Springtime

Tags

eternal cycle, hope, mother nature, promise, prosperity, spring

 

Puffy grass like a goose down duvet

resplendent with daisies, yellow dandelions,

buttercups and a myriad of wildflowers

that flourish without care,

poppies that pop up everywhere,

sacred earth preserves their seeds

since the beginning of time,

all they need is rain and sunshine,

after a short period of rest of in Gaia’s belly,

a message of hope and prosperity

for mankind to understand the eternal cycle

to cherish and to protect it with care

for the next generations.

 

Happy Easter Everyone!

 

 

Do I Stay, or Do I Go?

Here’s my one hundred word drabble on The Drabble. Thank you very much, Drabble. 🙂

By Sebnem Sanders

I drove to the cliff, stopped and had a smoke. I stepped out and inhaled the night air, the fresh aroma of pine trees mixed with herbs. Although the cicadas would not begin their chorus until an ambient temperature triggers their rites, the frogs were having a ball.

Above, the night sky, studded with stars and a crescent moon; below, the edge of the cliff.  I imagined my car flying down the steep rocks. Bang, Crash, End. The twinkling lights along the shoreline promised a jolly soirée. I sighed, and returned to the car. Tonight is too nice to die.

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Stardust Fairy

Tags

ankara bombing, fairy, peri, stardust, stargazer, suicide-bomber

 

In her childhood, Peri had discovered the stars in the night sky and been a stargazer ever since. There was something mysterious and fascinating about those twinkling beams. She could not describe her feelings about the far away lights, but she knew she liked them. And there was the moon, and the different shapes it took throughout each lunar phase. She loved it when it became a luminous white ball, with a face. It moved between the buildings, as she spied it in the car, on the way home. The moon moves.

“Peri,” her mother said, “means fairy. A good soul, a magical being who is kind to everyone.”

When she began school and learned to read and write, some arithmetic to add and subtract, multiply and divide, she also learned about the stars and the planets. Stars were like the Sun, the planets, like Earth. She was told her horoscope was Libra, a constellation that resembled the shape of scales. This was a little confusing. She tried to make out the figure, but had difficulties. Scales, balance. Did that mean she was a balanced person? That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? What if the scales tipped? There was no balance? Would that be a disaster? All too overwhelming. Never mind.

If there were planets like Earth, were there people living there? Humans- or? Goose bumps. When she thought too much about these subjects while she grew up, she became terrified. Strange places with strange beings.

In composition class, she learned about something called a point of view. View. What you see from where you are. If there is life up there, in all those planets with many suns, those beings must feel the same way as I do. Frightened and curious, from their perspective. Maybe it’s not so scary, after all. Just the fear of the unknown. She still felt uneasy. Maybe it’s best not to think about these things. But they beckoned. Discreetly.

Peri wanted to go to the university and become a professional. Her mother didn’t have the chance. She had married at a young age. Peri never knew her father. Only his smiling face in the photos. He had died when she was still in her mother’s belly. She wished he were here to guide her, through her studies and dreams.

After Peri and her mother moved to Ankara to set up home, she was accepted at the high-school she wanted to attend. Big city, the capital, twinkling stars. She would make it, become a star herself. She was good at maths and physics. She had a friendly nature and was kind. Maybe she could enter the Medical School or become a teacher to help people.

That Sunday, Peri met with friends to see a movie, an Oscar winner. It was a story she didn’t know about, a fascinating doorway into the unknown and undiscovered territories. I must read about this, I must look it up. Over a cup of tea at the café, she discussed the film with her friends. Never mind what’s beyond Earth, in the universe, we know so little about things in our own world. There’s no end to learning.

She parted with her friends and decided to go home early, to contemplate on the film and her impressions, in the privacy of her own room. Maybe some stargazing, too. Her window into new worlds and stories.

Peri waited at the bus stop, dreamy eyed, thinking of her future. There was so much she wanted to do. She couldn’t wait to explore these untraveled destinations and make them her own.

The bus approached. – And there was a blast that shook the entire area like an earthquake. The noise reverberated through the buildings. A great ball of fire lit up the evening sky and she was gone. Together with thirty-five others, waiting beside her, and the passengers on the bus. Promising young people like her, middle-aged citizens, and those from all walks of life.

Though they had never exchanged a word between them, on their Earthly journey,  in that moment of time, the souls of the departed shared the same fate.

Sixteen-year-old Peri became a star, or perhaps a fairy, as in the meaning of her name, from her own stardust.

The Void

Tags

attachment, eclipse, loss, memories, the past, void

 

Fragments of sorrow in broken sequence,

the details evaporate to ether with fleeting time,

while the core remains.

My pain I cannot put down to paper,

that would be unfair,

words are not capable of describing my loss.

I can only set the atmosphere

and the emptiness that surrounds me.

The colours have faded, the sounds have lost

their harmony and pulse.

Things are the same, yet different,

in a void of inspiration

meanings have become meaningless,

dull and barren,

without the silent conversation.

 

If I say I miss you, will that fall short of describing my state?

Or if I say wish you were here, will that suffice?

I remember so much I don’t want to recall,

I wish those memories would vanish into the background,

and set me free.

