Sitting at her desk, her hands hovering over the keys on the laptop, she tried to capture the moment when the glass slipped from her fingers, its fate decided by her sudden loss of feeling. She heard the crash, saw the utter disintegration of the goblet into a thousand pieces, like her heart in that moment. She tried to get it down...nothing came. Nothing that seemed able to hold all the things that she had felt...was still feeling. She closed her eyes, and let whatever came find its place on the screen.
Looking down, she saw the words, and saw how she should arrange them. Making quick work of them, she fashioned this:
Scatter
The fragments all...
Let fall the glass that holds
The liquor of celebration's
Fake joy.
Shatter
The hoarded dreams...
Release the gath'ring hope
That grows in swelling waves of red
Inside.
She read it. It did not feel complete. It did not speak the full measure of her pain. It did not plumb the depths. But it was here now, committed to the air, to the screen, to the eye. A tangible thing, outside herself, that she could examine, like a coroner would a corpse. She resisted the urge to correct it, adjust it, fix it. It was what it had been born. She could not change its essence any more than she could change the moment it described. That, at least, was written in stone, and even if the stone shattered, its truth would remain.
Embracing it, she gathered the strength to let it go, and walked away...
Tags: mic
Sunday, 12 June 2011
FLIGHT
(The inspiration for this vignette is "The Windhover" by Gerard Manley Hopkins. It is a poem of recognition of the power and beauty of God in nature.The poem is here --) http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173667
The cry startled her, where she stood on the cliff overlooking the wild ocean below. It was the falcon she had been seeing overhead the last few mornings on her walks. Its wild cries shook her, as they seemed to echo her own. She was inconsolable, and had taken to leaving the seaside cottage early, before anyone else was awake, so she could walk and bare her heart and weep.
The bird was beautiful as it swung and dipped and sailed through the air above her. She could almost feel his joy as he wheeled and banked and let the buoyant air lift him toward the sun. He was a prince of the air, riding high against the golden light of morning, the darling of the sun. She watched as it hovered overhead, holding steady against the wind off the ocean, and she wondered what it was watching, what it was stalking from the air.
She wished she could fly free as this creature of the air could. The power and beauty of the bird struck at her heart, and she wished she had that grace to soar above the boiling emotions that battered at her, like the waves beating on the rocks and the shore below. The bird swooped into action as she watched it, turning in a graceful glide like a skater on ice, the colors of the dawn a glorious backdrop for its performance.
She swallowed the tears that always sat behind her eyes, waiting to spill over. Beauty such as she had been witnessing these last few days reminded her of the clarity of the faith she seemed to have lost, as brilliant then as the sharpening light of morning around her now. That she foundered now on the hard places of despair and mistrust only heightened her pain, and made this bird's joy in living at once an affirmation of hope and a recognition of pain.
She turned away, back down toward the house, her face awash with the tears she could not hold back. These walks were her escape, her flight from the thoughts and feelings that plagued her nights and scarred her days. She needed to learn to hover, to ride the air above her troubles, to master the art of flight.
The cry startled her, where she stood on the cliff overlooking the wild ocean below. It was the falcon she had been seeing overhead the last few mornings on her walks. Its wild cries shook her, as they seemed to echo her own. She was inconsolable, and had taken to leaving the seaside cottage early, before anyone else was awake, so she could walk and bare her heart and weep.
The bird was beautiful as it swung and dipped and sailed through the air above her. She could almost feel his joy as he wheeled and banked and let the buoyant air lift him toward the sun. He was a prince of the air, riding high against the golden light of morning, the darling of the sun. She watched as it hovered overhead, holding steady against the wind off the ocean, and she wondered what it was watching, what it was stalking from the air.
She wished she could fly free as this creature of the air could. The power and beauty of the bird struck at her heart, and she wished she had that grace to soar above the boiling emotions that battered at her, like the waves beating on the rocks and the shore below. The bird swooped into action as she watched it, turning in a graceful glide like a skater on ice, the colors of the dawn a glorious backdrop for its performance.
She swallowed the tears that always sat behind her eyes, waiting to spill over. Beauty such as she had been witnessing these last few days reminded her of the clarity of the faith she seemed to have lost, as brilliant then as the sharpening light of morning around her now. That she foundered now on the hard places of despair and mistrust only heightened her pain, and made this bird's joy in living at once an affirmation of hope and a recognition of pain.
