"People often tend to judge an issue against the person who did not cry."
Le Dernier Repas
*takes a deep breath*
*stares at the dish pushed under the steel door*
Mmhh, this is odd?
Why does the last meal look not so bad?
I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try it—
Eh- *spits the food out* still tastes like dirt~
Uh, they could at least have provided me with something appetizing seeing as this’ll be mon dernier repas
Now I wait for my final moments here on earth
Wait, what was that?
Did my shadow just move?
Nah, my mind is playing tricks on me
Whoa..um...where are the guards?
*steel door squeaks*
Is anyone there?
Eirik, I’m not going to fall for your prank again!
[A shadow with glowing crimson eyes stretches from the side of the door & reaches for the death row inmate]
Whatever you are.....
[The shadow spins around and transforms into a person like form.
Then stares into the inmate’s eyes.
It leans closer toward the inmate, & opens its jaws.]
Miryam sighed as she dropped the last box on the ground. "Okay, Ma, you're all moved in."
Esther looked at her sadly without saying anything. Miryam noticed and went over to her.
"I'm sorry, Ma. We really tried to get the house back, but there just wasn't enough. And you know my apartment is too small and you don't even like the city and--"
"It's okay, darling," Esther said softly. "It's like when your father and I helped you move into youy university all those years ago. It's a new adventure."
Esther feigned a smile, and Miryam kissed her mother's head. "I'll bring the boys to come visit you this weekend. Try to have fun, okay?"
Esther smiled, but didn't say anything. Miryam wrapped her arms tightly around her, and then left. Esther heard the door slam behind her then looked around her new unit. She had to admit, the nursing home was nice, even though she didn't want to be there. An orderly had helped Miryam hang paintings on the walls. Photos of her and Paul on their honeymoon in Barcelona and family photos of the pair and their children against generic blue backgrounds smiled at her. Esther hadn't smiled since the doctors diagnosed Paul with heart disease. He'd held on after the first heart attack, but by the third, she knew she'd have to pull the plug on her husband. She couldn't tell her children by then, so the house's refinancing was poorly done, and she ended up here in Maple Grove.
A knock on the door pulled her from the photos. She stood from her husband's recliner, the only thing she had left of him, and went to the door. A smiling blonde lady was waiting for her.
"Hello, Mrs. Kirchner. I was wondering if you'd like to come to craft night. We're knitting mittens."
Esther had never knitted before, but she knew that Miryam would be upset if she didn't at least try to muscle through. So, Esther smiled politely, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and walked down to the large lounge room with the orderly and few other old men who ogled her as she walked. The room smelled of mothballs and was filled with fould-out grey tables. Old people were scattered around the room, expertly wrapping yarn around sticks and pushing out mittens and booties. Dread filled in Esthers head. She went to a corner of the room, grabbed a few knitting needles and yarn and tried to copy an older woman across the room who was about halfway through her third pair of booties.
She had made a few knots, cussed in Arabic quite a bit, and was about ready to throw the needles at the orderly who kept telling her she was doing a good job when she heard a voice next to her.
"There aren't too many Latin people here. Are you new?"
She turned to see a woman looking at her. The woman did not seem to belong in the nursing home. She was old, but not as ancient as most of the people there, and greying black hair that was in two long braids that framed her face. The woman had almond skin and a nice smile with a gold tooth. She was holding needles and thread, and was looking at Esther with these intense black eyes that made Esther feel like an ice cream cone in July. She hadn't felt this self-conscious since middle school when her friend had remarked how her legs looked in the gym shorts.
"Uh, no. I--uh--Palestine."
"Palestine. That's the place with the war, right?"
"Aren't there a lot of places like that?"
"Good call. I'm from Venezuela, and there's a war there too. No one notices though. It seems like there's either outright wars with bombs or secret wars with drugs and people disappearing from their homes."
"Mhm." Esther tried to unknot the yarn from her needles without seeming too awkward.
The woman giggled. "You are struggling."
Esther nodded, though she didn't stop trying to untangle it.
"Here." Esther felt the woman's hand touch her own and her heart felt as though it lagged for a second.
The woman took the needles from her hands and quickly detangled them. Esther watched in amazement.
"What?" the woman said asshe began to start her own pair of mittens.
"You're good at that."
"Oh yeah, I've been here awhile. Me and Agnes used to have a contest to see who could make more mittens for the preemies at the hospital but, she died so I have all this knitting ability for nothing."
"How do you even do this? Why do they think everyone over sixty likes to knit?"
"They don't know what we want. They just know that if we sit in our room until we die, they get sued, so they make us do anything in their power for us to be happy."
"Well do we do anything else? Do we swap war stories on Tuesdays and talk about when we didn't have houses on Wednesdays?"
The woman laughed and patted Esther's arm, sending warmth radiating around her rib cage.
