Zero Plus One by Sebnem Sanders

Tags

absence, attraction, bold, confidence, extravert, introvert, lost soul, perception, presence, seeing, shy, vanishing, what if?

Many thanks to SickLit Magazine for publishing my story. 🙂

SICK LIT MAGAZINE

Zero Plus One

Zero leaned against the wall, taking comfort from its resistance. He sipped his drink, as he watched a group of guests saunter by.

People laughed and joked. Some men eyed the females like prey, others, as though admiring cars in a motor show. They continued to meander across the hall, viewing their options among the women, some standing or comfortably settled on the chairs and settees scattered around the room. Concentrating on potential males, they ran their tongues along their lips, lowered their décolletés and hiked up their skirts as much as their sitting positions and postures allowed. Their eyes and gestures communicated in carnal language while they exchanged casual words in the spoken tongue.

The thrill of their own past escapades still vivid in their memories, married couples split up. Eager to share the excitement of mating overtures between the free males and females, they joined…

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House of Detachment – by SEBNEM SANDERS

Tags

attachment to the past, detachment, memories, the past

Many thanks to SickLit magazine for publishing my story.

SICK LIT MAGAZINE

House of Detachment

When the memory police knocked on my door, I knew I would be in trouble.

“Hi,” I said in the most pleasant voice, trying to hide the painful recollections that had invaded my mind a few minutes ago.

“May we come in?”

Despite my unwillingness, I had to let them into my flat. In my untidy lounge, neglected due to the thoughts I had been compelled to write instead of doing housework, we sat facing each other. One of the officers coughed and explained the reason for their visit.

“Too many bad vibes are coming out of your house. It’s polluting the environment, and we need to stop this.”

“But I’m not harming anyone. Only myself, with my surplus of memories.”

“You’re transmitting negative thoughts and sorrow into the area. We have measured it. You’re also harming yourself, recalling past events that cause tears, excessive drinking to…

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Timeless

Tags

a new dimension, body-clock, human notion, loss of time, melting clocks, perpetual motion, time, time-slave, timelessness

 The Persistence of Memory (Spanish: La persistencia de la memoria; Catalan: La persistència de la memòria) is a 1931 painting by artist Salvador Dalí, and is one of his most recognizable works.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Persistence_of_Memory

 

 

I have lost my connection to time,

what others do at certain hours of the day

makes no difference to me at all.

I would appreciate to receive the same courtesy,

so please don’t come knocking on my door

with meaningless trifles and requests at your convenience

and raise eyebrows when you see me in my nightie

I’m not sleeping, I’m working,

I don’t need official clothes for this job

Just because I don’t do the things you do

on your schedule

doesn’t mean I’m idle

I don’t sleep during the hours you sleep,

I don’t dress at the time you do

I have more important things than that,

to me that is, not the world,

I don’t make money for my toils

I do it because I want to

Like you, I was a time-slave once, for a long time,

then it ended and I decided not to return to that premise

Maybe that’s why my clocks stopped working,

except my body-clock that never needs repair,

my watches also suffer from stress,

perhaps there is a message there.

 

I know about the cycles of the moon and

the rotation of the world around itself and the sun,

and the notion of days, months, seasons and years,

to me this is stale news,

it happens regardless of me.

I cannot stop it, so I ignore it and

let it be.

 

I’m living in my own dimension now,

free of standard time and its demands

I have stopped worrying about who will pay me back for time

I lost flying over the Pacific,

or to daylight saving

as far as I’m concerned those are pardoned debts I have written off.

 

I’m in a timeless zone now,

between daylight and night,

and what I do inside that zone

of perpetual motion,

is entirely my business.

Avocado Dreams

Tags

balance, enduring life, equilibrium, future, pain, present, remains of the past, remedy, strong heart

 

Avocado dreams, soft and mellow. Avocado schemes, tough skin on the outside and a hard seed at the core. The outer layer, to protect the softness in the middle from external influences, the solid centre, for an enduring heart to maintain integrity. The pale green colour in the middle for positivity and awareness, with hints of renewal and promise. The smoothness for a balanced equilibrium between the layers of hardness.

 

Jade was an avocado person, with olive green eyes. Her magnetic gaze fooled many, who believed her to be a soft person. Little did they know of the firmness inside her, where she kept her pain wrapped under layers. The folds of protection enabled her to isolate the sorrows in separate compartments, to sustain the stamina of her receptive side.

 

Her mother’s dove-like eyes watched and followed her. Jade knew there was still some light inside her although, confined to bed, the only movements she was capable of making was through her gaze and turning her head. Imprisoned within her body, what remained of her senses of sight and hearing seemed to be the only portals that connected her to life. She responded to sounds, even the distant doorbell ringing, perhaps looking forward to a new visitor.

 

So, Jade played music for her, the songs she liked. She opened and closed her eyes, most likely dreaming of days when she had full control. Jade wondered what it must be like to be handled by others, though gentle and kind? She was unable to make a sound even if Jade or the nurse unintentionally hurt her, while caring for her.

 

Jade’s gaze drifted to the black and white photograph of her mother on the wall. A studio picture taken when she was one and a half years old. Standing against a wall, in a frilly white dress, with a small basket of flowers embroidered on the chest. Black patent shoes and white socks. The picture of innocence made Jade’s eyes well.

 

Underneath that, a photo of Jade, taken when she was ten months old. In a floral frock, white boots and socks, she sat, gazing at the camera with curiosity. Of what, Jade pondered. The mysteries of life, the unknown adventures of joy and sorrow yet to be lived.

 

If only we knew, but if we did, we wouldn’t be able to survive. Does my future lie in front of me, in the story of my mother?

 

She wished for an instant death, like her father’s. One moment here, the next moment there. Maybe my future will be like his, not like hers. Maybe the angels will have compassion for me.

 

The other pains concealed in their respective compartments, she glanced at the mirror and scrutinized her eyes. Shadowed with life, no longer as vibrant as that baby girl’s, but still some sparkle remained inside the olive core.

 

She returned to her avocado dreams and carried on writing the story, spiced with the remains of the past and seasoned with the uncertainties of the future, composing a fresh remedy for enduring life.

First and Last – the poetry of Judith Williamson (1947-2015)

Judith still lives in our hearts. I have been fortunate to read her beautiful poetry on the Flash Poesy thread on the now closed Authonomy website. May she rest in peace, 🙂

No more wriggling out of writing ......

Today on my blog I am really pleased to be able to share the poetry of a woman I knew nothing about, until I was contacted by fellow writer David Venner who, in writing this post, drew my attention to the work of Judith Williamson. Reading The Supporter, shared below, I marvelled at the warmth and wit in her work and, with the poem Home,  the breadth of her work is illustrated. A collection of her poetry was published posthumously in 2015.

The name Judith Williamson may not be familiar to readers of this blog. As ‘J L Fontaine’, Judith was a published author. She had been writing since her teens but her first novel The Mark was not published until April last year. Her poetry, beautifully crafted but until recently known only to close family, reached a wider readership in 2014/15 through her participation in an online poetry project, ‘52’, in…

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