She turned away, back down toward the house, her face awash with the tears she could not hold back. These walks were her escape, her flight from the thoughts and feelings that plagued her nights and scarred her days. She needed to learn to hover, to ride the air above her troubles, to master the art of flight.
HISTORY
The sky was black, and she wondered if, for the first time, she would experience, and live through, a tornado. Forked lightning slashed through the blackness, illuminating the clouds like the sun. The crash of thunder shook the house, and she waited in trepidation for the sound of a roaring train to herald the event everyone in their area been warned to prepare for.
She tried to relax against the cushions of the old couch that they had brought down here, along with all the other throw-away stuff they hadn't had the heart to throw away. Like their marriage...she tried to think of other things, but in the loud quiet of the storm, which she could see through the tiny window high up, there was nothing else to do.
He stood at the other end of the long basement room watching her under lowered lids, as quiet as he always was. It no longer unnerved her as it used to do. After all their years together, she understood his silence...most of the time. She turned her eyes to the skies again, feeling the sharp brightness of the lightning slice through her eyeballs, and feeling the goosebumps feather along her arms as the thunder rumbled hoarsely. There was an electricity in the air that unsettled her, despite her love for storms.
She looked again, and found him stalking her with his eyes, and the shiver that ran through her this time was entirely unrelated to the storm outside the haven they had sought against it. They had thrown away so much these past few years, including intimacy, including love. All they seemed able to provide each other these days was a peaceful companionship, and pleasant affection. The wildness of the storm had her thinking about the past, their past...
She closed her eyes, and let herself remember, as the storm raged, the passion that had ignited between them the first time they had met, after a year of correspondence. It had been inevitable. She had known, even then, that nothing with this man would be tame, but she had not been prepared to be scorched, winded, rushed into heaven by his personality, his presence, his essence. Their first time together had been beyond anything she could have hoped for or dreamed of, or had ever expected. She could still feel it...
...the heat of his skin against her, the hard fingers raking her flesh, the thick thighs holding her, the thundering pulse of his heart. Their breath mingled harshly as they struggled to get closer to each other, grabbing and pulling and holding desperately, achingly. The taste of him -- spicy and tangy; the scent -- all musk and woods and aroused male; the sound of him, rusty and raw with lust, turned her on as nothing ever had before. He could have asked the impossible of her, and she would have given it to him...
She started as a particularly loud -- and apparently very near by -- clap of thunder shook the ground, and found him standing next to her, the scent of man -- aroused man -- wafting by her. Startled, she looked into his eyes, and fought for something to say. He smiled at her, the first time in more years than she could count that his smile reached his eyes. She felt his predatory focus, his desire, his intention.
"D'you think this is really a good idea, Chad?" Her voice was a shaky shadow of itself in the stormy air that rolled between them.
"Best one I've had in years!" he retorted immediately, bearing down on her with single-minded purpose.
She backed away. How long had it been since the last time they had made love, and not merely scratched a sexual itch? She didn't even know. Things had fallen apart long ago, and she didn't know if she even loved him anymore. She didn't want him to wake up a passion she wasn't sure she wanted to feel for a man she didn't love. Except...how does one feel passion for someone one doesn't love?
The wall under the little window stopped her retreat, and still he advanced, till he was firmly in her personal space, his thighs touching hers, his breath warming her face.
"D'you really want to run away, again, Fay, or do you want to let go for a change, and let this happen?"
The question whispered over her senses, fully alive and painfully alert to the heavy tension that arced between them now. He was speaking again.
"The first time there was a storm, too. That's how you ended up in my arms, remember? The thundercloud must have been right overhead, because the clap rattled the windows and you jumped so hard you almost fell. I caught you, we stared into each other eyes...and the rest, as they say is history."
Finally, though she hadn't realized how much she had been aching for it, he touched her, his hands sliding up and down her chilled arms, warming them, warming her.
"I'd like to repeat history, right here, right now. With you."
The sounds of her assent could still be heard when the storm had long passed, and they lay writhing upon the couch, skin on skin, harsh breaths and hot words thickening the air, matching the hard thrusts and eager parries of their hips. They were wild for each other, all the bottled up emotions and fears discarded before this passion they had always had...and had almost lost.