"You are too funny. Though hearing the homosexual Vietnam stories is pretty entertaining. No, we have board games though. That's on Thursday nights. And sometimes they have manicures on Sunday. The Asian ladies hate it."
"I feel like high school all over again," Esther joked. "Only my mom isn't here to yell at me and tell me to stay away from boys."
"My mom never had to tell me that. Hell, she was always praying for a son-in-law."
"Yeah. Luckily, I've always been a disappointment so she wasn't too broken up."
"That's sad. My mom wasn't happy about me bringing home a black man."
"She would've probably had a heart attack if you moved in with a female friend and lived with her for thirty years and raised two children with her."
"Yeah, they don't do that in Palestine."
"They don't in Venezuela either, but that's why we came to New York, right? She hated when I told her that."
"So, what happened to your friend?"
"Suicide. She got Alzheimer's and didn't want to fight it. Not even for me."
"Yeah. What happened to your black man?"
"Yeah, me too."
"Well, I'll be here to keep you company. I pissed off my son's wife one too many times and my daughter is somehow uncomfortable around my gayness, believe it or not, so the only way I'll get out of here is in a wooden box or an urn."
"Oddly comforting. Thanks, um..."
"Nice to meet you, Esther. Would you like me to get those knots out again?"
The little details
I lost my Mother on August 26, 2020.
And I remember her telling me about two weeks before she passed that she didn’t want to die alone, and she made me promise that when it was her time to go I would be right there. And I just looked at her and laughed and said ” you have a lot of time before that happens.” but I still promised.
But what I and my little sister didn’t know was that she was sick( not with COVID) she was only 47.
It wasn’t her death that broke me.
It was because I didn’t get to say goodbye. it was because I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t there to hold her hand.
I wasn’t there to comfort her.
I wasn’t there and I broke my promise.
There Is a Place
Not crowded, nearly desolate,
there is a place where big dog’s roam,
pick-up trucks sit around,
where young and old, stop and go,
and good ole’ boys chew the fat.
Old houses sit in silence,
sagging from age and emptiness.
Railroad tracks busted and rusted,
And an old barn turned movie theater,
long since taken down,
nothing more than a shallow memory,
where overgrown weeds and bush grass,
have taken root for time eternal.
But the store is still there.
In another lifetime,
Gas pumps stood tall at five cents a gallon.
soda pop was a nickel,
and Grandma lit up the place,
as Granddaddy made sure everyone got a fair shake.
The building structure in white,
was the happening place.
Whatever you needed,
But one thing about this place
money could never buy;
the sense of simply being.
Today, the building,
housed in flaked paint, rotted boards,
no gas pumps,
and business, sparse;
stands in the middle of the past.
Yet, like all years past,
it holds a place in unknown history.
where pick-up trucks stop,
good ole’ boys chew the fat,
and you feel you still belong.
(The piece is based on the photo above
though closed, the store still stands)
Answers #12, 13, 14, 15, andddd 16
What is the scariest dream (sorry, nightmare) you ever had? Which is the best time for inspiration to hit you? Are you a pop person or a rock person or none? Sunset or sunrise? Tea or coffee? Go!
Thank you @Wordlove lol
Ok here goes.
1. Scariest nightmare?
I'm not really sure. I don't usually remember my dreams longer than an hour or two after waking up. I often wake up afraid, sweating, or very anxious in the middle of the night and sometimes in the morning.
During the majority of my dreams, I am aware that I am dreaming and am more confused rather than afraid, even during intense situations. I think the scariest thing for me is not being in control of my brain.
Most of the scariest things that I do remember have actually happened as I am trying to fall asleep. I have a very active imagination, especially when I am tired.
Lastly, I did have a bit of PTSD after getting into a wreck in my car, but again I don't really remember the dreams I had, just how they affected me when I was riding in the car or while I was driving.
2. Which is the best time for inspiration to hit you?
The best time is just whenever it hits me I guess. Mostly it does happen at night, but I am too lazy to write down what I create in my head. During the day, if I think of something I either write it down or try and memorize it for later. The "best" time would probably be when I am trying to write. That's when I love to be inspired, but honest when does that ever happen?
3. Are you a pop person or a rock person or none?
Definitely not none, I absolutely love music all day every day. I think alt and indie rock are my favorite genres, but I do listen to a lot of pop as well. Soooo, yes? I wrote a post about this I think, I'll find the link for you.
4. Sunset or sunrise?
Oh my goodness, I don't know if I could ever really choose one. I love to watch both, paint both, metaphorically overuse both, so again just yes.
Ok but if I really have to pick I think UGH STILL INDECISIVE I THOUGHT I HAD THIS
Sunset because colors are more saturated....
