tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18794809425369147152024-03-29T05:29:41.944+02:00The relativity of a corroded mindA collection of dreams and fantasiesLaviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-71132124936012648602023-10-26T00:02:00.001+03:002023-10-26T00:02:26.223+03:00Bitesize fiction. High tide<p>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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
"Vodka tonic!" a voice chimed behind me cheerfully.<br />
<br />
I turned around. A young man was beaming at me from a group of equally young, equally enthusiastic people.<br />
<br />
"Hello." I replied politely. It barely occured to me that his greeting had been unusual. This was an unusual place after all.<br />
<br />
"Are you here for a swim? May we intrude?"<br />
<br />
"Go right ahead. I don't mind company." <br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"No worries. We meant to come at this time."<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
He smiled widely once more. "That is also deliberate. You see, that is our homework."<br />
<br />
"Oh?"<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry to hear that..."<br />
<br />
"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..."<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"Of course! Our teacher appreciated people who wanted to learn. Your notes are welcome."<br />
<br />
So I put my papers on the table and we all went up the steps, out of the reach of the soaring waves.<br />
<br />
And as we watched together our homework floating off the table, we all felt united by this small moment that we shared.</p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQo6DyBD1VhCqmZpD2EXoJ7siHWlq7T6901N3klWoad-c8x6h0HeuE1jnuZQwnCydWdhlE13Z6zqmqIIRSCT070ECnTjD5k3L1oumlCSEMBdem2ROToyjMyY8A3HK5rSTppqCSM75XvS8KlFDpCuDFC_Lc-NoylbXp5l-uPVQw-Qlx8-evhKXcBgJM/s2125/20231025_235654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1176" data-original-width="2125" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQo6DyBD1VhCqmZpD2EXoJ7siHWlq7T6901N3klWoad-c8x6h0HeuE1jnuZQwnCydWdhlE13Z6zqmqIIRSCT070ECnTjD5k3L1oumlCSEMBdem2ROToyjMyY8A3HK5rSTppqCSM75XvS8KlFDpCuDFC_Lc-NoylbXp5l-uPVQw-Qlx8-evhKXcBgJM/w400-h221/20231025_235654.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This story is an embrace between the sea and a dream at the edge of waking.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /></p>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-81392950366410984272023-10-03T23:10:00.000+03:002023-10-03T23:10:31.858+03:00Broken pencil poetry. Van Gogh's ear<p style="text-align: left;">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.</p><p style="text-align: left;">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:</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;">*************</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Van Gogh's ear<br />21 nov 2016<br /><br />I think the world is far too narrow<br />As I lay another brick -<br />I think the wall is far too tall<br />But I'm the one<br />Slathering the mortar.<br /><br />I think the eyes are far too bright<br />Because they see me in my corner<br />And even if I bare my teeth<br />The world is still, still far too narrow.<br /><br />My back is itchy and I'd really like to scratch<br />And the cards are still not good<br />For helping me out with my bluff...<br /><br />I feel like Van Gogh's ear,<br />Cut off and given away,<br />But I can still hear, mind you,<br />I can still hear it!<br />The echo is still there<br />And I can hear it over and over,<br />Lost in the nooks and crannies<br />Of this discarded old ear...</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*************</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">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.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-77653559831918775242023-09-06T00:03:00.001+03:002023-09-06T00:03:16.641+03:00A "why" on parenthood<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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:</p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>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.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The wishes of the spouse. Sometimes, the spouse wants a child and the person in question feels compelled to make that wish come true.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>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.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>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.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>To have someone love them and also take care of them when they are ill and/or old.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>As a toy or an excuse to go through childhood again with their child.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>To have someone to own and control completely, at least for a while.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>To have someone to love and care for, at least for a while.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>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.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Because of no or bad contraception. It's not a motivation, but it is a cause of pregnancy.</li></ul><p>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.</p><p>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.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-48191322608030432492023-09-04T19:07:00.000+03:002023-09-04T19:07:05.212+03:00Artificial intelligence<p>I have often jokingly said that my mind is smarter than I am. That most of my intelligence is artificial.</p><p><br />Let me explain my claim to artificial intelligence.</p><p><br />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.</p><p><br />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.</p><p><br />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.</p><p><br />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. </p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-58752962838491320532023-09-01T21:38:00.000+03:002023-09-01T21:38:38.513+03:00Broken pencil poetry. A piece of madness<p>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.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*****</p><p><br /></p><p>A piece of madness<br />01.09.2023<br /><br /><br />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.<br />What am I looking at? What is that blackness painted over the far corner?