Strawberry Moon

Tags

amreading, amwriting, anthology, devotion, Flash Fiction, flower children, full moon, illness, life, loss, love, Ripples on the Pond, separation, strawberry moon, summer of love, summer solstice, writers community

I woke up early this morning to a beautiful full moon. I didn’t realize it was the Strawberry Moon, until I read later in the newspaper. An article in the BBC Science Focus says, “Sadly, there’s no eclipse this month, so the Moon won’t be red. However, for much of the northern hemisphere, June is the month when strawberries begin to ripen – June to September being ‘strawberry season’.”

Well, the full moon was a majestic golden globe, shimmering in the early morning sky. This reminded me of my flash fiction story, Strawberry Moon, from Ripples on the Pond. I’m also including some of my photos from from 2019 when the Strawberry Moon was on 17-18, June, probably because the Lunar Calendar goes backwards.

Sorry for being away for a while, but I’m back.

Thank you for reading. 🙂

Strawberry Moon, 17-18 June, 2019, Marmaris

Strawberry Moon

It’s strawberry picking time. As the longest day flows into the evening and the sunset paints the sky with strokes of peach and apricot hues, we settle into our viewing spot on top of the hill. Munching on berries, washed down with wine, we wait for the full moon to appear on the eve of the solstice. A rare, natural combination, some say last took place on the Summer of Love in 1967.

You and I were so young then. We did not know what the future held for us. Our dreams inspired by California Dreaming, the floral prints on my dress and your shirt matched the flowers in our long hair. We wanted peace in the world. It didn’t happen, did it? Still, we had love and peace in our home, so I can’t complain.

Our work is done now, we are retired. It’s time for our children to bring up theirs. Their lives are tougher than ours. The world is in a state of chaos. The flower children have become senior citizens, with disillusionment in their eyes. Yet, when I look into yours, I still see the same sparkle that hasn’t faded over the years. You never give up, do you? Your optimism is infectious, despite the sinister illness that threatens to steal you from me. I’m done with protesting and denial. After the struggle to hold back tears and anger, acceptance arrived and sorrow moved into the background. To enjoy you and the last of our days, my only wish now, I don’t want to distress you with my grief.

A honey-coloured moon rises from behind the island. I hold your hand, not knowing whether we’ll see another summer solstice together again. I hope to, but- Threads of shimmering beams sketch a spiral avenue of light on the water. It widens as the orange sphere ascends the sky. This must be the road to enlightenment you talk about. You have taught me to look at things from a different perspective.

The golden colour of the moon turns to white as it moves higher. A pleasure boat crosses the bay, melodies and laughter lingering in its wake. Is this what life is about, leaving traces of our existence behind, only to be remembered by those we love?

Love, you say, is precious and rare. Some don’t know how to nurture it. We have managed to cherish ours, despite the challenges of married life.

It’s time to go home now, my love. You need to rest and build up strength. I will not think of tomorrow. Being in the moment keeps me going. I won’t dwell on what I’ll do or how I’ll cope without you. I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

You give me that smile again, the one that warms my heart. You’ve read my thoughts and you say, “We should come back here, on the next full moon.”

I release the brake of the wheelchair and turn it around. I push it gently down the path. One moment at a time.

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Hunter’s Moon by Sebnem E Sanders

Tags

amreading, amwriting, anthology, apparition, Flash Fiction, ghosts, halloween, hunter's moon, kidnapping, life, loss, murder, publication, Punk Noir Magazine, ransom, Ripples on the Pond, short stories, writers community

A Halloween story, originally from Ripples on the Pond, which appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, a year ago. Many thanks to Author, Paul D. Brazill.

Happy Halloween!! 😎

https://punknoirmagazine.com/2020/10/25/hunters-moon-by-sebnem-e-sanders/

This beautiful watercolor is by Chicago artist Robin Samiljan from her collection
“A Year of Moons“. Prints are available for purchase at Fine Art America.

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! 🙂

Red Napkins – Corona Chronicles – Flash Non-Fiction

Tags

#StaysafeStayHome, amreading, amwriting, anxiety, brands, buying, choices, Corona Chronicles, death, flash non-fiction, greed, groceries, hoarding, household items, lessons, life, lifestyle, lockdown, mass manufacturing, modesty, Mother Earth, pollution, prudence, red napkins, shopping online, starvation, stocking, thoughts, virus

 

 

 

Red Napkins

 

While looking for tissues at an online supermarket, I come across my favourite red napkins. Two packs into the basket, I continue my virtual shopping. Going over the list, adding, deleting stuff, I complete the task and pay by card. My provisions for the lockdown replenished, the delivery due the following day, I resume my daily chores. Red napkins on my mind.

