Drabbles: 2008
Jun. 17th, 2010 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tamela_jHere are some more drabbles I did for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
crackwhore_muse in 2008. I hope to eventually do something with these, but until then, just putting them here.
* * *
Tim sat at the ocean’s edge and thought about what he knew to be true and what he questioned every day. The air in his lungs, he knew that was his. He knew what a gift it was; what it was like to not have it, even for a moment.
The wet, salty wind soothed his burned flesh as if it was a mother kissing him well. He imagined that his mind’s fogged vistas were to heal as well. He remembers a time when fire had enticed him and like the sea before him, calmed him.
Somewhere out in the sea a bird dives for a fish and behind him, as if a shadow that hovers close as if it wished for the power of protection, pine trees sway, the leaves rustling rhythmically, calling to the bird or warning the fish, Tim didn’t know.
Thinking about the cycles of life, he wondered which phase he was currently in. Was he the prey or predator? The heat of summer or the freezing snow? The fire of youthful obsessions or the knowing and ancient ebb and flow of the sea?
Taking a slow, deep breath he thought perhaps he was the air: life sustaining, everywhere, sometimes thin and hard to grasp and other times wrapping you up and making you stilled and feeling as if there were nothing you couldn’t do.
* * *
She sits by his bed, pushing his hair off his forehead and watching him sleep; counting his palpitations, slowly easing her to slumber. This child was her everything. He was there when Marcus left, he was there when she lost her job.
Someone would be there to answer the phones at the office, and someone would be there to give Marcus what he needed. But, for the child lying in his little Super-Man bed; she was everything.
Yes, ofcourse there were things she needed, but for now, all she wanted was to watch the rise and fall of a tiny chest.
* * *
In her particular place in space and time, the apprenticeship of her specific occupation started extremely early. She knew she made it look easy. That way she had of floating where her sheer silks and gossamer garments danced about her in a fluid, transcendent motion was awe-inspiring.
She looked at the youngling and tried to remember when she had still needed wings, when she had fumbled around directionless and defenseless. Had there really been a time when she didn’t know the fantastic responsibility of her night's journeys?
Hearing a sorrowful moaning from below, she guided the youngling to the spot where their work would commence. Just the right amount of sparkling calm was removed from her dish and with eyes on the boy, to make sure he was paying attention, she sprinkled the dust to the dreaming man below.
The uttered sigh her only reward.
* * *
It wasn’t exactly like that last morning.
She had asked the sculptor to retain a bit of his dignity and yet capture the life of him, the last moments of him. He had been so weak towards the end. So weak and so cold. She had tried to give him some of her strength, some of her warmth. In the end, it was his deficiency that over-powered her, until she could barely move as well.
The sculptor was almost done with the added piece. The tumor that would lance itself to him in the direct size and shape as herself, suck everything pure and miraculous. When her likeness was reproduced, it would finally be time to join him.
* * *
Her dress was supposed to be white. A white dress, a sparkling smile meeting hers, rings exchanged and lives intertwined. But like the generations before her, the sea had left her a widow, claiming another of the men who valiantly tried to feed their family out of the sadistic waves.
As she dyed her dress black to match her soul’s sentiment, she thought of the ocean outside her windows and felt as if it were calling her. Perhaps it was her intended bellowing for her above the crashing surge and the seagulls screams. Either way, she went to the rocky shore prepared to end it all.
As the sun flirted through the early morning haze and the dark diminished, she closed her eyes, sighed and then opened them again, her foot hovering over the precipice of life and surrender when she looked again and saw salvation. The ship was sailing right to her. Her future glided within reach and all she had to do was take the step and sail away.
crackwhore_muse in 2008. I hope to eventually do something with these, but until then, just putting them here.Tim sat at the ocean’s edge and thought about what he knew to be true and what he questioned every day. The air in his lungs, he knew that was his. He knew what a gift it was; what it was like to not have it, even for a moment.
The wet, salty wind soothed his burned flesh as if it was a mother kissing him well. He imagined that his mind’s fogged vistas were to heal as well. He remembers a time when fire had enticed him and like the sea before him, calmed him.
Somewhere out in the sea a bird dives for a fish and behind him, as if a shadow that hovers close as if it wished for the power of protection, pine trees sway, the leaves rustling rhythmically, calling to the bird or warning the fish, Tim didn’t know.
Thinking about the cycles of life, he wondered which phase he was currently in. Was he the prey or predator? The heat of summer or the freezing snow? The fire of youthful obsessions or the knowing and ancient ebb and flow of the sea?
Taking a slow, deep breath he thought perhaps he was the air: life sustaining, everywhere, sometimes thin and hard to grasp and other times wrapping you up and making you stilled and feeling as if there were nothing you couldn’t do.
She sits by his bed, pushing his hair off his forehead and watching him sleep; counting his palpitations, slowly easing her to slumber. This child was her everything. He was there when Marcus left, he was there when she lost her job.
Someone would be there to answer the phones at the office, and someone would be there to give Marcus what he needed. But, for the child lying in his little Super-Man bed; she was everything.
Yes, ofcourse there were things she needed, but for now, all she wanted was to watch the rise and fall of a tiny chest.
In her particular place in space and time, the apprenticeship of her specific occupation started extremely early. She knew she made it look easy. That way she had of floating where her sheer silks and gossamer garments danced about her in a fluid, transcendent motion was awe-inspiring.
She looked at the youngling and tried to remember when she had still needed wings, when she had fumbled around directionless and defenseless. Had there really been a time when she didn’t know the fantastic responsibility of her night's journeys?
Hearing a sorrowful moaning from below, she guided the youngling to the spot where their work would commence. Just the right amount of sparkling calm was removed from her dish and with eyes on the boy, to make sure he was paying attention, she sprinkled the dust to the dreaming man below.
The uttered sigh her only reward.
It wasn’t exactly like that last morning.
She had asked the sculptor to retain a bit of his dignity and yet capture the life of him, the last moments of him. He had been so weak towards the end. So weak and so cold. She had tried to give him some of her strength, some of her warmth. In the end, it was his deficiency that over-powered her, until she could barely move as well.
The sculptor was almost done with the added piece. The tumor that would lance itself to him in the direct size and shape as herself, suck everything pure and miraculous. When her likeness was reproduced, it would finally be time to join him.
Her dress was supposed to be white. A white dress, a sparkling smile meeting hers, rings exchanged and lives intertwined. But like the generations before her, the sea had left her a widow, claiming another of the men who valiantly tried to feed their family out of the sadistic waves.
As she dyed her dress black to match her soul’s sentiment, she thought of the ocean outside her windows and felt as if it were calling her. Perhaps it was her intended bellowing for her above the crashing surge and the seagulls screams. Either way, she went to the rocky shore prepared to end it all.
As the sun flirted through the early morning haze and the dark diminished, she closed her eyes, sighed and then opened them again, her foot hovering over the precipice of life and surrender when she looked again and saw salvation. The ship was sailing right to her. Her future glided within reach and all she had to do was take the step and sail away.