<br />What is this silence, grated like cheese by the sound of the old fridge?<br />I blink.<br />It's dark under the staircase, the tendrils of darkness stretching like a spiderweb.<br />It's dark over the staircase, where I once stopped a... There is a dark memory looming over the staircase.<br />The darkness suddenly breaks like a murky mirror. Where is it? Who made that sound? Who broke the illusion?<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />I need to sleep. I need to sleep, so I can stop dreaming like this.<br /></p>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-59964806154717109882023-08-19T23:06:00.006+03:002023-08-19T23:06:50.943+03:00Broken pencil poetry. The wall<div style="text-align: justify;">The wall<br />19.08.2023<br /><br /><br />He was laying<br />Brick upon brick,<br />In smooth rows,<br />One on top of the other.<br />"What are you building?"<br />I asked him, intrigued.<br />"You'll see," he winked at me.<br />So I went away.<br /><br />When I returned,<br />The bricks had formed<br />A wall.<br />Tall, wide,<br />And without doors or windows.<br />And on top,<br />There he was, still putting<br />Brick upon brick,<br />The sun shining behind him.<br />"Is it a wall?"<br />"Mm-hm."<br />"But why?"<br />But he gave no response,<br />Just winked again,<br />Playfully.<br />So I went away.<br /><br />The next time,<br />The wall was as wide as the horizon<br />And as tall as the sun at noon,<br />But he was nowhere to be seen.<br />I knocked on a brick.<br />"Yeees?" came the answer.<br />"Whom are you keeping out?"<br />He laughed, then said<br />"Perhaps you might ask instead,<br />Whom am I keeping inside?"<br />He laughed again.<br />I couldn't see it,<br />But I'm fairly sure<br />He just winked at me again.</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-74366935866217922922023-08-11T22:31:00.001+03:002023-08-11T22:31:26.500+03:00Bitesize fiction. The girl in black<p> </p><iframe allow="autoplay" frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/1586555819&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true" width="100%"></iframe><div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Interstate, Lucida Grande, Lucida Sans Unicode, Lucida Sans, Garuda, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 100; line-break: anywhere; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap; word-break: normal;"><a href="https://soundcloud.com/evxlutionrace" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="evxlutionrace">evxlutionrace</a> · <a href="https://soundcloud.com/evxlutionrace/the-girl-in-black" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="the girl in black">the girl in black</a></div><p> </p><p>"Come back for me!" I heard her call as I was running away.</p><p>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! </p><p>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.</p><p>A quick, sharp jab and I was knocked off my feet and onto the ground. What?</p><p>"I said, come back for me!"</p><p>Her voice was shrill and inhuman. It couldn't be... Had she already been corrupted?</p><p>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...</p><p>"Why did you run? Why did you leave me? Don't you know I need you?" she screamed like a banshee.</p><p>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.<br /></p><p>"Don't even think it! You belong here. With me!"</p><p>I breathed slowly and looked up at her. Into her eyes. The girl in black. With black, abyss eyes.</p><p>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.</p><p>"Come here," I whispered to her softly.</p><p>She frowned.</p><p>"Come here and talk to me," I insisted. "Come into my arms."</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she whispered. "The thought of losing you made me lose my mind... I'm so sorry."</p><p>"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.</p><p>She looked up at me.</p><p>"Thank you," she said simply. Then she looked around. "Oh... but the portal. It's gone."</p><p>"Yeah..."</p><p>She turned towards me again. "Look into my eyes."</p><p>I did. Her black eyes, dark as midnight on a cloudy sky. Their darkness seemed to glow and grow, expanding out of their rims.</p><p>"What is this?"</p><p>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.</p><p>I screamed.</p><p>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.</p><p>So I could move on.</p><p>I caressed the pitch black surface gently and then I stepped through.</p><p> <br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">************************</p><p> </p><p>PS: I have added the song that inspired this piece. I might do that again in the future, if it feels relevant.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-70175369031202222492023-08-06T22:10:00.000+03:002023-08-06T22:10:03.748+03:00Broken pencil poetry. Dear Suzie<p>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...<br /></p><p>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...<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">*******<br /></p><p>Dear Suzie,<br /><br />How are you doing?<br />Me? I'm not so great,<br />mommy beat me up today.<br />But breakfast was good,<br />got a big plate of gravel<br />and downed it with some water.<br />I even asked for a second serving<br />and she gave me all the bowl,<br />so nice of her! I said thank-you<br />and left my teeth on my plate<br />to be given to the poor.<br /><br />But the past weeks have been so bad!<br />They made me go out in the streets<br />and beg for love with a broken cup in hand.<br />Everyone kept passing by, not looking,<br />not turning round, not even once,<br />and one who did smile down at me<br />proved out to be a liar;<br />he broke my cup against the floor.<br /><br />Next I went out by the corner,<br />auntie's fiddle in my hand<br />and I played till crack of day,<br />with a shard of the old cup beside me.<br />I was no longer begging,<br />but now trying to win their hearts<br />with music made by me and others alike,<br />with lively dancing tunes<br />and heart-breaking wails of the fiddle's strings.<br />I played and played until my ears turned deaf,<br />yet all I ever got from it<br />was a sideways scornful look<br />and them spitting in my cup,<br />old piece of an old useless cup.<br /><br />I then turned to cold dark alleys<br />that hid inside them lonely strangers<br />with hollowed eyes and ragged clothes,<br />pale skin and alluring legs.<br />I went among them and they made me one of theirs,<br />taught me how to look for men<br />who took us with them and again I tried<br />to earn a piece of warmth from them,<br />but the coins they paid me were cold<br />so I took my broken cup and left.