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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

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

Movies

Tags

butterfly effect, casualty, dreams, empathy, grand finale, learning, lesson, life, loneliness, loss, love, movies, past, play, present, purpose

 

 

Watching movies to pass time,

Benjamin Button, Up in the Air and Babel

butterfly effect with the underlying theme of loneliness,

feeling the empathy for the love and loss,

of youth, dreams and purpose

It’s easy to analyse the past,

to death, sometimes,

but analysing the present is hard,

why we have become who we are,

without dissecting the contributing factors

How did I get here?

Can I time-travel and put it right,

or am I just a casualty of the past,

in my loneliness among the crowds?

Will I age backwards like Benjamin Button

in complete memory loss,

from diapers to diapers

in the reverse order?

Or will I continue existing Up in the Air

with free miles on my card I won’t be able to spend?

Token miles for life expire within a set time,

no longer valid in this act of the play,

intermission, suspense,

and the anticipation for the grand finale,

which we’ll only know when the play ends.

Book Trailer for Ripples on the Pond

Tags

anthology, around the world, bite-size stories, book trailer, debut, experience, Flash Fiction, human experience, life, Locations, lunchtime stories, ripples, Ripples on the Pond, settings, short stories

I’m unable to share the book trailer I made for Ripples on the Pond on WordPress unless I upgrade my membership and pay a monthly fee. So, I’m going to share the photos in the trailer and a link to my Instagram post where I uploaded the video. I hope it works.

Most stories in Ripples on the Pond don’t have a specific setting. This is deliberate on my part, as a writer, because I want to make them universal. They can happen anywhere in the world. They depict echoes of the human experience, our strengths, weaknesses, failures, achievements, and observations. We are the sum total of everything in our lives, in our search for happiness.

Yet, some stories have specific settings, due to a memory, life experience, a public figure or a work of art that inspired me. So here’s a summary of a few titles from Ripples on the Pond set at various locations around the world.

 

The Southern Aegean and The Mediterranean

Gemiler Adası, St Nicholas Island, Fethiye, Muğla, Turkey

 

 

 

 

 

 

Istanbul

 

 

 

A tribute to Florida

 

New York

 

London

 

 

Costa Rica

 

Australia

 

Delhi, India 

 

Bali, Indonesia

 

 

Time to put that book in the bag,

 

and begin to read, anywhere, any time, when you have a moment. Bite-size stories, lunchtime stories …

 

Instagram link:

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Sebnem Sanders (@sebnemsanders) on Jun 1, 2018 at 5:01am PDT

 

 

Thank you very much for reading. 🙂

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

 

Ripples on the Pond

Tags

anthology, awareness, bite-size stories, collection, debut, experience, Flash Fiction, human stories, life, lunchtime stories, ripples of existence, Ripples on the Pond, short stories

 

Ah, finally the Paperback and the Kindle editions of my debut book, Ripples on the Pond, are combined and the ‘Look Inside’ feature is working for both.

Amazon link:

Amazon Link

Amazon UK link:

Amazon UK Link

 

Here is the blurb for my collection of short and flash fiction stories:

 

A man infatuated with ivy. A woman pining for lost love. In a Turkish square, ancient buildings lament a devastating explosion. An unlikely friendship struck up with a homeless person. A journey to a magical place that once visited can never be found again. The camaraderie between the patients in a cancer ward. A writer who has lost his muse. A tragedy that leads to dementia.

These are just a few of seventy individual tales set in locations straddling continents, which portray war, love, hate, hope, greed, revenge, despair, humour, mystical happenings, fantasy, and so much more. Like ripples expanding on the surface of a pond to reach its banks, they converge in this anthology of flash fiction and short stories by Sebnem E. Sanders in her debut release.

