they simply forced themselves upon me
and I froze; their hearts were so cold...
I learnt from them, though, the art
of taking what I want by force,
but those I would abuse were silent,
like stones being kicked about,
they screamed, but not really quite.
I was released from prison and my evil,
I even hit one of my past aggressors
with the sharp shard in my hand,
the cup had already been marred.

You see now, dear Suzie, why I write you this...
I wonder if even you understand
what I want to tell you, my only confidante.
This morning was sunny, it was a perfect day,
I took a swig from daddy's rum
and took my eye out. You said it looked so nice
and that you liked what you saw in it.
After I finish this, I will hang myself
from the ceiling of my room.
That's why I won't be there giving you the eye
in a small green jar labelled "peas",
that will be my little dog on your threshold.
I'm not giving you the broken cup, though...
Because it's been so marred and dirtied
broken in so many places and I also fear
that you will add to the cracks
if I ever offered it to you.

Yours,
the boy with a broken cup.

Oppression

I have been writing. I have been. Only I can't publish any of it, because the present is still here and hasn't yet gone to the past. And there are things too personal to talk about with anyone. I can't.

Sometimes music hurts me. Most of the time I waste time making time get stuck between running and staying. In my mind there is a perpetual twilight, filled with shadows of the past and of the future.

Why? It's a stupid selfish question, but it keeps running through my mind. Why is this happening to me? I used to have such beautiful dreams and hopes for my future. I've tried so hard to be the perfect person, to justify my claim for happiness.

But it keeps getting postponed. And the things that come instead are painful.

I guess maybe in the end I don't deserve to be selfish. Not even a little bit.

To whom it may not concern

Look at this. This... this writer's block. This stupid idea that a blank page could ever be so scary.

Let me tell you what is really scary. Ca... yeah. Censorship. That is scary. Not as scary as the other thing, but my personal life is too personal for this public place, so we'll censor it. Just a bit.

Speaking of censorship, I've noticed something today. In fact, it's been staring me right in the face, but it's finally hit me. Like a wet trout that I've been slapped with over the face. Hmm.

I was posting something or other on a site or other. It's really irrelevant what or where. But on the site there my account is probably throwaway. So I just posted a couple of ramblings. Raw, biting and refreshingly inspired. Do you know why? Because I seriously didn't care who would read them and what they would think.

Gosh.

Isn't that a weird feeling? To create for myself, rather than for my audience?

Actually, not so much. I've been doing that on my Youtube channel, where I've been making videos as a hobby, just for myself. There are occasional people who watch my stuff. Some even like it. I do have to say it is amusing. Especially when I can see my stats and that nobody has ever watched more than 2 minutes of a nearly 2 hour long video. But they sure enjoyed those 2 minutes, man.

And years ago, this was my method of writing well... nearly anything. Even if some assignment or challenge came up, I would always complete it in my own way. And it would be a pretty cool result at times. In my opinion. And that's good enough for me.

Anyway. I'm divagating, but I won't be editing this beyond spell checking. And looking up divagating, to make sure it's semantically appropriate. I need an automatic spell checker.

See? This the epitomy of not giving too many rats' asses. Of writing for myself. Sorry, my dear audience of nearly 2 people.

PS Isn't this the stream of madness I thought I'd lost? So silly of me.

Broken pencil poetry. Running

Running
8.7.23


Thump thump thump -
My feet hit the ground
As I run.

Thump thump thump -
My heart booms
In my chest.

I run and I sprint,
Stirring the dust behind me,
Gasping for air,
Feeling my lungs burning.
I'm running.

Faster and faster I go,
Leaving behind me
The world in a blur.
Where am I going?
Not even I know.
I just need to run,
To run away.

I'm melting
I'm stretching,
Just like a stick of gum,
So in a hurry am I
To get farther and farther.

The world too is running,
Running in reverse,
Going far behind me,
Out of breath too.

Am I far away enough?
Where am I?
I can't stop to look.
I just keep on going forward,
Gasping for air,
Both my feet hurting.

Just for a second
I dare to glance back.

Oh, no!
My heart sinks.

It's still there,
Following me.
It's still there,
Matching my pace,
My every move.
It's there,
I simply can't escape it.
My eternal stalker,
My most threatening nightmare...
My own shadow.