She tried to relax against the cushions of the old couch that they had brought down here, along with all the other throw-away stuff they hadn't had the heart to throw away. Like their marriage...she tried to think of other things, but in the loud quiet of the storm, which she could see through the tiny window high up, there was nothing else to do.
He stood at the other end of the long basement room watching her under lowered lids, as quiet as he always was. It no longer unnerved her as it used to do. After all their years together, she understood his silence...most of the time. She turned her eyes to the skies again, feeling the sharp brightness of the lightning slice through her eyeballs, and feeling the goosebumps feather along her arms as the thunder rumbled hoarsely. There was an electricity in the air that unsettled her, despite her love for storms.
She looked again, and found him stalking her with his eyes, and the shiver that ran through her this time was entirely unrelated to the storm outside the haven they had sought against it. They had thrown away so much these past few years, including intimacy, including love. All they seemed able to provide each other these days was a peaceful companionship, and pleasant affection. The wildness of the storm had her thinking about the past, their past...
She closed her eyes, and let herself remember, as the storm raged, the passion that had ignited between them the first time they had met, after a year of correspondence. It had been inevitable. She had known, even then, that nothing with this man would be tame, but she had not been prepared to be scorched, winded, rushed into heaven by his personality, his presence, his essence. Their first time together had been beyond anything she could have hoped for or dreamed of, or had ever expected. She could still feel it...
...the heat of his skin against her, the hard fingers raking her flesh, the thick thighs holding her, the thundering pulse of his heart. Their breath mingled harshly as they struggled to get closer to each other, grabbing and pulling and holding desperately, achingly. The taste of him -- spicy and tangy; the scent -- all musk and woods and aroused male; the sound of him, rusty and raw with lust, turned her on as nothing ever had before. He could have asked the impossible of her, and she would have given it to him...
She started as a particularly loud -- and apparently very near by -- clap of thunder shook the ground, and found him standing next to her, the scent of man -- aroused man -- wafting by her. Startled, she looked into his eyes, and fought for something to say. He smiled at her, the first time in more years than she could count that his smile reached his eyes. She felt his predatory focus, his desire, his intention.
"D'you think this is really a good idea, Chad?" Her voice was a shaky shadow of itself in the stormy air that rolled between them.
"Best one I've had in years!" he retorted immediately, bearing down on her with single-minded purpose.
She backed away. How long had it been since the last time they had made love, and not merely scratched a sexual itch? She didn't even know. Things had fallen apart long ago, and she didn't know if she even loved him anymore. She didn't want him to wake up a passion she wasn't sure she wanted to feel for a man she didn't love. Except...how does one feel passion for someone one doesn't love?
The wall under the little window stopped her retreat, and still he advanced, till he was firmly in her personal space, his thighs touching hers, his breath warming her face.
"D'you really want to run away, again, Fay, or do you want to let go for a change, and let this happen?"
The question whispered over her senses, fully alive and painfully alert to the heavy tension that arced between them now. He was speaking again.
"The first time there was a storm, too. That's how you ended up in my arms, remember? The thundercloud must have been right overhead, because the clap rattled the windows and you jumped so hard you almost fell. I caught you, we stared into each other eyes...and the rest, as they say is history."
Finally, though she hadn't realized how much she had been aching for it, he touched her, his hands sliding up and down her chilled arms, warming them, warming her.
"I'd like to repeat history, right here, right now. With you."
The sounds of her assent could still be heard when the storm had long passed, and they lay writhing upon the couch, skin on skin, harsh breaths and hot words thickening the air, matching the hard thrusts and eager parries of their hips. They were wild for each other, all the bottled up emotions and fears discarded before this passion they had always had...and had almost lost.
Friday, 15 October 2010
STAR TREK Nostalgia
Which theme is your favorite?
Star Trek: The Original Series, of course!
Star Trek: The Next Generation, without question!
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, trust me!
Star Trek: Voyager - what else?
You REALLY expect me to choose? Pfffft!!!
None of the above -they're all dull as ditchwater!
Star Trek: The Original Series, of course!
5
Star Trek: The Next Generation, without question!
4
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, trust me!
1
Star Trek: Voyager - what else?
0
You REALLY expect me to choose? Pfffft!!!
2
None of the above -they're all dull as ditchwater!
3
Next in line is STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION, with my favorite captain, Jean-Luc Picard. Yeah, Patrick Stewart has my heart! And his English accent is so sexy... 