<br /><br />I even covered my face with a cloth<br />and entered banks and markets<br />and menaced them with my broken cup<br />to give me their hidden loved possessions<br />and feelings money could still buy,<br />but they just laughed again<br />and let the men with sirens take me away,<br />clutching the same old cup in my shaking hand.<br /><br />They took me to a dark place,<br />a room with walls of steel,<br />they gave me a name tag and told me to behave.<br />The ones around me simply stared,<br />too lost in their own sins to see my plead.<br />When in the end they did,<br />they simply forced themselves upon me<br />and I froze; their hearts were so cold...<br />I learnt from them, though, the art<br />of taking what I want by force,<br />but those I would abuse were silent,<br />like stones being kicked about,<br />they screamed, but not really quite.<br />I was released from prison and my evil,<br />I even hit one of my past aggressors<br />with the sharp shard in my hand,<br />the cup had already been marred.<br /><br />You see now, dear Suzie, why I write you this...<br />I wonder if even you understand<br />what I want to tell you, my only confidante.<br />This morning was sunny, it was a perfect day,<br />I took a swig from daddy's rum<br />and took my eye out. You said it looked so nice<br />and that you liked what you saw in it.<br />After I finish this, I will hang myself<br />from the ceiling of my room.<br />That's why I won't be there giving you the eye<br />in a small green jar labelled "peas",<br />that will be my little dog on your threshold.<br />I'm not giving you the broken cup, though...<br />Because it's been so marred and dirtied<br />broken in so many places and I also fear<br />that you will add to the cracks<br />if I ever offered it to you.<br /><br />Yours,<br />the boy with a broken cup.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-1362920053822826762023-08-02T01:35:00.000+03:002023-08-02T01:35:07.015+03:00Oppression<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>But it keeps getting postponed. And the things that come instead are painful.</p><p>I guess maybe in the end I don't deserve to be selfish. Not even a little bit.<br /></p>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-24763131733014638552023-07-23T01:00:00.002+03:002023-07-23T01:00:51.147+03:00To whom it may not concern<p>Look at this. This... this writer's block. This stupid idea that a blank page could ever be so scary.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Gosh.</p><p>Isn't that a weird feeling? To create for myself, rather than for my audience?</p><p>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.</p><p>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. <br /></p><p>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.</p><p>See? This the epitomy of not giving too many rats' asses. Of writing for myself. Sorry, my dear audience of nearly 2 people.<br /></p><p>PS Isn't this the stream of madness I thought I'd lost? So silly of me.</p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-45476976734601692982023-07-08T23:45:00.000+03:002023-07-08T23:45:03.167+03:00Broken pencil poetry. Running<div style="text-align: justify;">Running<br />
8.7.23<br />
<br />
<br />
Thump thump thump -<br />
My feet hit the ground<br />
As I run.<br />
<br />
Thump thump thump -<br />
My heart booms<br />
In my chest.<br />
<br />
I run and I sprint,<br />
Stirring the dust behind me,<br />
Gasping for air,<br />
Feeling my lungs burning.<br />
I'm running.<br />
<br />
Faster and faster I go,<br />
Leaving behind me<br />
The world in a blur.<br />
Where am I going?<br />
Not even I know.<br />
I just need to run,<br />
To run away.<br />
<br />
I'm melting<br />
I'm stretching,<br />
Just like a stick of gum,<br />
So in a hurry am I<br />
To get farther and farther.<br />
<br />
The world too is running,<br />
Running in reverse,<br />
Going far behind me,<br />
Out of breath too.<br />
<br />
Am I far away enough?<br />
Where am I?<br />
I can't stop to look.<br />
I just keep on going forward,<br />
Gasping for air,<br />
Both my feet hurting.<br />
<br />
Just for a second<br />
I dare to glance back.<br />
<br />
Oh, no!<br />
My heart sinks.<br />
<br />
It's still there,<br />
Following me.<br />
It's still there,<br />
Matching my pace,<br />
My every move.<br />
It's there,<br />
I simply can't escape it.<br />
My eternal stalker,<br />
My most threatening nightmare...<br />
My own shadow.
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-87671848466906071112023-07-05T20:21:00.002+03:002023-07-05T20:22:31.432+03:00Engendered<p>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.</p><p>
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...</p><p>
How does the past produce the present? What is the mechanism? Heck, all my wisdom and I can't figure it out.</p><p>
Maybe I'll write some more things that aren't real. Maybe they just aren't real... yet.</p>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-78417708505594251522023-07-03T20:04:00.001+03:002023-07-03T20:04:21.271+03:00Bitesize fiction. OutsideI 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
The window kept us safe. The outside was dangerous. Dreaming was dangerous. But she just didn't care.<br />
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.<br />
And she flew. She flew away to her world, outside of the window.<br />
I still see her from time to time. Will she ever forgive me... for keeping her locked up?Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-22565544329863742322023-07-01T16:06:00.000+03:002023-07-01T16:06:08.865+03:00Broken pencil poetry. Why<p>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.<br /></p><p>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.</p><p>I would also write my own poetry. Most of my high school poems are bound in my little self-published book. Anyway...</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p> </p><p>Why<br />
29th of June 2023<br />
<br />
<br />
The mud is slippery under their boots<br />
And the air smells of gun powder.<br />
There are gun shots from all around,<br />
With artillery puncturing the din<br />
Like bolts of thunder.<br />
<br />
Now and then, a sharp yell of pain can be heard.<br />
Other times, the men fall instantly, quietly,<br />
Like wheat cut by a sickle.<br />
The wheat that used to grow on this very field<br />
Before it turned into a bloody tableau.<br />
