Pebbles

Tags

amreading, amwriting, change, death, Dinosaurs, Flash Fiction, hoarding, Islands, letting go, life, Micro Fiction, natural habitat, nature, Pebbles, possession, writers community

Pebbles

The islands lie in the water, like dinosaurs sleeping, their heads and tails concealed. Their backs forming the contours of the seascape.

I know there’s no water there, otherwise they’d be inhabited. Maybe a good thing, saving nature from mankind’s destruction. Not much vegetation can be observed from afar, either. Perhaps some bushes that can last the heat of the summer months without rain.

On the shore, I see pebbles of all colours. Emerald green, ruby pink, cobalt blue. They shine like precious gems. Once I take them out of the water, their colours go dull. I know this, because I fell in love with them and took them home, but they weren’t the same. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have, and should have left them in their own natural environment. Perhaps that’s what I did with you, and that’s why you stopped shining.

I must not be a hoarder, a collector of pebbles with attractive hues. The colours depend on the light and water. Their nourishment. Once the circumstances change, the pebbles change their nature. Is that why you changed as well?

I’ll return the pebbles where they belong. I’ll watch them from afar. I don’t wish to possess them, but to see them alive.

Thanks for reading! 🙂

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The End and The Beginning

Tags

amreading, amwriting, change, civilization, differences, division, Flash Fiction, greed, human nature, knowledge, learning, lessons, mistakes, perpetual existence, repetition, tools, truth, unchanged, unity, writingcommunity

 

Richard Ehrlich photography, from “Homage to Rothko, Malibu Series” 2012
(In collaboration with R. Mac Holbert, a series of montages composed from original Malibu sky images as an Homage to Mark Rothko)

 

I wrote this story a while ago. I submitted it without success. I think this is the right time to share it. Dismal, but true. We don’t change, do we?

 

 

The End and The Beginning

 

They said the Day of Judgement had come and the end of the world was near. Then the skies turned granite, hurricanes, earthquakes, and tsunamis devastated towns and villages for days until all the unwanted were washed away from the surface of the planet.

Waking on strange beach, I looked around and saw that everything had changed. Not a building in sight, nor any remnants of “civilization”. A vast emptiness as far as the eye could see, bordered by tree covered hills. Even the sun didn’t look familiar, an alien shade of red, casting a rosy light upon the land.

Following the sound of water gushing from an unseen source, I dragged my feet towards it until I came upon a rivulet fed by a spring. Scattered around its banks, people talked to each other while perusing me with suspicion as I approached. I bowed my head, then cupped my hands and drank water to quench my thirst.

Resting on the grass to observe the survivors, I noticed everything was different. Snow White was no longer white, but black. Rapunzel had close-cropped hair. Alice had lost her wonderland. Soldiers and pirates exchanged clothes and identities, as Sleeping Beauty walked around, eyes wide open. Lords had become peasants as peasants flaunted their elegant outfits.

“Who are you?” a young girl asked.

“No one special. I’m me.”

“How come you haven’t changed?”

“No idea. Are we on a different planet? Is this Earth or elsewhere?”

“We don’t know, yet. Nobody does. We’re gathering to decide on a plan.”

I joined the discussion about our survival and voted to move up the hills to take shelter rather than staying on the beach in case of a Tsunami. Perhaps we could find food up there and a safe haven to settle.

Scouts explored the mountains and returned with the news of a valley beyond the hills. Hunting for food with sharpened sticks, on our way, we reached the meadow at dusk. Gathered around fires lit with flint,  the head count of 500 remaining humans discussed the strategy of our survival on this strange planet.

“Back to the stone age,” one said.

“At least we have the knowledge. We can make tools, wheels, and shelters. Start farming, agriculture. Keep livestock, form a community.”

Knowledge without tools was a sad consolation, but we could always try as humans had done in the past and advanced.

Survival being our mutual cause, we worked in harmony as a leader emerged in the colony. He formed a council of advisors, and much to my surprise, included me they called Unchanged. It seemed like a privilege, but I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it meant unchangeable, inflexible, rigid. Was I so, though I tried very hard to adapt to the difficult conditions of our existence?

“A transformation,” they said. “A test for humanity to do better this time, understanding the past to build the future. At least we speak the same language and can communicate. We’re civilized without being civilized.”