Why did I buy them? It’s not likely I’ll be inviting people to dinner in the near future. I like the colour, haven’t seen them on the shelves in the days I could visit the supermarket, and I can use them myself. Good excuses, but the cupboard is full of paper napkins in all the colours of the rainbow. Why not use them instead? Red napkins are prettier.

I’m not a panic shopper. I don’t stock things and have little room to store them. Yet, the question of what if  lingers at the back of my mind. Instead of buying one packet of hair dye, I buy two, an extra pack of cheese or two more cans of tuna fish. What if they run out of stock? It’s helping the economy, but depleting my budget.

Behind this hoarding tendency, lingers the anxiety of holding onto a lifestyle which may no longer exist. A variety of choices, favourites, brands that dominate our daily lives. Despite knowing this is not a matter of life and death, that the groceries or dry goods at home might last me at least three months, I worry about running out of stuff  I’m accustomed to buying. I won’t die of starvation, but my choices in the future might be limited.

The supermarket delivery arrives. I look at the red napkins and laugh at myself. I make a pledge not to buy any more until I use the ones at home. It dawns on me Mother Earth is suffering due to the mass manufacturing of this diverse merchandise and choices in the market, whether it’s  food, household items and chemicals, not forgetting clothes and accessories. Buy less, waste less, be inventive and creative. The lack of choices is not a death threat, but the virus is. I’m learning …

 

#StaySafeStayHome

 

 

 

 

Making a Difference ~~ by Sebnem Sanders

Tags

charity, Emmaus, Fiction, homeless, homelessness, inspiration, life, omp, One Milion Project, Short Story

Many thanks to author Kate McGinn for publishing my story, Making a Difference, at the One Million Project (OMP) Blog. Kate is an OMP networker who hosts the OMP Blog.

My contribution to the OMP Thriller Anthology is a story called Mummy’s Torchlight .

 

Thank you very much for reading.  🙂

theonemillionproject

In the wayward, icy wind, blowing the city fumes in all directions, Miss Plenty tucked in the errant locks that had escaped from her wool cap and pulled it tightly over her ears.  Warming her freezing hands, framed in fingerless gloves over the heat of the fire, she scrutinized Mr. Nothing. “I see a pensive look in your eyes. What’s up?”

“Sometimes, my thoughts drift to the past, but what’s done is done.”

“This is our reality. Your memories belong to a life that is no longer yours. Or one you left behind for your own reasons. No point in slipping back into something that’s gone.”

“I know. Still, acceptance or not being acceptable bugs me.”

“Acceptable, hmm,” she said, watching her warm breath turn into white vapour in the cold night air.

“I betcha,” she said, with a smile, “we can make a difference.”

“How so?” Mr. Nothing asked.  “The…

View original post 1,454 more words

Earth

Tags

abstract, Chemtrails, darkness, daylight, death, earth, escape, food, hunger, known, life, mother nature, new generations, notions, population control, survival, the unknown

 

I’m sorry I’m leaving your topsoil,

but I must

They’re spraying chemtrails

above us,

poisoning our food, water, and air.

I must take the children to the depths of your bosom

where there’s no sunshine, a blue or a starry sky.

Our leaders have made a tunnel, you see,

I never thought I’d be buried in you before my time.

How will I teach the children about the stars and the planets,

sunshine, moonlight, a breeze, a storm or the sea?

Can these be learned as abstract notions?

I have my worries about food too,

What will we eat?

Will vegetables grow without sunshine and rain?

The scientists tell us we can survive,

they have the seeds and the means to cultivate them,

but I need to see this before I believe in their theories.

How about the sun rays my children need to absorb

for a healthy growth?

Will they fade and whither like cut blooms in a vase?

I worry about  so many things,

Have I made the right decision,

is it better to die here or underground?

I’m not sure, dear Earth,

but here we come,

to escape the population control above you,

yet no one knows what will happen

when we’re deep down towards your core.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – Love is Forever by Ron A. Sewell

Tags

accident, birth, death, eternity, Flash Fiction, grief, hope, life, loss, love, scribblers, the beginning, the end, Writing Prompts, Year-end Competition

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

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/1157/flash-fiction-december-20th-results

 

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

 

Love is Forever by Ron A. Sewell

 

Marc Chagall, Song of Songs III

 

Nervous, Rachel clutched her flowers tight to her body. Her face glowed as she stepped with dignity through the doors into the church. From the stained glass windows, a rainbow of colour lit her white bouquet.

When she arrived at David’s side, she gave her bouquet to her father. Together, she and David emanated happiness. Their marriage had been inescapable from the time they first met. They were inseparable. Their love for one another radiated like the sun warming the earth.