Commander Data and Lieutenant Worf up the alien ante! LOL! Gotta love 'em!
Commander Data and Lieutenant Worf up the alien ante! LOL! Gotta love 'em!Ah, Commander, later Captain Benjamin Sisko, the Emissary of the Bajoran world, is the next leader of note in this series, and the first Black captain. (Did you know Avery Brooks (Captain Sisko) was- and may still be - a college professor in a New Jersey university?) I love Odo the shape-shifter, and Dax the Trill (what a worm!), the best aliens in this set.
And finally, STAR TREK: VOYAGER, home of Captain Janeway, the first female leader. And new home of the first female alien, Seven of Nine, who happens to be an ex-Borg! Oh yeah, and let's not forget the Doctor, a hologram, no less! Wonderful!
Thursday, 14 October 2010
RWC #45
LIFE FORM
"UFO Over NYC"
She chuckled as she put the paper down. Oh geez! All the people freaking out over a light in the sky! Shaking her head, she finished the coffee and rinsed the mug before drying it and putting it back in the cupboard. As she got ready for work, she wondered how many of those people who saw the lights actually thought they were seeing an unidentified flying object, Brushing back her very short red curls, she smeared some lip balm over her chronically chapped lips and grabbed her backpack.
No doubt all the talk at work would be about the UFOs. Well, she knew she could avoid it if she stayed in the mail room. No one bothered her there, and she was glad of that. After the last two years, she reveled in the peace and quiet, and most of all, the anonymity, of the mail room.
Hopping off the train at the last stop, she walked briskly through the cold morning air to the laboratory, and passing through the employees entrance, she swiped her ID card and smiled at the security officer stationed there. He was a pudgy little man, with blotchy skin and a bald head, and the most beatific smile, complete with dimples. Everybody loved Charlie, and he returned their affection with great good humor and warm acceptance.
"Morning, May!" he said in his surprisingly virile man's voice. The depth and timbre of it always struck a place inside her like a whip.
Morning, December!" she answered with another broad grin, and waved as she walked away.
Their morning ritual was special to her. Without Charlie, she was just another face in the crowd. He made he feel like part of something important - a friendship. Turning down the long corridor to the capacious mail room, she passed the small secondary morgue, where Joe the Skeleton presided at the door in gruesome splendor. Suppressing the shiver she invariably felt at this part of the way, she hurried to her place in the mail room just past it down the hall.
As she had become accustomed to it, the absence of anyone else at this hour did not bother her. As long as the door remained closed, she could live with the knowledge of the dead almost next door. Putting her coat and backpack away in the locker assigned to her, she got to work on checking the sorted mail for the day. She was scheduled to do the deliveries this week, which meant if anyone had left any sorting undone, she would be late delivering the mail.
A sound at the door made her look up, but it didn't open so she went back to checking that the mail had been sorted by floors, and where required, by offices. Bulky mail had been placed on the motorized cart for ease of distribution, and she nodded, half an hour later, satisfied that she would make the "morning run" on time. Checking the watch hanging from the chain around her neck, she saw she had time for another cup of joe before her day began in earnest.
The money for the cup of coffee was already in the snug side pocket of her uniform, and she walked out the door to the coffee machine across the hall from the mail room. The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened, and she turned, alarmed, but saw nothing. She stopped in front of the machine and listened, but no reason for her increasing heartbeat was apparent.
She called out. "Hello? Is anyone there?"
That there was no answer did not surprise her. No one was likely to arrive for another half hour. She was always the first to get there, so she could do her checks and be ready to roll before the others came, or the press of people who frequented these chilling halls became more than she could stand. And yet...the feeling that there was a presence there did not leave her.
Shaking her head, and breathing deeply to calm her quaking nerves, she got her coffee and returned to the mail room. Everything was in order...except for what looked like an aquarium, glowing faintly in the back corner, the darkest part of the room, where neither daylight nor lamp light quite reached. Gripping her cup for dear life, she walked toward the glow, hesitating a moment to wonder whether or not she should call for backup.
The melodramatic phrase made her giggle nervously, and she chided herself to stop being a ninny and just check out the corner. Stepping resolutely around the last stack of mail, she felt herself prepared to scream for help if need be. What she saw stole her breath...and her voice.