Engendered

I was reading my older stories today. It feels at times that nothing has changed. I'm definitely still the same. Perhaps a little wiser, who knows? My workmate sure thinks I am.

Some stories I wrote years ago now hit very close to home. Some even more than they did when I wrote them. My mind was usually just producing them with no apparent connection to reality. Now they seem so real...

How does the past produce the present? What is the mechanism? Heck, all my wisdom and I can't figure it out.

Maybe I'll write some more things that aren't real. Maybe they just aren't real... yet.

Bitesize fiction. Outside

I saw her today. She didn't recognise me, but I knew at once it was her. How could I ever forget her? We've spent so much time together, her presence is almost second-nature. I used to expect her to be there.
She didn't recognise me though. And if she did, there was nothing in her eyes to tell me she had. She looked through me, as if I weren't there. As if I were a stranger. I suppose I deserve that.
She used to sit by the window, looking out, lost in thought. She would lose track of time so much so, that she forgot that normal people aren't supposed to dream. Not like that anyway.
I looked at her looking out the window. She was too lost in thought to see me. I looked at her and knew exactly what she was thinking of. She was dreaming of a different world, one she wanted to fly to. A world I could never follow her into.
She shouldn't have dreamt of it. She shouldn't have wished it. And yet she did. Without ever saying a word of it. Yet her eyes spoke instead. Not to me, but to the world outside the window.
The window kept us safe. The outside was dangerous. Dreaming was dangerous. But she just didn't care.
One day, as she was staring outside as usual, she suddenly got up. She opened the window and jumped up on the ledge. I leaped after her, but she just turned at me and frowned. And in that look I could see all her anguish, all her sense of betrayal. So I had to let her go.
And she flew. She flew away to her world, outside of the window.
I still see her from time to time. Will she ever forgive me... for keeping her locked up?

Broken pencil poetry. Why

I seem to take a lot of breaks from writing. But you know, life happens and you need to be there and live it with full attention. Now I am back and I'd like to write a little bit more here. Not necessarily for others, but for myself.

Once upon a time, when I was in high school, I was getting ready for the school olympics. One of the subjects I was going for was Romanian (my mother language) literature. We were supposed to do a literary analysis of a poem and explain the writer's intent and how they conveyed that through lyrical instruments: rhythm, similes, metaphors and so on. I ended up reading a lot of poetry during those days. The more cryptic and interesting, the better.

I would also write my own poetry. Most of my high school poems are bound in my little self-published book. Anyway...

I was getting ready for the olympics and I was waiting for my teacher to come up to the classroom, but she was running late. The room being on the 3rd floor with no elevator didn't help matters any either.

So I composed a poem in my head while I was waiting for her. It was all in Romanian and it had perfect rhythm and rhyme. The funny thing is that I never write that way. I only write in English and always in free verse. But this one was different.

The poem was about a soldier and how he went to war and his fight for a good cause. It was a great poem. It was a perfect poem. And it flowed with ease, as if I were reading it, instead of making it up on the spot. I didn't write it down, because I knew that as soon as I would put pen to paper, the flow of ideas would break. So I just wrote it in my mind, where it still dwells, faded to the point of being only a memory.

Now, years later, I have been inspired once again to write about war. But a more dark look on it. A friend once asked my opinion on the current events in Ukraine. I said it was all a terrible waste of human lives. I still see it that way. So here it is, a little poem about the question that can never be properly answered.

 

Why
29th of June 2023


The mud is slippery under their boots
And the air smells of gun powder.
There are gun shots from all around,
With artillery puncturing the din
Like bolts of thunder.

Now and then, a sharp yell of pain can be heard.
Other times, the men fall instantly, quietly,
Like wheat cut by a sickle.
The wheat that used to grow on this very field
Before it turned into a bloody tableau.

What drove these men to fight?
What compelled them to kill?
What sent them to be sacrificed?
For even if they survive the war,
Inside them something will have died.

They may never stop to think
Whom it is they are killing,
What that person's name is,
Who loves them and what makes them smile.
The people they are shooting
Are now nothing more than stalks of wheat.
History will come later
To dig graves and build memorials.

History will come later
To try to explain why.
But no explanation could ever justify
This hell on earth.