The past into the present, threatens my future,

I fear I keep losing the moment I should live,

as I continue to linger in the void.

Aurora Australis

Tags

ancient handwriting, australia, great nuclear disaster, indigenous cultures, paper, paper books, refugees, wars of religion

 

 

 

 

2115, New Territories, Australia

 

 

 

Aurora went over her homework in ancient handwriting. She scanned the document on her computer screen and sitting back, checked her watch. Thirty minutes of peace before virtual contact with her instructor. She wondered what criticisms the nerd would make regarding her work and how she would tackle his comments. As far as she was concerned, her weekly assignment of a thousand words in handwriting was perfect. Aurora pushed her chair back. Rising to her feet, she ambled to the kitchen to prepare a snack.

Aurora had high IQ and EQ levels. The authorities had conducted many tests on her. She did not carry any gene mutations caused by the great nuclear disaster of 2050. Upon reaching her thirteenth birthday the previous month, she had earned the approval to study handwriting, a privilege only given to students of high calibre. Trees were scarce – paper more so. The thin notebooks her parents bought for her were used sparingly. She wrote on both sides of the pages, with a pencil first, to allow corrections. When she completed editing her work, she would write in ink, for a bolder appearance on the computer screen, and present it to the instructor.

 

Bleep, bleep! The alarm jingled through the house. She stuffed the last morsel of her fish-paste and seaweed sandwich in her mouth, ran to the lounge and sat before the big screen. Straight-faced, she waited for Mr Writer to appear.

 

“Err, Aurora, your homework. The handwriting is fine, the story a bit offshore.”

“What does that mean, Mr Writer? I thought we were already offshore, living on the biggest island in the world.”

“Excuse me, what did you say?”

“Sorry, correction, we are offshore …”

“That’s right. Usage of past tense is redundant. Back to your remark, geographically you’re right, metaphorically your story needs an anchor, rather than drifting in the open seas. Too many feelings, thoughts and ideas, without a plot structure.”

“It’s only a composition on a prompt. Why can’t I talk about my feelings and thoughts? Are they not allowed?”

“They are, since the beginning of the new millennium. So, you’re lucky to be permitted to express them, but that’s not enough.”

“Why not? Why must there be a plot all the time?”

“Because that’s how stories go.”

“I like reading stories. I want to learn all the ancient languages and read the tales in Germanic, Frenchish, and the other old languages.”

“German and French, Aurora. Before you learn other languages, you must strive to express yourself proficiently in Earthlish, your native language. A derivative of ancient English because it happens to be the language spoken here before the great disaster.”

She pursed her lips. “I just want to do something different, occasionally.”

“Free composition is for advanced students, not for beginners. Tell me, how do you know about books in German and French?”

“My mother’s legacy, from her great-great ancestors. I love looking at them.”

“Are they paper books?”

“Yes, some even have pictures.”

“Why doesn’t she hand them over to the library?”

“I guess she thinks they won’t want them, being in foreign languages.”

“Please tell her to do that, immediately, and I won’t report her for keeping ancient manuscripts of historical importance. You know paper books are rare and fragile. They belong to everyone and must be kept in the museum library.”

“Will anyone understand them?”

“We have methods of translating them. Tell your mother to find a good excuse for failing to turn them in.”

 

A news alert flashed on the screen in large red letters. Mr Writer and Aurora watched the broadcast as the reporter delivered the announcement. “Boat people are seen offshore, ten miles off the old Great Barrier Reef. Refugees are approaching in dozens of boats. Attention all coast guards, on sea and air, encircle them, and bring them ashore for the immigration procedures.” The news flash ended with a jingle.

 

“Why are they coming here? Where are they from?” she asked.

“They’re probably from the few remaining Pacific Islands. Maybe their water supplies are diminishing or they lack the technology for converting sea-water into drinking water. Perhaps, they feel lonely where they are and want to belong to a bigger society.”

“They probably don’t speak our language. How will they survive?”

“We’ll learn their language and they’ll learn ours. There’s enough room on this island continent, the oldest in the world. We, Earthlings, are social people. The more diverse our society is, the richer our culture will become. Our population is very low. We need more manpower to advance our civilization.”

“I know a few foreign people, but they speak Earthlish and have many children. The Aborigines tell stories about being here before the others and how they could see the great disaster coming.”

“Aborigines are the first inhabitants of what’s left of this continent. I will speak in past tense now since we’re talking about history. The ancient settlers here and everywhere else on Earth loved to hear their own voices, rather than listening to the wisdom of the indigenous cultures. They failed and brought the world to its destruction after the wars of religion. Our founders on this island banned all religion saying the only one worth worshipping is humanity, in its struggle to survive.”

“Why can’t I use the past tense?”

“To encourage you to practise living in the moment and dreaming about the future. We learn about the past and our history, but we don’t live in the past. We only take our lessons from the past.”

“I love history. I like studying it, ” she said her eyes gleaming.

“And you will. There’s no limit to learning as long as you’re willing. This brings me back to your composition. Next week, I want more plot and less rambling. I need a story. Any words for a prompt?”

“Boat people, refugees,” she said, eyes wide open.

 

Mr Writer thought for a moment. “Castaway, see you next week, Aurora.”