<br />
What drove these men to fight?<br />
What compelled them to kill?<br />
What sent them to be sacrificed?<br />
For even if they survive the war,<br />
Inside them something will have died.<br />
<br />
They may never stop to think<br />
Whom it is they are killing,<br />
What that person's name is,<br />
Who loves them and what makes them smile.<br />
The people they are shooting<br />
Are now nothing more than stalks of wheat.<br />
History will come later<br />
To dig graves and build memorials.<br />
<br />
History will come later<br />
To try to explain why.<br />
But no explanation could ever justify<br />
This hell on earth.</p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-27334974552810394222022-12-26T19:52:00.003+02:002022-12-26T19:52:41.110+02:00We're all mad here!I entered the small office and, even though I tried to keep my gaze steady on the doctor's face, I couldn't help but glance around the room. Was this really a psychiatrist's office? <p>The wall right in front of me was covered to the top in shelves and on the shelves sat dolls. Dozens of dolls, each probably collector's items, but dolls nonetheless. I was less concerned with their quality than I was with their very presence there.The dolls sat quietly and motionlessly, their eyes affixed frontward, as if staring at anyone coming through the doorway. Some people are afraid of clowns. Some people might find dolls particularly creepy. And let's not forget, this was the office of a doctor in a mental care hospital.</p><p>Sitting at the desk right in front of the door was another doll. This one was flesh and blood, objectively a really beautiful young lady. Her attitude though was cold and curt, with a hint of arrogance. Quite a doll indeed.</p><p>And the apparent owner of all these dolls was a stocky middle-aged woman, looking quite bohemian herself. She was soft spoken and well mannered, but the air about her was off. As if she was playing a role in a strange little play.</p><p>While we were talking, she had a lit scented candle on her desk, which she would pick up, move around, then occasionally dip her fingers inside. She didn't seem to mind the flame. She questioned me with the curiosity of an aquaintence listening to slightly scandalous gossip. I was not her patient, but she treated me as if I'd been.</p><p>I studied her in turn, just as intently as she was studying me. She knew I'd seen the dolls and the assistant. She knew I was looking at her twirling her fingers over the lit flame.</p><p>I wondered if she was aware of my questioning in my mind her sanity and her fitness as a psychologist. I wonder what her assistant thought. I could only imagine what her patients must have thought.</p><p>While I was going out the door, a little saying kept running through my mind... The blind leading the blind.<br /></p>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-51368041353060778382022-12-01T19:43:00.005+02:002022-12-01T19:43:41.085+02:00Happy birthday, Romania!<p>Today is the 1st of December, Romania's national day, the day when in 1918 several territories, among which Transilvania, were united with the rest of Romania. We've lost a few bits here and there along the way, but nonetheless, it's still a great little country. Happy birthday, Romania!</p><p>There were several military parades and festivities in honour of this day. I watxhed the main parade on TV, since I wanted to see things up close and also the commentary was interesting. There was supposed to be an air show too, but the weather was too bad for low flights. Next time I'd like to be there in person too.</p><p>I have a lot of respect for our army and the similar and complementary services. I admire their discipline and dedication to our country and our allies. So I watched the parade with a lot of interest.</p><p>Later in the day, I decided to paint on my last piece of brown cardboard a painting inspired by today. I thus took a still image of the parade video as reference and began the arduous sketch. Then I painted it in watercolour. The same set like the one I used to have as a child.</p><p>Mom thought it was good, but asked me why I hadn't chosen a "nicer" subject, such as our own replica of the Arc de triomphe, which was the site of the parade. I had instead chosen to paint a Romanian tank, a TR-85 M1 Bizon. With the Romanian flag on it and a member of the military sitting in the turret saluting. My little homage to the people who helped make the union a reality.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFZ_7VnECUZ-0lj8j3xtzpbJbaNPW-bhhJX5boh1bN-X5djtjLfjJ2uo619qjMTgraCwTwOiHxWC16ohhtm9_jMmPE9WJwBnaLteW1mq8OrLEUNYAjU7_x_nSQiBnaMVz16qxoc3it11qk6uHWsBOrHkGQxi2VhkdJ0LkgnEUXlGJ7g9BEo_vgQ/s2005/20221201_181941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1980" data-original-width="2005" height="632" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFZ_7VnECUZ-0lj8j3xtzpbJbaNPW-bhhJX5boh1bN-X5djtjLfjJ2uo619qjMTgraCwTwOiHxWC16ohhtm9_jMmPE9WJwBnaLteW1mq8OrLEUNYAjU7_x_nSQiBnaMVz16qxoc3it11qk6uHWsBOrHkGQxi2VhkdJ0LkgnEUXlGJ7g9BEo_vgQ/w640-h632/20221201_181941.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-88942193016691485012022-11-26T19:07:00.003+02:002022-11-26T19:07:29.057+02:00Watercolour on brown cardboard. How bad could it be?<p>Once more, I find myself coming back here after a pretty long break. It is true that I have posted a couple of poems, but not much else. Life has been hectic. Life has been cruel. And I was the one who caused it all.</p><p>But I am not here to talk about that, even if I keep saying my memoirs would definitely go under fiction if I ever wanted to write them down and publish them. But since so much of my life is quite personal and I enjoy my privacy, I will probably not write my memoirs after all. It might be for the better.</p><p>No, what I am here to write about is another of my artistic endeavours, a relatively new hobby I picked up in the recent year. Watercolour painting. I guess it got triggered by my mom starting to paint herself, but with acrylic paints.</p><p>I had bought a tiny box of watercolours that is the same as I used to have as a child. Probably cheap, low grade paints, but I don't care. I'm only doing this for fun, just playing with it.</p><p>I started watching tutorials on Youtube, like I often do when I want to learn a new skill. There are many good resources out there. After a lot of such tutorials, I finally decided to give it a try. I had attempted some paintings before, but I wasn't happy with them.