Creative Writing, Literature

His Uncovered Wife

Aha. The painting. I call it The Uncovered Wife. I took it from the storage boxes of the Syrian Prince, Faisal Raheem.

I was away at war, a dire time it was. The streets was full of golden sand rushing towards us like a billion bullets. There had been no gun fire for almost a week and I was beginning to appreciate the sound of the silent screams fleeing on the winds.

Their voices, running from me, running toward me and resonating within me. At first it tore away at the mind, conscience batteling with the patriarchal teachings. But then, as I have said, the sound of those voices in the wind served as a reminder that there was life outside of these barren dunes.

I had been convinced that all native life had seen its end. The life that I would again meet with would not be here; it would not be on my sweep. This was a daily thought and there was hope. I was interrupted by a hollow bang. It echoed through my body and soul. Was it hope it was it fear?  Until this day, I am unable to say.

I was alone in the world with nothing but the embrace of dying screams and golden bullets of the wind. I had even begun to question if I had survived the war, if I had made it out alive. Certainly not. There was no life about me, the was no life within me. But the bang.

I turned and turned again. In the distance I saw a house, a palace which had been under construction since we had arrived. I was sure it was empty, we all were. When the tanks drove us inland on the very first day we saw it. The crumbling walls and the blackend windows encourages our thoughts away from the possibility of finding inhabitants there. So we moved on.

The palace represented a choice, something that I did not understand at the time. You see, I could have continued on to the boarder and have been done with nationalism. It could not have been far off. Or, I could have gone in search of the unlikely inhabitants of the deserted palace, which I did.

When I found them, him, I felt that death had gripped us all. I, myself, was no inhabitant in that land of the living, for that land of the living did not exist for us. I stood over them, on my way to The Gates, had I not already unknowingly passed them. She lay there having already descended into a place from which there was no return. He lay beside her, deciding whether or not to follow her now or at another time.

It was a dark day. I remember the wind beating at the house. I went back in my mind, it was exactly as they helped us to understand it. If we did not fight relentlessly, they would come to and beat at our home. At our women, at our children, at our souls.

He shuffled. He pushed something back into a large wooden box that lay flat behind him. He looked into the box, then he looked at me and attempted to avert my gaze. He spoke and I stepped closer to the place where the box lay flat. That bang.

He sat up and moved away from the dead woman on the ground. His strength and energy took him towards the box. He shook. I remember the sound of his bones shaking.

I could see that he was dying and this was his dying wish, that I should not look inside the box. I disregarded any wish from a man that was capable of beating my home, my land, my women and my children. I stepped into the box and it crumbled under my feet. He tried to stand before me, but he crumbled just as the box did. I pushed him away with my foot and lifted the painting.

The naked, celestial body of the women, dead on the floor, stood before me; such grandeur beneath that burka. He looked up at me, searching my face for some sympathy and some remorse but there was none. There was only lust. He mumbled something to me in that dark room, I did not hear and when I managed to look away from the still beauty to him, I found that his body lay as lifeless as hers.

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Creative Writing, Musings

Last Words

I know a boy who won’t live long. Can’t forgive himself for ruining her song. Last words were harsh, ‘why do you sing that stupid song daily. I’m not a baby. You sound rubbish Okay?!’

He walked away, she knew she was dying. Her little man deserved joy for the time being and that’s why she sang, to soothe his heart.

She shut her mouth, sat down and cried. Her heartbeats slowed, then failed. She died.

I know a father who’s now stopped living. He’s alive on sight but dead inside. Guilt trips him up each time he sees it. Disgusting, it’s the word spat out with tension. Shunned his daughter for her choice of lover. Suicide’s what killed her but in his heart he shoved her.

I know a man who lost his mum.
Never lived it down because his one final word to her, was one too often used. Busy; “sorry mum, can’t come I’m really busy.”

“It’s okay my son.” She said and breathed out. She put the receiver down and within moments expired.

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All around the world last words are being spoken, but when they are spoken the speaker is not aware that they are their last words.

Last words become important to the speaker once the reciever has died. They try to remember what the last conversation was and all too often, there are regrets.

Regret; because it could have been a kinder conversation, because it could have been other words used, because it didn’t need to be said. Because there should have been an apology.

It’s always those dearest to our hearts that receive the wrath of our anger,  because we love them and we know they love us. We become comfortable to say what we think and feel, sometimes regardless of how it’ll make the other person feel.

However, evidently, if it’s left unsolved and then they die, those last words may be haunting for the rest of life.

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Musings, Poetry, The Fine Line

Religion

Now you’ve come along and my world has plunged into yet another turmoil.
The battle between religion, which is righteousness, and freedom, which is faith, has begun again.

They said that Grace is for everyone, but only for the baptized,
And I used to sing along, but then I realised,
That the grace being declared was not free, nor for all,
For most, after a life of hell into hell will fall.
That’s when my singing became a whisper, I wasn’t quite sure
If I wanted my mind to be thoughtless, my life a chore.
But the reward of this was life, heaven when I die…
Now and often there’s the questions, ‘but what if it’s true?’ and “but what if it’s a lie?”

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Creative Writing, Momentary, Poetry, The Fine Line

Behind Closed Eyes

tears on my pillow
pain in my heart
caused by you

Her words ring loud in my mind as I think about you. Emotions pour forth under my closed eyelids, soaking the pillow on which my weary head lies.

I’ve thought about us, almost daily, through and through. The notion of our unspoken love summoned to come alive but still, until this day, no words have been exchanged and thus my heart continues to cry.

I cannot laugh, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. Yet I close my eyes. Only as a means to find your face again. But in all my trying I only find that I become Frankenstein! I create a face that is not yours. I create a face that belongs, a little, to all of my lovers; in whose arms I’ve lain to take away that pain that is your absence. I create a monster.

I close my eyes and share moments with you that you will not remember; to force back tears, yet still I cry, for my love will forever remain tender – for you alone, for you right now but you will never know.

I’ll let him go
This time
I will.
I’ll let him go
This time.

The song I sing each night as I make-believe I sleep. I let you go for  mere moments as I travel to the dimensions of dreams. Dreamland we called it. You remember?  The place, each night we’d meet.

While I’m there, sojourneying through this love, I see you clear; as bright as day, more beautiful than a thousand doves. A symbol of freedom, my dear. My one hope now, in all of life, is that of you I might dream and dream forever.

Oh my love, I wish you knew the light you bring to life. But you never will, for I won’t say until the day I die.

*

I’m asleep now and this way I’ll stay. In dreamland I have forever locked myself away.

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