I wasn’t sure about that either because I heard a wise woman and a wise man speak.

“You know what will happen at the end of this, don’t you?” she said.

He chuckled. “Politics, greed, wars, division, and devastation. The rich and the poor.”

“Progress and destruction.”

“Can’t we prevent this, having the knowledge?”

“Not unless we can stop time, but you know we can’t change human nature.”

 

I wept with the knowledge that someday this world would end, too, despite the efforts of survival and co-operation here. Perhaps, that’s why I hadn’t changed. I represented all of them, in my perpetual state of being.

 

Thank you for reading.  🙂

The Hill, inspired by Gabriele Munter’s Jawlensky and Werefkin, 1908 #HappyWomensDay

Tags

amreading, amwriting, change, equality, Flash Poesy, love, memories, perseverance, persistance, war, women, Women's Day, women's rights

Gabriele Munter, Jawlensky and Werefkin, 1908

 

 

I have always been inspired by Gabriele Munter’s paintings, especially this particular one, Jawlensky and Werefkin, 1908, which tells me a story.

Gabriele Munter , one of the few women artists in early 20th century, who were recognised by the male-dominated art world. I have great respect for her.

I thought I’d written a flash fiction story inspired by this painting, a while ago. It turns out to be a poem. I’m no poet, this probably needs editing, but perhaps that was the only way I could express my feelings.

 

The Hill

(1908-1948)

 

 

We sit at the top of the hill,

under the cosy spring sun,

and watch the world below

 

The bouquet of flowers you pick on the way up,

I fix to the ribbon around my plain straw hat,

and feel like a member of the nobility.

 

My eyes shifting to the puffy, white clouds,

I dream a bright future for us

You observe the movements of the ants,

and say, we must be so well-organized

 

 

I still remember that day, my love,

though I lost you to the insidious war.

Left with two young children,

in the shambles of our dream house,

I had to work to support them.

 

It’s been forty years since that day,

with another war claiming lives.

Grateful that our children have survived it,

I’m now a retired grandmother looking after theirs

 

The world has changed so much,

you wouldn’t believe it

We don’t have to wear fancy hats and long dresses,

even gloves have gone out of style.

 

Women can vote, go to universities,

and become professionals.

Life is easy with telephones, radio,

automobiles, electric trains, and airplanes,

so thoroughly organized.

 

I still live in our restored dream house,

and go up the hill to celebrate our anniversary each year.

Though much has changed,

spring flowers decorating my straw hat,

the puffy, white clouds above, and the village

have stayed the same.

 

 

Sometimes I miss the elegance of the past,

though life is much simpler now.

But I miss you most of all,

and have never found anything

to replace your love.

 

Happy Women’s Day!

 

Thank you for reading. 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eclipse, a Flash Fiction Story

Tags

age difference, amreading, amwriting, blood moon, change, eclipse, Flash Fiction, hidden truth, lunar eclipse, moon, reflection, satellite, writingcommunity

 Photo of last night’s Blood Moon taken by Side Antalya Turkey on Facebook

(July 27, 2018)

 

 

Taking a right turn from the highway, Tim steered the car into a dust road that meandered towards the coast.  After parking at a dead end in the middle of nowhere, he unloaded his camera bags and tripod.  Carrying the picnic basket, I followed him to the top of a hill, facing the sea. Away from traffic and city lights, the night sky resembled a star-studded umbrella in complete darkness. The cicadas sang as we waited for the moon to appear, and the eclipse due in a couple of hours.

“What’s special about a lunar eclipse?” I asked.

“The moon plays hide and seek with us.”

“And a blood moon?”

“It happens a few times a year. This one is rare because it will be one of the longest. Instead of going dark, she becomes red. I believe it carries a message for the blood spilled on earth.”

“You’re making this up,” I chuckled and sipped the red wine.

“I am, but I it could be true. Eclipses always bring out the truth, like your mood today.”

“What mood?”  I asked, knowing he was right.

“You’re hiding something, playing games with me.”

I lit a cigarette, inhaled and exhaled the smoke. I looked at his face in the moonlight and stared into his eyes.

“Tim, you know, this is not right. I’m too old for you.”

“You love me, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, but that doesn’t change anything. A fact is a fact. This won’t work.”