</p><p>So, I thought I'd make a few small practise pieces. I didn't have proper watercolour paper, so I cut up a small cardboard box and painted on the pieces. Brown cardboard, roughly 10*10cm. Was it a good idea? Probably not for watercolour.</p><p>My first attempt was a mutant flower in a blurry field under an overcast sky. I thought it was a bit childish, but my mom liked it and put it in her kitchen on a shelf.</p><p>This week, I was at her place and she was doing her painting and I thought I'd practise too, on a new piece of cardboard. I chose a nice landscape, made the sketch and painted it, all in a couple of hours. I had to use white for the sun, since the white of the paper I was supposed to have used was in fact brown cardboard. I also painted over my sketch and got distracted, so I made a couple of perspective errors. The sun rays are not coming from the sun and the bridge's reflection is a bit too low.</p><p>But anyway, mom liked this one too. And I must say I'm also proud of it. I guess I'll remake it on bigger proper paper and next time I'll actually avoid the errors I made on this one.</p><p>Let me know what you think as well. I don't mind criticism either, I do prefer honesty to flattery.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPfJfemtoAL8olld9RA0ZovvSTx6pky_JlaHokwAkwA47a9T4Obnu51_9U51w0cj2DOggdo_MQoc3rKTn4iFJvQS-x5CRx8Vjubn9eGnMWfEPH91A3NZLnQQkQ4ITUsutqqy66a1YkpxZkFJ56FablPuwVyM4gLtLMUMcj3uz2LfAk_C8U6MoxQ/s2638/20221122_233256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2096" data-original-width="2638" height="509" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPfJfemtoAL8olld9RA0ZovvSTx6pky_JlaHokwAkwA47a9T4Obnu51_9U51w0cj2DOggdo_MQoc3rKTn4iFJvQS-x5CRx8Vjubn9eGnMWfEPH91A3NZLnQQkQ4ITUsutqqy66a1YkpxZkFJ56FablPuwVyM4gLtLMUMcj3uz2LfAk_C8U6MoxQ/w640-h509/20221122_233256.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-89612488513981743442022-10-23T19:46:00.003+03:002022-11-20T00:19:17.378+02:00Broken pencil poetry. Broken?<div style="text-align: justify;"><p>Broken?<br />
18th of July 2022<br />
<br />
<br />
Its back is bent,<br />
Its shoulders are hunched<br />
And its head is bowed down -<br />
Is it tired, defeated,<br />
... Broken?<br />
Sitting at the table,<br />
It is maybe a little bit of all.<br />
But more than that,<br />
It is hunched over in concentration,<br />
Its fingers careful and deft,<br />
Working without hesitation.<br />
<br />
The last rays of the setting sun<br />
Glimmer off its metallic skin,<br />
Shine into its optic sensor eyes<br />
And warm its cold brow.<br />
Yet it sees and feels none of it,<br />
Applying itself to its task,<br />
Tinkering away<br />
At the small device in its hands.<br />
<br />
If you saw it, perhaps you'd understand.<br />
The robot with the metal flesh<br />
And artificial brain<br />
Is sitting hunched over the workbench,<br />
An empty cavity gaping in its chest -<br />
It's working tirelessly<br />
At fixing its own heart.</p>
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-44177720108254486242022-10-23T19:36:00.001+03:002022-10-23T19:36:31.709+03:00Broken pencil poetry. Agoraphobia<div style="text-align: justify;"><p>Agoraphobia<br />5.5.22<br /></p><p><br />Like from dry ice<br />Your soul suffuses from your body<br />And leaves its carcass behind.<br />Where to?<br />Now that you're free,<br />What will you do?<br />Kick that ankle chain away,<br />Don't even think<br />To put it back on!<br /><br />Try as you might,<br />Your sky is still blue,<br />Your eyes are still hollow<br />And your mouth is still shut.<br /><br />Those giant arms holding your body<br />Have released you.<br />Swim, little puppy!<br />Else you will drown<br />In this empty endless blue sky.</p>
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-89599209190046235232022-02-21T21:49:00.000+02:002022-02-21T21:49:27.672+02:00Bitesize fiction. A nightmare - part 2<div style="text-align: justify;"><p>Who are you? Are you really here to save me? I know I can't say this out loud, but I am yelling it in my head. <br /></p><p>You take me by the hand and help me to my feet. Your face is obscured, but your eyes have an earnest look in them.</p><p>You motion me to stay low and lead me running down a paved street, flanked by austere concrete buildings. My heart is thumping. We are out in the open, what if someone shoots us?</p><p>Soon enough though, we duck inside a building and you close the heavy metal door behind us. We stop for a beat to catch our breath.</p><p>I raise my eyebrows questioningly. I still don't dare say anything.</p><p>"It is ok," you whisper. "This is a safe place. We won't be shot in here. This place is empty, abandoned by the family that once lived here. They have long run away over the border."</p><p>"Where are we? Why are we in the middle of the fight? Who are you? What happened to the people who kidnapped me? Wha-" You motion me to stop. I cease my torrent of questions.</p><p>"Don't talk please, just listen. We don't have that much time." Your eyes are pleading, so I keep silent.</p><p>"Thank you. I need to tell you, I need to show you... come with me!"</p><p>You take my hand again and we climb up a flight of stairs and go up to a window. You keep me out of sight and we peer together from behind the dusty curtains.</p><p>You whisper on "Look, those over there are the rebel fighters, who have risen against the dictatorship in this country. Those over there are the army... Some of them actually feel doubt in their hearts about the cause of the regime, but they buried it deep and replaced it with blind obedience. It is easier not to think." You frown. "So many people die when enough people are mindlessly following orders... Just following orders."</p><p>You grunt for a second and then turn your gaze back to the rebels.<br /></p><p>"There is their leader. He used to be in the army too, until he deserted and formed this opposition. His military knowledge has helped the rebels get this far and survive for this long. His ideals may be fair, but most of his life has been a fight. Now violence is his only reality. Is he maybe no better than those mindless soldiers?"</p><p>You pause and look at me. Your eyes are sad, but I don't dare interrupt.</p><p>You turn back towards the window. The dust and rubble rises in clouds with each shell exploding. When it settles, it all looks slightly different. Just like a slideshow...<br /></p><p>"Most of the rebels are just normal people, farmers, clerks, people just making a living. Most have families, children. They sent them away to safety and they stayed behind. To fight for their freedom from oppression. The hope to see their loved ones is what keeps them going day by day... Pay close attention now! This is the final battle... The army will destroy the rebel base and their armory and try to hunt down the freedom fighters."