Flash Fiction: Superstitions

Flash Fiction: Superstitions

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The sun shone through lace draped curtains, announcing the arrival of dawn. I instinctively turned my face away from it. A few more minutes of sleep shouldnt hurt, but my alarm had other plans. Almost on cue, It started ringing. I turned again, groaned and decided today would not be the day for extra sleep.

It was only as I sat upright on the bed that I noticed it. My hands were flexed at a 45 degree and my fingers were each positioned at an odd angle. I tried to extend my hand but felt a dull aching pain in reaction. They also appeared swollen.

The irrational part of me took over and i started thinking- the village witches have finally gotten to me; I should have prayed before going to bed last night. I worked myself into a nervous sweat, before the rational part of me kicked in to remind me- there was a reason doctors existed. Some parts of culture just never leave us, I sigh.


word count: 167. This story is in resoponse to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge. Thank you for this week’s image @artycaptures

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My words-

My words-

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I write for the days when the beating heart within my chest feels ripped apart. For the days when my readily accessible tears fail me (it wouldnt be the first thing to fail me).

I write for the days when my mind spins tales on purpose which perpetuate me as the villain- it is my mind but i have no control over it.

I write for the days when rejection and heartbreak; betrayal and sadness all morph into one and spring on me at once.

I write to remind myself, I am not alone. I have my words, I have my Lord. I have been failed before and I rose and wrote words.

So I write these words and save them, for the rainy day that I would need them.

A writer to another-

A writer to another-

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You have your love,
I have my darkness,

You pour your heart,
I divulge my soul,

You have your lover,
I have my black dog,

You write of the future,
I disdain my past.

You write of rainbows,
I write of dark clouds

You write in free verse,
I drown in rhymes,

You are a writer,
I write in hiding,

When you’ll write of heartbreaks,
I’ll write of hope.

You bloom under sunbeams,
I strengthen with lightning,

Our swords are the same
Just not our pattern of fighting,

When my clouds dissipates
And you, darkness visits

Here are my words,
To keep you company.

You have your love,
I have my darkness,

We both need each other,
In a world that keeps changing.

The above image is courtesy of Tumblr

Writer’s Quote: The Mother

Writer’s Quote: The Mother

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s poet is one I have shared recently- Gwendolyn Brooks. I guess, there is no hiding the fact that she is one of my favourite poets.

The poem I am sharing today is one close to my heart- it is about a woman who has previously had an abortion, and is now filled with remorse and regret. It is a narrative and reads as a message to, in her own words, “the child she got that she didn’t get”. She wants the child to know that she is sorry for what she had done and she loves him/her.
Below is the poem, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

The mother by Gwendolyn Brooks

Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
children.
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?–
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
All.

Reach out-

Reach out-

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Reach out,
For my hands
Lay outstretched,
To welcome yours;
Through setting suns,
And rising dawns,
Through mist filled airs,
And darkness bound.

Reach out,
Old friend,
My ears are perked,
To be filled with sounds,
Of your nightmares,
My drums-
They yearn,
to welcome your sobs,
And pass the message
Through arms outstretched.

Reach out,
To the arms,
You once lifted,
When raging storms,
Depleted my joy.
Old friend,
Who lit up my world,
Once more.
My hands,
Won’t tire of being outstretched.

Reach out,
For you deserve to see,
The sun
And feel it’s light,
In your soul.

 

You don’t remember-

You don’t remember-

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He’s just a teen,
Bound to get his back up,
At every little thing-
Don’t you remember it,

Defensive
Without an offence
Attack, eager to depict-
I’m an adult now,
alternating between
rebellion and obedience,
Don’t you remember it,

Enthralled,
By the illusion of teens
In cliques,
Conforming to their
status quo,
At the risk of all
You’ve been raised to be;
Don’t you remember it,

When all you needed,
Instead of a hand,
On your body,
Violently sweeping across,
Were words.
Simply words.

But you don’t remember it.
As your hands,
Violently,
Swipe across his body.
While the words he yearn
He needs to hear-
Silent.
You’ve forgotten,
What it means to be-
A teen.