Before their wedding day, they asked the vicar not to include the words ‘until death do us part.’ When asked why both replied, “We’re soul-mates. We know true love lives on even when these frail bodies turn to dust.”

At their reception venue, the room vibrated with talk as children ran between the tables. When Rachel and David arrived, clapping spread around the room. There was the scraping of chairs as guests stood and clapped even louder. Hand in hand, the perfect couple made their way to the head table. They sat in front of a bouquet of white roses. After a few moments, the toastmaster rose from his chair and everyone else sat down.

As their guests prepared to leave, the newly weds made tracks through a blizzard of confetti to their car. With a quick wave, they drove towards the airport.

Sliding on a rain-soaked surface, the HGV jack-knifed and slammed into their car. The impact appeared to take forever. As the car crumpled, lights swirled, rose and fell and the din of the tearing metal roared in their ears. The seatbelt tugged Rachel’s chest and the airbag struck her face. When everything stopped, a strange silence cloaked her.

Sirens screamed, came close and stopped. Her right hand reached out for David, she could not find him. Harsh noises filled her ears. People talked as if she were no longer there. Pain kept her brain active and then everything went white.

***
Rachel lay in the curtained cubical, her eyes staring at the tiled ceiling. From somewhere she heard crying. A nurse inserted a drip and fitted an oxygen mask.

Then warmth of David’s hand gave her strength. Side by side, they stood in the background and watched the medical team at work.
The doctor turned to Rachel’s parents. “We can save the child but there is nothing more we can do for your daughter.” Words constructed of simple letters cut through her parents’ grief.

David squeezed her hand. “Our baby will be fine.”

Her eyes met his. “We were so happy. Why?” She kissed his cheek. “It was our time but wherever we go from here, we go together.”

With tears in his eyes, Rachel’s father signed the proffered forms. A nurse guided the trolley while another controlled the life support machine. In seconds, Rachel disappeared through the swing doors.

Twenty minutes elapsed before the surgeon appeared. “Not exactly protocol but would you like to say goodbye to Rachel and hello to your granddaughter.”

Rachel’s dad slipped his arm around his wife’s waist as they entered the operating theatre.

Covered in a green plastic sheet, they both sobbed for their sleeping daughter. Her father nodded to the doctor who switched off the life support.

Her mother shuffled to the nearby incubator and sobbed even more as she remembered Rachel’s birth.

“She beautiful,” said the nurse.

Mum and dad watched as tiny fingers clenched and unclenched. Free of the womb her legs kicked.

She glanced at the nurse. “She’s my granddaughter. I’ll never forget Rachel but she’s at peace and she’s given me the greatest gift she ever could.”

“Will you call her Rachel?” asked the nurse.

“No. There’s only one Rachel.” She turned to her husband. “What will we call her?”

“Lucy. It’s lucky spelt badly.”

Rachel grasped David’s hand as they strolled along a leaf-covered lane. “Death has not parted us. Our future’s where no clouds block the warmth of the sun. A place where one soul can whisper to another. Where togetherness means forever. This is not the end but another beginning.”

 

 

Ron A. Sewell  is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers.

 

Short Bio:

Ron Sewell is a no nonsense type of person, fool around with someone else but not with him. He does not suffer fools, at all. What you see is what you get. He writes Adult boy’s own tales as well as shorts. He regularly contributes to Scribblers flash fiction and many of his short stories are published. His novels focus on his experience and travels while a member of the Royal Navy. Hence, it is an old-fashioned, carefully constructed piece of adventure with the right dose of suspense and unexpected twists.

He can be found on WordPress, Linkedin and his books are on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/Ron-Sewell/e/B007JAMCPU?ref=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000

 

 

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

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. 🙂

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laundry

Tags

affair, birthday, Flash Fiction, flowers, Laundry, lavender, life, love, relationships, shirt, Spelk Fiction

My flash story Laundry is up at Spelk Fiction. Nice Christmas present. 🙂

Spelk

by Sebnem E. Sanders

I smell the freshness of your shirt when I bury my face in your chest. A hint of lavender takes me to an old Italian movie, a scene where people hang their laundry on the terrace. We play hide-and-seek between the big white sheets and rub sweaty hands on the cotton fabric.

Who irons your shirts like this? You never mentioned any one. I never asked. Omission is a sin. Lavender and heather won’t make up for it. Today, I ask the question that’s been roaming in my head for a while.

Your gaze drifts away and you mutter, “The one I took vows with.”

I step back. Clench my hands and shout, “Get the hell out of here and don’t come back.”

You look at me with pleading eyes, and linger, unsure.

“Out, now!” I command.