</p><p>I get a knot in my throat. Why tell me about these people, who are just going to fail? To fail and to die?! You turn to me and your eyes smile sadly.</p><p>"War is no joke," you say. "People forget how to be human, they forget the others are human too. If they remembered, they would not fight... Innocent lives would not be severed." You frown in silence for a moment. "But there is a silver lining. The rebels have called for outside assistance from a sympathising country. Their cause will win, after all. The war will go out, just as a forest fire eventually goes out. Leaving behind destruction and death."</p><p>I should be relieved, right? But why is there still a sense of despair in me?</p><p>"You need to understand. Even if people try to keep living their lives in a battle zone, when the fighting happens, time stands still. No progress is made, evcept towards the fight. Resources and lives are lost. The soldiers fighting in the war go in it innocent, like children. Then they are forced to grow up. Yet their own normality is set aside, stuck in the paused time bubble. And then, at the end, when it is all over, it needs to struggle to catch up. Some never become human again. Some, although losing their limbs, regain their sanity."</p><p>I suddenly feel sick and close my eyes, trying to drown out the images still burned on my rhetina. You squeeze my hand and I open my eyes. You say nothing more, just point outside.</p><p>Time has skipped forward, it seems. The fighting has subsided, there are no more explosions, no more gunshots. It is eerily quiet. The rebel leader is limping badly, supported by a comrade. One of his legs is severed, from the looks of it by an explosion. He is going forward to meet his allies, thanks to whom he has won the fight.</p><p>"I know I said this man's only reality has been only fighting, but I think there is hope that he has regained his humanity."</p><p>I look at his face. He is smiling a sunny smile, like a child.</p><p>"There will be time to mourn the dead and rebuild their lives later. But right now, they can be happy. They are free!"</p><p>And with those last words, your eyes smile and you let go of my hand, which has been gripping yours for dear life until now. Your hand, your smile, the window, the curtains, it all collapses together into a flurry of pages, as the book I have been reading falls to the floor.</p><p>But I can't pick it back up. Not yet. It just... still hurts.<br /></p><p>
</p></div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-66581481812474172952022-02-21T21:10:00.003+02:002022-02-21T21:49:18.791+02:00Bitesize fiction. A nightmare - part 1<p>I had a terrible dream. I was in a war zone, a terrible, horrible war. And some people then came and pointed guns at me, pointing towards a car. I don't remember what I said, but one of them hit me over the head and I blacked out. Just a dream though, nothing more. A terrible nightmare. Time to wake up and...</p><p><i>Boom!</i></p><p>Was it my head exploding in pain? Or was that... a real bomb? Am I still dreaming?<br /></p><p>I try to open my eyes, but a cloth is tightly tied over them. My head is reeling with a dull pain and I can taste blood in my mouth.</p><p><i>Boom! Bang! Bang-bang!</i></p><p>I can feel those resounding in my brain. More explosions? Gunfire? I need to get out of here!</p><p>I try to get up, but I can't. I can't even feel my arms, but I am sure my legs are tied up. Then reality comes smashing back and sheer panic overwhelms me.</p><p>"Help! Someone help! Don't hurt me!" My voice comes out raspy. I must have breathed in a lot of dust.</p><p>A sudden thought stops me. What if I am actually making it worse? I should shut up and listen, get my bearings, make a plan of escape.</p><p>There are definitely sounds of gunfire and bombs, followed by buildings crumbling and people screaming.</p><p>Where am I? I am lying on my side, but on something soft, maybe a sofa. I can't stretch my legs, something is blocking them. Am I in that car? There is no movement, no engine running, maybe not.</p><p>Where are those people who blackjacked me earlier? Maybe I'm in that car, but then where are they now? There is no other human sound close by.</p><p>I wriggle my head against the cushion I am sitting on, trying to loosen my blindfold. I manage to peek under it to see I am indeed in a car -</p><p>The door opens quickly and I hear a hushed voice urging me: "Don't say a word! I will get you to safety."</p><p>My hands and feet are untied and I painfully regain feeling and movement in them.</p><p>I push off my blindfold, turning to face - hopefylly - my savior.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-73001833476012579942022-01-29T21:15:00.000+02:002022-01-29T21:15:41.571+02:00Broken pencil poetry. MaladroitYou hesitate...<br />
<br />
Don't.<br />
<br />
Your arm is rusted in place<br />
And a pain shoots through your shoulder.<br />
That hand that used to be yours<br />
Is staring at you empty<br />
And helpless.<br />
It's covered in cold, slimy scales,<br />
Like a reptile's claw,<br />
Like a snake's claw.<br />
<br />
A snake's claw?<br />
Hahahaha!<br />
Your laughter echos in the dark,<br />
But you know that it is true.<br />
Just like a snake has no claws,<br />
So is your own hand... not your own.<br />
<br />
You give up<br />
And stare at it in despair,<br />
Afraid you've irretrievably lost<br />
A piece of yourself.<br />
Have you?<br />
You want to cry,<br />
You want to scream,<br />
You want to smash that foreign appendage against a wall.<br />
<br />
But no,<br />
You don't,<br />
You can't,<br />
Because your other hand,<br />
Your warm and feeling other hand,<br />
Is stopping the claw<br />
From getting hurt,<br />
Cradling it, protecting it,<br />
And you can finally breathe.<br />
<br />
Slowly, gingerly,<br />
You pick up a pencil and paper.<br />
You will now have to learn<br />