“You’ve been with an older man before. Did that work?”

“It didn’t, but this has nothing to do with that.”

“You’re biased. If this relationship were between a woman and a man ten years older than her, you wouldn’t question it.”

“True.”

“Then, you’re contradicting yourself,” he said, pouring more wine into my glass.

“Maybe.”  I raked my fingers through his sun-streaked hair and touched his face. “I’m scared. This might lead to a heartache I won’t be able to cope with. They get worse as one gets older.”

“I won’t break your heart. I promise. I’ve been with younger women, some around my age, but none of those relationships worked. It has nothing to do with age. I’ve never loved anyone like you. Why won’t you accept that?” He held my chin and kissed me, and wrapped me in his arms.

I stroked his back, clinging to his big frame. Opening my eyes, I saw a shade of darkness on the outer edge of the moon. “Quick, it’s happening now.”

I watched him taking pictures behind his camera. He swapped lenses, and shot from different angles, as the moon went dark. Then, as if through magic, a rosy colour appeared from its edge, and gradually covered the entire sphere, frame by frame, until it became a red ball flaunting its beauty in the night sky.

I wondered whether the rosy colour hinted at a good omen or a bloodbath for my future disappointments, disillusionments. There was only one way to find out.

After one hour and forty-three minutes, the duration of the eclipse, everything went back to normal. Normal as we know it. The full moon slowly returned to its familiar appearance of a white sphere, as though nothing had happened. It was an illusion. Something had happened, but it would only be revealed in time.

Seasons

Tags

Ad Hoc Fiction, change, continuity, cycle, despair, Flash Fiction, hope, learning, lessons, life, micro-fiction, repetition, seasons, spring

 

A micro-fiction story of maximum 150 words, I contributed to Ad Hoc Fiction,  using the word “spring”.

 

Spring arrived early. Unprepared, I shed my winter clothes. In the garden, daisies greeted me, along with poppies and dandelions. I checked the seeds of hope I’d planted in November. Little green shoots displayed their leaves and tiny buds with pride.

Like my youth, Spring passed in a flash and became Summer, my middle-age. I didn’t mind the heat, though it slowed me down. Wearing shades under the canopy, I created shadows where I could enjoy the multi-coloured blooms of the Bougainvillaea. Attractive vines that thrive in strong sunlight, and need little water. I decided to imitate them, and protect myself with thorns against unwelcome visitors. But it was too late.

When Autumn arrived, I planted my seeds again, before winter confined me indoors.  A pessimist in darkness,  I asked myself, “How many more times can I do this?”

The hyacinth bulb by window answered, “Until you learn.”

 

http://adhocfiction.com/read/#FlashEbook

 

The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – Story Number 3 by Toppykat

Tags

acceptance, change, competition, destination, dream, Flash Fiction, new world, plan, scribblers, the beginning, the end, tunnel, winning stories, year-end special

Over this weekend, I’m delighted to share with you the top three stories of the Year-end Special Competition at the Flash Fiction Group I host on Scribblers.

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/board/26/flash-fiction

 

The prompt was The End and The Beginning, with a 1000 word limit.

 

 

Here’s story Number 3 by Toppykat:

The End — The Beginning 

 

The smell of autumn but more like musky, warm, rich odors of a bonfire in the distance. I walk miles across an unfamiliar terrain. A twilight sky as black a sky I have never seen before cloaks me. In this world silence is explicit. My breathing reverberates in my ear with a periodic whistle in accompaniment. I’ve been walking for hours now, it seems. However, the theme of the landscape, unchanged. I am without my sunglasses, I am not squinting but more alive than I have ever felt before. Suddenly, my legs are Jello beneath me. My abdomen feels as though a sledge hammer collided with it. On the caked ground; facing the night sky, I am screaming. My stomach crushed. Blood is everywhere.

Startled, I sit up in bed staring into the mirror mounted on the wall before me. I am in perfect form.

I wish to stay here and never return, I whisper to myself retrieving notepad and pen off the nightstand. Noting the specifics of my dream. No change, I write. It has been the same dream occurrence for as long as I can recollect.

****

 

People like ants scurry about Grand Central main concourse in lieu of their destinations. I taste the bile in my throat as envy boils in the pit of my stomach. They have their destination in sight. I have yet to formulate a plan to reach mine.