 

Edit: December 7th, 2017 19.07 GMT+3

A day to remember / Tarihi bir gün

 

Ripples arrives home

Yay, the most expensive copy of Ripples on the Pond has arrived in Marmaris. Thanks to UPS. I can’t describe the joy of holding my book in my hand. The cover and design look great, David J Meyers. I’m forever grateful to you. 😍

Kitabımın en pahalı baskısı Marmaris’e UPS sayesinde ulaştı. Onu elimde tutmanın heyecanını anlatamam. Tütsü, mütsü, eskarabe, melekler, şu buyla selamladım.

Hayırlısı …

 

Tragedy

Tags

ailments, arrogance, commiserate, empathy, Flash Fiction, global, heal, health issues, Internet, life, living, local, personal, private, public, real, sharing, side-effects, social media, sympathy, tragedy, Virtual beasts

 

I open my Facebook page and begin to type on a purple background that matches my mood.

“Not feeling well. I have a summer cold that hasn’t gone away since last Wednesday. Now it’s further complicated by tendonitis or bursitis on my right wrist. Sry cant use apostrophes. My hand hurts, my nose is clocked blocked. I keep sneezing. Why do disasters come all at the same time?”

The coloured background changes to plain white as the wording is too long. I give up and post it, indulging in my misfortunes on the last days of August.

Replies pour in from friends who commiserate with me. “So sorry. Put ice on your wrist, use a muscle rub, take pain killers, rest it.”

Unable to comment on each post, I like their replies and use emojis to show my appreciation. Then a post appears from a group writer, with 3000 friends, against my 330. I never know why I’ve accepted his friend request. He never likes any of my posts and always brags about himself, stating his political and philosophical opinions as though he’s the tower of wisdom.

“What are you whining on about when there’s so much real tragedy in the world? Hurricane Harvey and Houston, Myanmar and ethnic cleansing, earthquakes, fascism, hunger, climate change, Florence approaching Earth? Shut up and don’t crowd my notifications with stupid posts. End.”

Tears well in my eyes, as my wrist throbs, the pain shooting up the arm towards my shoulder. Under normal circumstances, I’d write a response, but it’s too much trouble to spend the effort and go into a pointless argument with such a pompous scum. Maybe just as well – he doesn’t deserve a reply. Not even bothering to post an angry emoji, I unfriend the self-righteous bloke and log off. My real friends can call me if they want to hear my voice.

The word tragedy echoes in my mind as I ponder why some people behave in such abominable ways on the Internet. Does the virtual atmosphere give them more power than they have in real life? Are they insignificant, mediocre characters who aspire to be heroes and take centre stage in a make believe world?

Tragedies come in all sizes and shapes. From the Greek plays to Shakespeare, and contemporary stories. Murder, incest, complexes, unrequited love, loss, war, death, terrorism, natural disasters to environmental and health issues. From the personal to the global, we live under the threats of internal and external factors as our bodies suffer from their physical and psychological side-effects.

Millions of functions inside our outer shell are taken for granted until something goes wrong, and we’re unable to perform simple tasks. The left hand fails to replace the agility of the right hand, or the opposite, as we’re not ambidextrous. My personal tragedy is how I’m going to cope with the, hopefully, temporary dysfunction of my right hand when using utensils, opening and locking doors, washing my hair, and driving the car have become challenges. Maybe tragedy is an exaggerated word and should be replaced with misfortune, hardship, or trial to make the situation more realistic. Engrossed in the difficulties of my circumstances, accompanied by excruciating pain, how can I concentrate on the real tragedies in the world? I need to heal myself, before I attempt to heal or commiserate with others.

I don’t wish to be remembered as a moaning, self-centred person, yet we forget when we make a public post on social sites, the repercussions go beyond our intentions, presenting some of the virtual beasts with the opportunity to criticize and humiliate us.

Rule: Don’t share private matters on public sites and be sparse with stating your opinions.

Reminder: Get that terrace door fixed before you damage your wrist permanently.