To write with your other hand.<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-25001994986577829552021-11-09T00:34:00.000+02:002021-11-09T00:34:01.830+02:00Bitesize fiction. The price of fine dining<p>Long ago, in times of magic and on realms of constant turmoil and battles, deep in the heart of the jagged Mount Silver, there lived a clan of dwarves. They were, as passed down from their forefathers, tireless miners and skilled smiths. The weapons and armor they crafted were greatly appreciated and their little community thrived.</p><p>The dwarves of Mount Silver were not particularly known for their humour, since work always came first and the work was hard. Maybe these dwarves did not have the funny bone in their genes... And it was true of all... but one.</p><p>Bilkin was seemingly a dwarf like any other. He also worked hard to mine the ores from the mountain and was not a bad blacksmith. But he had one flaw - he liked to sing and joke and, even if no-one else laughed at his jokes, he would laugh at them himself.</p><p>Because the other dwarves could not stand his exhuberance, they stayed far away from him as he worked, well out of earshot. His joyous voice resounded in the empty caverns, punctuated by the "dang-dang-dang" of his pick-axe against the rock:</p><p>"IIIIIII am a dwaaaarf and I'm diiiiging a hole!"</p><p>He stopped suddenly, frowning hard, as if he'd just been given the most puzzling riddle and his life depended on solving it correctly. He grunted and shuffled his foot, leaning heavily on his pick-axe. Was Bilkin sick? But he immediately brightened up, smiled broadly and bellowed "Diggy-diggy hole!"</p><p>"Would you please stop that infernal racket?" another voice thundered, making the walls of the hall shake and little pebbles and dust trickling from the ceiling.</p><p>"Who said that?" Bilkin was alarmed. No other dwarf would be working so close to him. Could it have been a spirit?</p><p>"I did! And I warn you, Mr Dwarf, I don't take too kindly to anyone disturbing my slumber!" Bilkin heard the warning all the way to his knees, who wanted to start buckling. He willed them to be still and cleared his voice.</p><p>"I do apologise for waking you up! I will do my digging in silence from now on, so as to not rouse you again." He hid his snicker behind his sleeve and pretended to have a cough from the recently stirred dust.</p><p>"Will you now?! Then suppose I will not crush you with a stone boulder, but with a cluster of diamonds, so as to not hurt you, hmmm?!"</p><p>Bilkin had known his joke would be a mistake, but for some reason, one of his reflexes when in trouble had always been to joke. Sometimes that would get him in even bigger trouble. No surprise there!</p><p>Trying to appear fearless, he countered "Why, diamonds could never hurt me! My helmet and armor are made of mithrill, a secret precious metal that cannot be crushed or pierced by anything! A metal so rare and wonderful, that only a precious few items were forged from it and only by the most skilled dwarven masters!" He twirled once on his heel, to show off the impenetrable armor and helmet he had boasted. And of course, to peek around, looking for the owner of the thundering baritone.</p><p>"Hahahaha! You jest, Mr Dwarf! The mithrill armor you speak of would only be worn by kings! You are no king! Perhaps the court jester!" The walls of the cave quaked as the voice laughed copiously.</p><p>But Bilkin had no time to enjoy finally amusing someone else with his humour. A voice so big could only come from one creature in a cavernous mountain like this... a dragon! But why hadn't he nor his mates ever seen or heard of him before?</p><p>"Sir, I beg you not to mock me! I am truly just a humble dwarf, but I have earned this priceless armour in battle! Why, I have single-handedly slain a..."</p><p>"A what?" the voice was a bit suspicious. Just a bit.</p><p>"A mighty dragon!"</p><p>The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably over the dwarf and his unseen interlocutor. Finally, the dragon spoke:</p><p>"Any dragon could easily scoop you up with one claw, you measly rodent! He could crush you like a flea, blow you into thin air like a dandelion! You could never defeat any dragon! Mighty or not!"</p><p>The voice was haughty and confident and Bilkin had no doubts even the least mighty of dragons could do that to a small dwarf. Yet he was unswayed.</p><p>"Perhaps, perhaps! But you must not have heard of me. I have the strength of ten dwarves and the agility of ten more! Why, Sir, I could slay you as well, if only you weren't hiding - if you would pardon my saying, Sir - like a coward!"</p><p>At this, the dragon growled angrily, making pebbles and dust fall on Bilkin's helmet and back. Bilkin coughed for a good few minutes and added: "A brave and noble dragon would come out and face me properly. How do I even know you are a dragon? You could be nothing more than a flea yourself!"</p><p>The dragon was no longer coherent, instead growling and snarling who-knows-where. After he had regained his words, he spat: "I am indeed a dragon, the oldest and mightiest in the world! And I am not hiding, you measly crumb! I am simply retired to the deepest depths of this mountain, seeking nothing but peace and quiet! Which is what I had until you came close to my cosy cave and started your infernal singing! Why can't you be quiet, like the other dwarves?"</p><p>Bilkin wasted no time with his retort: "Good grief, Sir! How can you say my fellow dwarves are quiet, when all they do each day is dig with their pick-axes and hammer in their forges?!"</p><p>"Those are rhythmic, almost pleasant sounds. They lull me to sleep. It is your horrid singing that wakes me!"</p><p>Bilkin felt a little hurt that nobody in the entire Mount Silver cared for his singing. He himself thought he had a lovely voice.</p><p>"Well, if you are so far deep in the heart of the mountain, how come you hear me and I hear you?" Bilkin asked.</p><p>"I have closed off all entries to my quarters except for a few very narrow ones through which I get my air and rats."</p><p>"Rats?!"</p><p>"A true delicacy! Have you never had rats?"</p><p>"No, I don't believe I have..." Bilkin felt a little queasy thinking about such a meal. He looked around for a boulder to sit on to compose himself. It was then that his eyes fell on a narrow tunnel in the ground, leading downwards farther than his eyes could see. Could this be the air (and rats) supply shaft the dragon had spoken of? He decided to test that theory. "Say, my good dragon, do you get many rats down there?"<br /></p><p>"Oh, not many, unfortunately. Most of the time I have to make do with the small fish and creatures that live by my lake. Rats are a rare treat for me..." The dragon sighed.</p><p>Bilkin realised that, far from the stories of fire and greed, this dragon only wanted to be left alone and snack on a crunchy rat or two. Ewww, crunchy rats! But to each his own!