After my parents’ sudden death, I quickly squander my fortune. The new world envisioned in my dreams will require no currency of any kind.

The dream gives me hope and promise for a new life elsewhere. It fuels my days. The end is near for the dreams are becoming more and more vivid with each occurrence. I believe, I have hope!

The homeless shelter at night – a contrast to Café Joe where I spend my days. I sit here now looking out the window at busy Park Avenue. I watch as cars drive into the gaping mouth of the avenue’s underpass. Being swallowed into its wrought iron and trestle mouth, affixed to its diagonal cement wall of a face. Its trestle mouth; slick black and paved surface of a tongue sports brilliant, white double lines down its middle. I hear folks say it is yellow.

I wear sunglasses to protect my eyes from the glares of each day of my miserable existence in this world. My monochromatic vision a birth defect. I see in shades of black, white and grey. However, I can differentiate white from black quite easily. The texture is extreme and dense identifying the blackest shades as black and the lightest shades as white. The grey are other colors in their world I can identify due to minor variations within. I can typically fudge out blues and yellows. All others are lost to me and seen as grey.

The time is soon. The moment near. End life in this world. Spin a new beginning in another is the plan. The excitement of its premise heightens my sensitivity to the glare outside. I turn away sipping my coffee. It is tasteless today. Oh! My bad! It is water and my twelfth cup. Instincts dictate more consumption is necessary today. Re-filling my glass from a now empty pitcher, I gesture to the waiter for another.

I don’t recall vacating my stool at Café Joe because I stand in the midst of oncoming traffic. Cocoon within a bubble of silence, which pops precipitously within seconds of my realization. My body hits the paved road before the underpass, hard. My vision skews. The underpass transforms to an eagle readying for flight. Brought back to reality when the pain in my abdomen registers throughout. Flesh raw to the touch as I am being propped up by a woman. She folds her sweater and places it underneath my throbbing head. A masculine voice of despair pleads to me.

“Sir, what can I do for you?”

Lifting my head, I watch as slick, thick liquid seep from my wound. I am unsure of its color for a mill-second. I ask the man before me.

“It is red? Isn’t it?”

“What is red?”

“My blood … it’s red, right?”

With a look of puzzlement and disbelief in his eyes, he responds. “Yes.”

I smile. I focus on the gaping mouth of the underpass. I am no longer on the roadway but inside my dream. My feet carry the miles along into nothingness. However, this time I witness bright red dots cloaked within fragile moths-like skirts. They are floating through the atmosphere. The warmth of this world touches my heart. I reach for my sunglasses — gone. The trousers I wear a relic of my previous life.

I feel cold, sweaty palm touches my hand. A prelude to a coarse voice like that of a chronic smoker invades the silent night. A singular baritone overture trails upward from the caked and baked earth beneath my bare feet.

“You cannot enter here in your human form? You must be as I am to reside here.”

It is male! Instinctively, I look up to the sky searching the night for its source. A tug to my trouser makes me look down to reveal. A diminutive creature no taller than a two-year old toddler. It snickers. Its head thrown all the way back. Its mouth houses a full set of sharp canines. Its head clearly the size of its body doing a balancing act. Yet it does not topple over.

On my knees, I stare back adamantly, “I must remain!”

The creature tilts its head to the right; then left. Its hollow puncture holes for eyes seem to be blinking at me in delight. A chuckle caught in my throat at its preposterousness. It walks away pensively; stops then turns around, abruptly.

“Ah! Of course! I remember you. Welcome!”

I start to my feet but there is no need. I now stand eye to eye with the diminutive creature.

 

Toppykat is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Here are links to some of her published work:

Moment is My Name
thedrabble.wordpress.com/20…/…/28/moment-is-my-name/

The Ex
thedrabble.wordpress.com/2017/09/04/the-ex/

 

If you wish to take a look at the other great stories of the Year-End Special, here’s the link to the thread:

Year-end Special

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/966/flash-fiction-december-2017-results

 

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. Here’s the link to the current thread:

Flash Fiction January 2018

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/972/flash-fiction-january-2018-week

 

 

 

 

Stone

Tags

100 word story, change, crisis, drabble, durable, evolution, Flash Fiction, hard, history of mankind, humanity, mountain, pebble, rock, stone

Rock formations, Çine, Aydın, Turkey

 

100 word story

 

They say stone has no feelings. It is hard, durable and everlasting. Mountains stand proud, gazing at the world from high above. Formed by heat and compression, and altered by lava, in time stone breaks down into rocks and pebbles, and reaches the waters.  Tremors of Gaia and erosion by wind and rain sculpt the peaks through a slow process of softening the sharp edges, while the soil created gives life to their surfaces, helping the stones hold onto their roots.

