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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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

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.