5. Tea or coffee?
Addicted to coffee, always craving tea
those needs of air [ within the rising moon
embrace my soul
so I can find my remedy
peace within the night
because nothing soothes these fractured beats better
than your softly tangled up breaths
honey over my sharp glass
and still not mended parts
( a kindness that fills my lungs with joy )
air to my tired thoughts
cords so desperate to feel your tune
those callus fingertips . on the edge of my heart
don’t ever hesitate to play
these hollow bones ( I know you feel me there, always )
as the spaces between my ribs . are only meant for you
I have a yearning, you see
( gently )
to be simply held in those hands
a place where I have already . nestled my heart so well
naturally, without a doubt
I don’t have many wishes to touch, my blazing sun
( of golden petals . and broken stars )
not a lot of pleads to ask for
just a craving
of the softest kind
somewhere between your fragile love
a sweet tenderness
that comes only
from the universe of us
( forever lost in your constellations )
know this forever
from the deepest corners of my soul
my remedy... is you
Secrets held inside
He was burying his second body that day when his phone vibrated.
“Ruben, we found her, the one who saw you with Jake. My client has locked her in your room,” said the same old voice and the line went dead.
Ruben smiled to himself and dusted off his ragged pants. He roused from his knees and started heading back home. Blimey, it's not something you would call a home. It was just an old building in the hilltop. Opening the door, he found a twelve your old girl with short blonde hair sitting with her hands and mouth tied up. Yes, he knew looking at her will stop him from killing, so without hesitating he took his gun and closed his eyes. But before he could shoot, he heard something.
“God, please save him, please...” she was praying. Why should she do that? Nobody has done this to him before. Putting down his gun, he cut the ropes that held her hands.
“Run,” he said and turned back but she came hugging him.
“Daddy!” she cried and held him tight. She then showed him the locket she was wearing in her neck. It had the picture of him with Eva. Surprised, he looked at her. She had her mother’s eyes. Those beautiful black eyes.
“Emi, my darling! You - you are still alive!” he cried and kissed her.
“I missed you too, daddy,” she smiled and wiped away his tears. Holding hands together they walked through the busy streets. He was a happy man again. After ten long years, he was seeing his daughter and couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He was thinking about leaving his job and starting a new life, when suddenly, a bullet hit him. He fell to the ground holding Emi’s hands and a group of twenty policemen circled him.
“Daisy, my doll, here is your ice-cream!” said a heavy cop with sunglasses, patting the little girl’s head as she squeaked with joy.
“Emi?” asked Ruben as he started to cough up blood. No, it was not Emi, but Daisy. A rat to kill a rogue. She started having her ice-cream and ran away.
“Ruben, my old mate!” said the cop, removing his glasses. There was a nasty scar in his left eye. In fact, there was no left eye. It was just a deep black hole.
“Tylor!” he said, gritting his teeth. His eyes were burning like lead.
“Ah, you remember me! Thought I was dead?” he asked, holding his chin.
“You killed Eva! You killed my wife!” he screamed, spitting on the heavy man's face.
“Did I?” he asked and shot him on the left eye.
His mobile buzzed while driving the car.
“Tylor?” asked a voice.
“Dr. Joe? Yeah, it’s me. What’s the matter?” he asked, stopping the car.
“Well, I have something to tell you... you have killed the wrong person,” his voice trembled.
“What? Dr. Joe, are you serious?” Tylor gasped.
“Yeah, the person you killed... its - its not Ruben,” he stammered.
“Then who is he?” he shouted.
“It’s a she. It’s Eva.”
I’m Not Insane But They Won’t Let Me Free
Surrounded by white, velvet cushioned walls,
overlaid by speckled ceiling,
pale floor, cold white as iced snow;
looking beyond meshed-screened windows,
seeing others free to roam this city of pain,
wondering what they think, what they feel.
Wondering why they choose to be out there,
instead of here, where people like me are safe.
Safe to think thoughts without harassments.
Safe to utter ideas without ridicule.
The other day I wrote a book of intervals;
should be on the Best Seller’s list forever.
It’s a story about the morning dew,
and the morning don’ts.
About the leaves on a tree,
of others who leaves us behind.
Cars weaving in and out of traffic,
and dealers who traffic their drugs.
Then came the wimps, losers, and cry-baby’s,
and I wrote about the abandoned baby who cried.
How easy it is for man and woman to get a piece,
how hard it is to achieve world peace.
I had to stop;
my staff of white-sheeted workers
stopped by to make sure I stay healthy.
I have to take my medication,
so I don’t become ill.
Once I have, they are happy with me,
and no one has ill-feelings.
I like them when they are happy with me;
maybe I will give them a raise.
Getting back to my book,
the ending is really there.
One day I wake up and find out,
I was never really here.
(Survival) Chapter Thirty-Three- The Last Time?