You hesitate, then turn around. Shoulders slumped, you drift…

View original post 328 more words

Birdie

Tags

birds, death, flash story, help, life, loss, love, mortality, pigeon, sadness, survival, True Story

 

 

This is a true story …

 

She comes at the most unexpected time. In the evening, when the sun has sunk behind the hills, and it’s time to roll back the canopy on the terrace to allow daylight into the flat. I head towards the kitchen door and open it to let in the cool evening breeze. Something crawls around my foot.  A kitten, on the first floor? I look down and see a small pigeon.

She walks, but can’t fly. I presume she would have the moment my foot touched her body.  Something must be wrong. Maybe her leg or wing is injured?  I fill two bowls, one with water and another with bread and seeds, and place them near her. She doesn’t touch them. Frightened, she seeks refuge in dark corners. I let her be and watch her from behind the terrace door.

Darkness falls.  I switch the lights on in the lounge. She hides by the flower pot next to the kitchen door. I must not disturb her. Later, before I go to bed, I must lock that door.

Discreetly, I close the door. She’s sleeping on her feet by the flower pot. Let her be …

 

It’s still dark when I wake up. Under the moonlight, I see her shadow against the flower pot. I slide open the terrace door. She doesn’t move.

I turn on the coffee machine, sit in my chair, and switch on the computer. I hear wings flapping. Through the netting, I peek outside. Birdie is thrashing herself on the terrace tiles. She makes an attempt, falls on her head or sideways, and tries again, as though her legs are paralysed.  She can’t walk. What happened? She was pacing the terrace last night. I took photos …

She’s still trying to hide from me. Desperately, she moves to the opposite side of the terrace, and then, under the table, seeking refuge. I don’t know how to help or comfort her. I take a soft floor brush and gently move her towards the food and water. She perches on the food bowl, then on the water, and stays put.

I check my watch, 7.30 am, can’t call anyone at this hour. I wish my downstairs neighbour were here. She’s good with animals and would know what to do. My conscience hurts as Birdie flaps her wings and falls sideways. She’s trying to hold onto life.

My plans for the morning and the day over, I desperately Google information on vets who might take care of birds. I come across a name I took my neighbour’s cat to. I punch the number on the landline. No reply. At 8.30 am, I call my neighbour, away on holiday, asking for help. “Any vets who can take care of birds? This one is dying and I can’t do anything to help.”

She comes back with a name, someone she knows, but he won’t be at the clinic till 10 am. I look for a suitable box, lay some paper at the bottom, get dressed and call the Vet clinic after 9 am. They tell me I can bring her in.

I lift birdie with plastic gloves and put her in the box. She’s faint, but still living.  I drive slowly towards the address not far away from home.

Carrying the box in my hand, I walk into their office. “Can you please help her? I think she’s dying.”

The young Vet takes her out of the box and examines her with his gloved hands. He says, “Her rib-cage is hollow.  This is an advanced stage of a viral infection. She’s dehydrated, suffers from malnutrition. “

“But I did give her water,” I say.

“At this stage, you need to force her,” he replies.

He asks the assistant to bring some water and puts her beak into the paper cup. Birdie takes  a couple of sips.

“I tried to do that,” I say.

“Maybe she was frightened,“ he says.

“Can you help her?”

“Very difficult at this stage. This infection progresses fast.”

“She was walking last night. Look I have photos.” I show him the images on my phone.

“It happens. Why don’t you leave her with us? We’ll take your contact number and get in touch with you.”

I leave the Vet’s Clinic without Birdie. I arrive home and think I must wash the balcony, get rid of the bird’s poo on the tiles. I can’t. I sit and wait. I’m unable to go for my morning swim. I can’t move. An hour later, the nice girl at the Vet’s calls me. “I’m sorry,“ she says.

And I cry for Birdie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Breath of Air

Tags

air, borders, breeze, climate, climate changes, destination, heat, home, life, survival, travel, wind

 

 

 

Air is still free,

but we don’t know for how long

Today was the first time in two weeks

I could take a fresh breath

instead of the re-cycled mass from the AC

I’ve been dreaming of a cool breeze,

it wasn’t quite so

though refreshing

Opening the doors and the windows,

and with the help of ceiling fans,

I brought life into my surrounding.

My geraniums, coral plants are dead,

my house plants sad,

they couldn’t cope with the furnace winds

blowing fire into the atmosphere

but my young pines are flourishing,

since they chose to grace me with their existence

after sowing their seeds into my potted plants

where I laid their cones for decoration

I’m from the North,

The Bosphorus is my hometown,

now I live on the border of the Aegean and the Mediterranean,

and still haven’t figured out

how they put boundaries

on the vast waters

Something to think about

while I’m getting used to

my not so new surroundings

Life has brought me to this port,

like my young pine trees,

our home for the time being