Dust, Smoke and Love

Tags

absence, detachment, dust, flashfiction, ghost, life, loss, love, melancholy, memories, pain, presence, smoke, time

 

Memories gathered dust among the cigarette fumes. The smoke had always surrounded them in times of love and pain. A silent witness to the affair, it rose in spiralled clouds that vanished into the atmosphere, the hint of its existence trailing behind in scent. Consumed yet lingering, like the hurt in her heart.

 

She sat on the open deck of the channel ferry, as the scenery passed before her eyes. Her thoughts eclipsing the images, life seemed to evolve without her participation. Sunsets and sunrises, the moon and the stars no longer evoked feelings of wonder. Their charm exhausted, their meaning lost.  A meandering melancholy had stolen the colours and transported her into a scene from a black and white art film with little conversation and tedious gazes shot in slow-motion.

 

In a state of detachment, she continued to stare into the distance, as the ferry approached the terminal. A scurry of muffled footsteps and snippets of conversation sneaked into her reverie. Silhouettes passed her by and disappeared, until new figures emerged and left at intervals.

 

Cruising back and forth across the channel, the vessel made its scheduled trips, as she sat unmoved through the motion. Daylight turned into night, electric beams lit up the distant hills like a shower of fireflies.

 

A ferry conductor’s voice broke her thoughts. “Lady, this is the last stop for the night. You must get off.” The pixels of his face materializing before her, she tried to command her paralyzed legs to get up and move. Holding onto the barrier, she stood and staggered to the stairs. The abyss frightened her. One step at a time, shaky limbs proceeded towards the set destination. Reaching the bottom platform, she paused and took a deep breath.

The conductor following her asked, “Are you on drugs?”

“If memories are drugs, that’s what I’m on.”

“You lost someone.”

“You could say that, but not to death.”

“Ah, to someone else? That’s even sadder.”

“Is it?”

“You seem like a ghost in the land of the living. That’s bad.”

 

She resumed her steps and froze when she came to the portable bridge connecting the ferry to the quay. Images of falling into the gap and of being squashed between the vessel and the concrete rushed to her mind. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

“Here, let me help,” the man said. He held her hand until she landed safely ashore.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice quivering.

“Stop and think,” he said, and smiled. “Fear of death means you want to continue living.”

“Yes.”

“Live it up, then, instead of ignoring it.”

“I’ll try.”

“There are no buses at this hour, you must take a taxi.”

“Thank you for your help. Good night.”

 

Her steps now more confident, she ambled to the taxi rank and took a cab.

 

Home she thought, and the sanctuary of her bed. She needed a rest from the memories. Tomorrow would be a new day, when, perhaps, she would allow them to gather more dust while she followed the cigarette smoke to new destinations.

 

 

Photo credit:

Smoke Works, Cutting Edge by Mehmet Özgür,  Mehmet Ozgur

Cercis Siliquastrum

Tags

blossoms, cercis siliquastrum, cycle of life, flowering season, friendship, human life, judas tree, life, tree of life

I’m very happy to see my story published at Spelk Fiction, one of my favourite literary magazines. 🙂

Spelk

by Sebnem E. Sanders

Surrounded by greenery from many different species, a lonely Cercis siliquastrum tree stood in the middle of the park. Many moons ago a bee had carried pollen to this spot from Cercis’ ancestors, all established on the hills overlooking the channel and the ancient city. After the rains and sunshine, its roots had woven their way into the soft, fertile soil. Taking strength from the nourishment of Mother Earth, a cluster of tight leaves upon a thin stem poked through the ground.

Claiming they existed before any religion, the Cercis family preferred to use the Latin name. Some unthinking human had given them the common name of Judas Tree. This, they believed, was defamation, since they were wrongly associated with a crime they did not commit. But the label remained, shadowing their unique beauty in springtime. Red Bud, Love Tree, Tree of Life and other names were found more…

View original post 479 more words

Rainbow of Life

Tags

air, ambiguity, awareness, bliss, colourless, colours, dreams, earth, elements, feelings, fire, Gaia, heart, life, love, melancholia, moods, mystery, nature, passion, rainbow, shades, sorrow, water