“Kalinda? Kalinda? ¿Dónde estás?” Rosa turns back and forth on the dilapidated bed, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed and her dark hair sweaty. “They said you were here… you’re the only one left… Kalinda?”
“Shh, I’m here, Rosa. Estoy aquí.”
“Kalinda? I can’t find you.” Rosa’s eyes are still closed. She doesn’t seem to notice Kalinda’s hand on hers.
Kalinda sighs. Rosa’s scars are infected, explaining the fever, and she’s still out of it. She’s been getting herbal medicines every hour, though, courtesy of Faith and administered by Kalinda herself, or sometimes by one of the two makeshift doctors who are working with Bryan. And there’s time. Rosa only got here yesterday.
When Sam carried her in, Kalinda had thought she was hallucinating for a moment. The woman looked like Rosa, but the scars had rendered her unrecognizable enough that Kalinda had scolded herself for getting her hopes up. But then Sam said, “She seems to know you? She said her name’s Rosa. She’s speaking Spanish, though, so that’s all we-”
“Rosa?” Kalinda interrupted. “Rosa?” She forced herself to push back the tears that came to her eyes. Now was a time for strength, not tears. But she couldn’t seem to find any words, other than “Rosa,” repeated again and again. She took Rosa’s hand, disbelieving. By that point, Rosa had already passed out.
She’s been asleep, or unconscious, ever since.
Kalinda can’t bring herself to imagine that Rosa might die now, just after they were reunited. That would be too cruel. But of course, fate doesn’t exist. Kalinda has never believed it. A coincidence, then, mixed with Rosa’s willpower, that they were able to find each other again after all these years.
Rosa, Kalinda’s best friend, almost like an older sister to her.
“Rosa,” Kalinda whispers. She pets Rosa’s hand, then stands.
There are others who must be attended to.
Felix wakes early and dresses. He slips out of the camp and into the woods. He needs some time alone, to think.
Normally, he would wake Faith, and they would go for a run together. It’s a good outlet for both of them- the sound and feeling of their feet pounding, their breath that comes too short for them to think about much else, the silence and each other’s company.
Today, though, Felix wants to be alone. As much as he loves his little sister, she can be... well, she’s still his little sister. And sometimes he just needs some time away from it all, even from her.
He breaks into an easy jog, feet falling into a natural rhythm- right, left, right, left, step over the branch, left, right, crunch through the leaves, right, left. It’s meditative, really. He could almost fall asleep, even as he runs- the sun on his back, the dew on the leaves around him, the-
The person standing up ahead, watching him.
Felix jumps, and stops in his tracks. The person doesn’t appear to be holding a weapon. Felix steps a little closer. Just a little, so he can make out- “Jacob?”
“Felix. Long time, no see.”
“What are you doing here? I should- I should kill you. For joining Banks. For betraying Bryan.” For betraying me, he thinks, but he doesn’t say that.
“But you won’t kill me, will you? Felix, I know you. You’re so… God, you’re so soft.” Coming from Jacob, someone who should be an enemy, the word doesn’t sound like an insult. It sounds- fond. “Sometimes, I wish I could be like you.”
“You can be like me, Jacob. You don’t have to work with Banks.”
“No, Felix. You don’t see. Banks is going to save us all! All the ones who combine forces with him, who are loyal to him. Kirkland just wants power.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve got it backwards, Jake.”
Jacob doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he stares at Felix. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I never wanted to fight you. I never wanted to see you on the opposite side of my weapon.”
“Jacob, let me-” Felix breaks off. Let me explain? Is there anything to explain? “I miss you,” he says instead.
Jacob takes a step closer, then another, and another. “I miss you, too, Fe.”
The nickname is like a slap to the face. Hardly anyone calls him that. His mom and dad did, and so did Faith, before-
But since then, the only person who’s called him that is Jacob.
“It’s impossible, though,” Jacob says, but he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “We have to part ways. There’s no way we can join forces, and- I wish you’d come with me, where you’ll be safe.”
“No one will ever be safe with Banks, Jacob. He’s a madman. And I can’t come with you.”
“I know, I just-” Jacob chokes on a sob. In an instant, Felix is there, wrapping his arms around him.
“It’s okay, Jacob. You’re gonna be okay. Just- stay safe, you hear me? Stay safe.”
Jacob looks up, his eyes watery. “I love you,” he whispers.
Felix pauses. He knows it’s true- but they’d never said it out loud before. It had sounded too much like goodbye.
“I love you too,” Felix whispers, and leans closer to kiss Jacob. Would this be the last time?
He steps back. Jacob’s eyes are closed. Without saying goodbye, Felix walks backwards, back into the trees and away from Jacob, turning away only when he’s almost out of sight.
Felix’s feet pound against the ground as he continues running, and if he focuses hard, he can still see Jacob standing there, eyes closed in the sun.
But the image is already fading.