Humanity exists like mountains, rocks and pebbles, enduring  the changes of crisis and evolution, shaping the story of mankind.

Floods of Hope

Tags

change, controversy, darkness, dictator, floods, history, hope, justice, lies, miracle, oppressed, oppression, turmoil, tyrant, us and them, values

 

At the top of the hill, I pause for a rest and contemplate the scene around me, disheartened and perplexed. I cringe. Weary of the battles lost in the name of integrity, I yearn for some breathing room from the oppression we, The Others, are being subjected to.

 

Ever since the day he came into our lives, I knew he would not leave. All the beliefs and values I was brought up with would crumble and wither under his merciless feet. He moved ever so discreetly, building his strength. Fooling the foolish followers, he cast his web. Insidiously, undetected by the naked eye. Over time, the tyrant’s network grew, while the rich became richer with his encouragement. He bought them, sold them, rewarded his loyal subjects with treasures that belonged to the land.

 

One morning we woke up to find all that we had was gone. He became ruthless, greedy and revelled in his power. No one could disagree with him. If they did, they rotted in jail with sentences from the courts of justice that became his domain. A one man show, one man’s law, against The Others that dared to fight for their rights. Lies, controversy, megalomania in the disguise of religion ruled the land. The Others wept and protested, hissing at the imperial powers who created this monster for their sinister purposes.

 

Darkness fell on the country with nightmares in real time. Human rights and ideals crushed under the corruption. This was no purgatory, but hell itself. The Others, buried beneath the rubble before their deaths, floods of tears and blood poured into the rivers that ran to the seas surrounding the country. As the waters rose, the lands sank, drowning the oppressors together with the oppressed.

 

 

A lonely flag sways in the wind atop a green hill, still resisting the mayhem. Will this ever end? Only time will tell. The Others are weak and have run out of weapons and ammunition. Can this silenced opposition be pregnant with a hope of change? This is not a tale from a distant past. History repeats itself. How long do dictators last?

 

Maybe when the waters subside, there will be a different land. Cleansed and purified from the hostile residues of hypocrisy and fraud. I pray for a miracle, a miracle of justice. They’re hard to come by these days, but I have to believe in something to survive this turmoil.

 

 

NB. I wrote this story about a year ago. The floods in Istanbul today reminded me of it.

Mushka

Tags

change, doubt, faith, fear, guidance, hope, ideas, insight, inspiration, limbo, motivation, muse, mystery, perception, uncertainty

 

Mushka was a character from a dream,

mystery the underlying theme

I looked for her everywhere

she was nowhere to be seen

One day when life became threatening,

obscure and unpromising,

as fear and uncertainty forced me

into a state of limbo on a park bench

she appeared, holding a paper bag in her hand

and sat next to me

 

Opening the bag, she offered me a sandwich

and a drink, and asked, “Why so pensive?”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said.

“Are you seeking guidance?”

“Can you show me the right way?”

“Right or wrong is a matter of perception,

it depends on who you are.”

unwrapping the plastic cover of her lunch,

she bit off the corner of the bread and munched

 

“I no longer know who I am,

the dream thieves have stolen my ideas

and hopes.”

“You must have let them in, ” she said

and sipped her drink.

I pondered on that as I watched her eat,

Did I not lock the doors and the windows,

did I allow them to intrude my mind?

Doubt must have done that,

perhaps by defeating Faith.

“I must find her to get back on the right track.”

“When you do, you’ll have the answer,

but eat your lunch first, an empty stomach

is a poor start for seeking insight.”

 

I turned my head, the seat was empty,

Mushka had disappeared,

the only evidence of her presence, a paper bag

holding the wrappings of her inspiration sandwich

and an empty carton of motivation juice.