Facebook page: words of a random. let’s connect!

Writer’s quote: Langston Hughes

Writer’s quote: Langston Hughes

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Hello and welcome to writer’s quote Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors.

I know I haven’t posted in a few days, but you didn’t think I’d miss Writer’s quote, did you? This week, I am sharing one of my favourite authors whose poem I have shared previously before too. It’s Langston Hughes, one of the poets I do not tire from reading his poems.

It’s amazing to see that in every generation, through every cycle of oppression, there’s always someone using whichever means they have to speak out against it. It makes me happy to read works written by writers and poets, which clearly would have put them at odds against the authorities during those times. But they wrote. They used the one weapon they had, the pen, and its makes me proud to be writer.

Below is the poem, it’s a fairly popular poem so you may have come across it. I hope you enjoy it.

I, too by Langston Hughes
I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed–

I, too, am America.

All I Am-

All I Am-

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They called me black,
When words were
in their possession,
Once spoken,
Was law and order,
They stated-
          I am black.

She’s a woman,
They reassured;
As if the gender,
Possessed lesser power,
They ordered-
         I am just a woman.

She’s Muslim,
And the veil on my head,
Became heavy,
The venom on their face,
Evident.
         Muslim- I was a threat.

So many labels,
One individual,
Am I black,
      A woman,
             Muslim?

The skin they pointed at
Hardened,
Impenetrable to their words,
I grew to accept,
I was all they had labelled.

Now, when I say
I am a black Muslim woman,
They say-
          I am human.
Funny,
How they seemed to forget,
When the words,
Were in their power.

Facebook page: words of a random. Let’s connect!

Closure-

Closure-

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One word… seven letters.
I always had this idea that to move on, to let go of the past, to put one foot in front of the other through the door called future, I had to have it- closure.

And I sought it, I chased it, I pled for it.  Each time I thought I was close to it, closure merely opened a can-worm of emotions I had no idea still existed within me, no idea how to handle them.

The search for closure led me down a path I should never have tread, a path of hurt of pain of emotions I should never have felt again. And every single time, I still kept going back, for that closure. The person In me, never learnt.

I’m only now understanding, coming to the conclusion- closure isn’t a conversation that needs to be had, it’s not a word that needs to said or unsaid, it’s not a meeting which needs to take place, one last time.

Closure, simply is putting my big girl pants on, taking that big leap of faith through the door into the future with the ideology- Life starts now. And it doesn’t matter, whatever words lie behind the door which were never said, whatever final meeting which never happened, closure doesn’t have to come from an outside source.

The only closure I need, is the closure from within myself, to be able to say done and dusted, and mean it… closure comes from me.

Facebook page: words of a random. let’s connect!

 

Writer’s Quote: Dear Reader

Writer’s Quote: Dear Reader

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors.

Today’s poem talks about taking care of a patient with Alzheimers, from the point of view of the nurse. I love the fact that the writer, Rita Mae Reese, left the identity of the patient and the carer genderless. Leaving it up to our creative minds to fill in the blanks.

This poem, “Dear Reader“, is not a poem one reads and immediately whips out the pen and notebook because of its poetic inspiration. No, it’s one of those reads which strike a chord in the heart. For lack of better wording, it’s what I like to call “beautiful and heartwarming”, and reading it, left me wanting more of it. Below is the poem:

Dear Reader by Rita Mae Reese
You have forgotten it all.
You have forgotten your name,
where you lived, who you
loved, why.
I am simply
your nurse, terse and unlovely
I point to things
and remind you what they are:
chair, book, daughter, soup.

And when we are alone
I tell you what lies
in each direction: This way
is death, and this way, after
a longer walk, is death,
and that way is death but you
won’t see it
until it is right
in front of you.

                Once after
your niece had been to visit you
and I said something about
how you must love her
or she must love you
or something useless like that,
you gripped my forearm
in your terrible swift hand
and said, she is
everything
—you gave

me a shake—everything
to me.

                   And then you fell
back into the well. Deep
in the well of everything. And I
stand at the edge and call:
                      chair, book, daughter, soup. 

If you could describe this poem in two words, what would they be?