</p><p>Bilkin spoke up: "Mr Dragon, what do you say about a deal? We have quite a few rats nesting near our pantry caves and they are eating our food as if the end of the world were near. We brought a cat, but those rats are vicious. Could you make another one of your rat vents leading to our pantries?"</p><p>"I most certainly could. My fire breath can still bore through the rock. As you know, I am a mighty dragon!"</p><p>"Indeed, you are, Sir! And I will guide you to the pantries with my -"</p><p>"Don't even think it, dwarf!" the dragon gnarled.</p><p>"- Singing!" Bilkin concluded triumphantly.</p><p>"The things I have to do for fine dining!" the dragon resigned.</p><p>And the caves resounded once more with Bilkin's merry singing: "IIIIIII am a dwaaaarf and I'm diiiiging a hole!"</p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-56950748140473713532021-10-31T00:00:00.001+03:002021-11-03T02:41:25.495+02:00Broken pencil poetry. What the hell were you thinking?!<div style="text-align: left;">I'll make this as convoluted as possible,</div><div style="text-align: left;">So you know that it's no joke.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I will make this into slam poetry</div><div style="text-align: left;">Without rhythm,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Without rhyme,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Without any reason at all.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, yes.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And without an audience either.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Some things</div><div style="text-align: left;">You must digest alone,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Scratching all the old scars by yourself,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Because you suspect</div><div style="text-align: left;">That asking the only person who has answers</div><div style="text-align: left;">Will just make them hurt.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And yes,</div><div style="text-align: left;">You do care</div><div style="text-align: left;">About the person with answers.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I was there,</div><div style="text-align: left;">An innocent witness,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Yet far too green to grasp it all.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was protected</div><div style="text-align: left;">From the black holes</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I am truly grateful for it,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Knowing now that they existed,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Though I didn't see them back then.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I only saw the pretty playful nebulas,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Which I looked at cross-eyed,</div><div style="text-align: left;">As if they were a toy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Did you ever fall in the black holes?"</div><div style="text-align: left;">I would ask the person with answers...</div><div style="text-align: left;">But I can't.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Somehow so long after the fact,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I see them.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I finally understand</div><div style="text-align: left;">The dangerous pull they had.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I don't ask the person with answers,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I scrutinise the past</div><div style="text-align: left;">Through glasses fogged up by nebulas,<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Squinting, no longer cross-eyed.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The nebulas are nebulous,</div><div style="text-align: left;">But I think the shadows are clear.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I drop-kick my prejudice (good riddance!)</div><div style="text-align: left;">And carefully extract my answer.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The answer.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The shadows only skirted the black holes</div><div style="text-align: left;">And just wadded through the murky nebulas for a while.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And though I think</div><div style="text-align: left;">That nothing good came out of it,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm glad</div><div style="text-align: left;">It wasn't worse.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">PS. "What the hell were you thinking?!"<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879480942536914715.post-86714410608975091402021-04-19T01:27:00.001+03:002021-04-19T01:27:44.995+03:00Bitesize fiction. Super!<p>Ding-dong!</p><p>"Who is it?"</p><p>"Hi, it's Roach-Man. I'm here to answer your ad..."</p><p>"Oh, sure, come in please! What did you say your name was?"</p><p>"Roach-Man. I'm a... superhero."</p><p>"Oh, man, so cool! A real superhero?"</p><p>"Yep."</p><p>"And do you have any super powers? Can you fly?"</p><p>"Um, no... Sorry, can't fly. But, you know, real roaches don't fly either."</p><p>"Ah, yes, you're right. Then can you crawl under doors or climb on walls?"</p><p>"Yes! Well, you know, if the space under the door is wide enough... and the walls are not exactly... um vertical."</p><p>"Ah, I see... Um, so how did you get to be Roach-Man? Did you get bitten by a radioactive bug?"</p><p>"Something like that. But not really radioactive. More like dazed from bug spray."</p><p>"Heh, must be why you don't have any super powers."</p><p>"I do too have super powers! I am great at keeping out of people's way. And I really like darkness. And don't get bothered by garbage much."</p><p>"Cool! Say, do you have any fancy super costume?"</p><p>"Yes, my awesome shiny leather jacket. And my wicked leather pants. But can't you see? I'm wearing them right now."</p><p>"No, you dweeb! 'Blind guy looking for room-mate. Must be ok with a little mess.' That's my ad. I'm the blind guy!"</p><p>"Ah, yes, right. Sorry, forgot that part."</p><p>"So I guess that means you don't want to be my room-mate anymore?"</p><p>"Are you kidding? I'm the perfect room-mate for you! I like the darkness and I'm ok with a messy house. I can help you out when you need it. And best of all..."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I'm a superhero!" Grin.</p><p>"Haha, welcome then, Roach-Man!" <br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Laviniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08077833136741791230noreply@blogger.com4