No one in the mail room attended to the aquarium till each had gone to investigate its faint glow. And no one else got any mail...
Copyright © 2010 by Teri K D Bannerman
To enjoy other great reads, go here...Challenge #45
Sunday, 10 October 2010
UFC #253
Sumax's Challenge
Write a Monorhyme poem about school in 250 words or less.
You can choose anything that happens at school, from first day, learning, playground games, fighting, teaching or playground supervisor, et al ... but the subject matter should convey the idea of a school setting.
A Monorhyme is a poem in which all the lines have the same end rhyme.
See example here …
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/types.html
The entry must be in Monorhyme.
If is it not in Monorhyme and/or exceeds the 250 word limit, then it will not be accepted.
This one was very hard for me, because all my school stuff is so distasteful. Anyway, I decided to go for it...
QUIZ TIME!
The day dawned bright and fair.
Teenagers everywhere
groaned loudly at the care
that Mrs. B made clear
she wanted them to share
in writing essays rare
on Chaucer's Chaunticleer.
Boys sat with faces bare,
and wished for their own share
of lazy summer fare,
of final moments rare
where they could take a dare
and kiss the shoulders bare
of girls down at the fair.
Girls fussed on with their hair,
and wished that they could stare
with longing eyes so clear
upon the handsome pair
of new boys over there
beside the wooden chair -
one boy would only glare.
Their teacher didn't care
that boys or girls weren't there
to learn about the fare
she had prepared so fair
for their especial care.
She really was aware
of each one's angry glare,
She put each in a pair
so they could each one share
the burden and the care
of reading Chaunticleer,
and memorizing fair
the lines about the dare
that caught him fair and square.
The fox out of his lair -
the students did not care!
The boys in lather rare
their goal would not forswear.
The girls sought to ensnare
the new boys in mohair -
they were without compare!
"Quiz time!" she did declare.
She knew this was warfare,
and since she would not swear,
she needed to beware,
or else the students there
would all her goals impair -
but she did not despair.
Pinning them with a stare,
her gimlet eyes aware
that no one had a prayer,
unless they had the flare
to let their thoughts cohere
on that poor Chaunticleer,
first question hung in air...
Copyright © 2010 by Teri K D Bannerman
For better work, go here...UNITED FRIENDS CHALLENGE #253
Saturday, 9 October 2010
RWC #44
MEETING
Max couldn't stand those big, fearful eyes a second longer. They tore into his soul and ripped him apart. He swallowed to keep his own tears at bay as he tried to decide what to do. He hadn't known till that morning, when the package with the letters, legal documents, and pictures had arrived, who this forlorn and frightened little boy belonged to, and when he had discovered it, the weight of the world had pressed in on him. An elephant on his chest would have been a far lighter burden, and the pain much less intense.
He watched as the little boy's eyes welled up, and his pudgy fingers tightened on the ancient railing. He understood the panic that the child must be feeling as they stared at each other. Why would anyone want to hurt this child? How could they bring themselves to even attempt it? Didn't they know who he was? Didn't they know that he protected the weak, the innocent, and those who couldn't protect themselves? Didn't they know that he protected his own? He shook
"Randy?" He made his voice as low and non-threatening as he could, but the rusty-nail-on-concrete quality could not be hidden. Grown men shivered when he spoke, he knew, even when he spoke without anger or threat. What must he sound like to this innocent? He was not surprised when the boy did not answer.
"Randy, I know you don't know me, son, but..." He paused. How in the name of God was he supposed to say this? Who in the hell would ever have believed it? Out of nowhere, Darth Vader's dark, angular mask floated into his internal line of vision. He smiled, hoping that he didn't look like a wild tiger snarling at his prey.
"Randy," he began again, "I am your father."
There, he'd said it. Not that it made a difference to the cowering child, but at least it had been broadcast to the air, it had been released, given its freedom. It could never be taken back.
Randy watched him, and Max could see the emotions warring in him. He was only three, and he really didn't understand that the reason he was clinging to that old iron railing like a lifeline was that he needed his dad to be there to protect him from the bad men who had been plaguing his life for the last six months. He didn't realize that he needed to be loved by a man who would show him how to be a man himself one day. He didn't know he mattered now more than he ever had before. He didn't know Max.
He didn't know...but he would.
Copyright © 2010 by Teri K D Bannerman
For others, visit here: Challenge #44
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