Light Beams

Tags

amreading, amwriting, art, BosphorusReview of Books, children, colours, Flash Fiction, flowers, grandchildren, hospital, illness, images, light, light beams, loneliness, memories, muteness, nursing home, old age, paintings, paralysis, publication, scents, writerscommunity, yearning

My flash fiction story, Light Beams , is in the May Issue of The Bosphorus Review of Books. Many thanks to the Editor-in-Chief, Luke Frostic.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Thanks for reading! 🙂

https://bosphorusreview.com/light-beams

“Our cover this month is by our returning artist Dj Nio – Mammaliturki. find more of his work here https://www.djnio.net and listen to his latest music here https://soundcloud.com/nio_zeroplastica or here https://open.spotify.com/artist/0nKgLLvnDxOqzmxmBLrAl6…“

Advertisement

My Story, A Kind of Love, is at The Flash Fiction Offensive

Tags

amreading, amwriting, animation, anthology, company, crime, desire, Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Offensive, friendship, halloween, hunger, inanimate objects, innovation, introvert, kinky, loneliness, love, lust, mannequins, obsession, Out of the Gutter Online, Ripples on the Pond, shyness, vengeance, weirdness

I’m honoured to have my story, A Kind of Love, from Ripples on the Pond , inspired by the Jack Vetriano painting, under the same name, at the Flash Fiction Offensive.  Many thanks to editors/authors, Jesse “Heels” Rawlings, Jim (James) Shaffer  and Mick Rose for their encouragement.

I never thought I could write a crime story. I tend to write weird ones, that may pass as crime. But here I am, for those who haven’t read this before:

http://www.outofthegutteronline.com/2019/10/a-kind-of-love-by-sebnem-sanders.html?fbclid=IwAR0zED5nf3D5-Ry9HmaUNNUMXWN8MfBlEiYXQIwMj4EwvAcpiJ8H3_Mak-0

And the Jack Vetriano painting that inspired this:

A Kind of Love, by Jack Vetriano

 

Many thanks for reading. 🙂

 

 

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.

Virginia Creeper from Ripples on the Pond is in the July Issue of the Bosphorus Review

Tags

anthology, Bosphorus Review, Flash Fiction, ivy, loneliness, obsession, Ripples on the Pond, short stories, virginia creeper

 

 

Dear friends, followers and fellow writers,

I know I have been absent for a while, due to pre-election stress and anticipation, and post-election trauma and disappointment. Though hopes for a better future have almost diminished, life continues somehow. There is always something that puts a smile on our faces, despite the odds.  This makes me think, perhaps, we tend to take life too seriously. At least, I do.

My story, Virginia Creeper, from my anthology of flash fiction and short stories, Ripples on the Pond is in the July issue of the  Bosphorus Review of Books . This story was fist published by Spelk Fiction last year: Virginia Creeper

Here’s the link to the Bosphorus Review:

Bosphorus Review Virginia Creeper.

https://bosphorusreview.com/virginia-creeper

https://bosphorusreview.com/july-2018-1/

 

 

I promise, I’ll be  in touch more often,  soon.

Fondest wishes,

Sebnem

 

 

 

Ripples on the Pond 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Kind of Loving

Tags

alcohol, attraction, bar, collector, company, fetish, Flash Fiction, lack of social skills, loneliness, mannequins, obsession, office, passion, sexual attraction, shyness

Jack Vetriano, A kind of Loving

Photo prompt: Jack Vetriano paintings

 

Bernard visited the flea market every Sunday and looked for objects to add to his collections, or something interesting to start a new one. Seeing a display of old-fashioned mannequins at one of his favourite stalls, he stopped and studied them, imagining what he could do with them. He negotiated the price for four, and carried them to his station-wagon, one by one, taking great care. They were a treasure, rare samples from the 50’s, made of wood.

Bernard installed the mannequins in the basement of his house, which he’d turned into a nostalgic bar, after his mother died. Not that he was a drinker, but he liked the idea of people socializing under the influence, telling each other their secrets, or meeting someone new. This was something he envied, yet his shyness prevented him from making friends. As soon as someone began to chat to him about something other than work, a hot flush would creep over his face. He’d begin to stutter, and lost for words, escape to find solace in the privacy of his home.

A hard-working mechanical engineer in a manufacturing firm,  Bernard had attained the rank of manager, though he knew he couldn’t move any higher due to his lack of social skills. When he inherited the family house, he had gutted the basement and reproduced the model of a bar he visited on the Internet. Wood panelling, decorated with bevelled mirrors behind the racks of bottles, and in front of it, a mahogany counter with matching stools. He bought a bottle of every alcoholic beverage existing in a bar’s inventory, along with glasses and accessories. Every Friday night, he prepared a cocktail recipe from a famous barman. He sat on a stool and watched his image reflected in one of the mirrors. Yet, he was still alone, in the midst of silence. The introduction of a LED TV screen fixed to the wall solved the problem. Bernard watched people from another world, and music videos providing sound. He listened to sensual women singing songs and wearing next to nothing.

The mannequins presented Bernard with the opportunity to create something more intimate. Not so fond of their bare bodies, he decided clothes might give them a kind of reality and ordered sexy dresses to make them more enticing. He embraced his new friends with passion, yet felt a tinge of disappointment when they did not respond.

A few weeks later, he thought about giving them more personality. He spent his weekends searching for heads with the choice of eyes, wigs, and flexible body parts. The task of fitting them took all his spare time, and in the small hours of each morning, he stumbled to his bedroom. Once he mastered one, Bernard moved onto the next. A month later he had created his beloved possessions. Natasha, the Slavic beauty with blue eyes and long, blonde hair. Anita, the Scandinavian, whose fizzy red hair framed green eyes. Carla, the Italian, with hazel eyes and cascading brown locks, sitting next to Manuela, the Spanish seductress whose dark gaze and short cropped black hair promised an exciting adventure.

Bernard sat at the head of the table, and with the grace of a butler, served wine and small portions of the exotic dish he’d prepared to his alluring companions. He raised his glass and said, “Bon appétit, mesdames.”

The girls looked real. Almost. He had arranged their postures, manicured hands or elbows resting on the table, their heads facing him, and hair swept in sync with their pose. Bernard took photos. Drank his wine, as well as theirs, and cleared the table after finishing his meal. The Friday night dinner parties kept him busy for a few weeks until they became boring, and he felt the need for more animation from his guests.

Bernard changed their costumes, gave them whips, chains, and chokers. He drank more wine and ate more food than he normally did. He could feel their hands on his body. Maybe something would happen now.

****

Monica, the Office Manager, entered the house with two police officers. They searched downstairs and upstairs, and found neatly arranged rooms, but no sign of Bernard. Coming down to the hall, one of the officers saw the door leading to the basement. He pushed it open and descending the lit staircase, gawked when he witnessed the scene at Bernard’s bar. Chained to the chair, at the head of the table, a leather bondage choker had been pulled tight around Bernard’s neck. His swollen tongue sticking out, head hanging at an angle, decomposition had already disfigured his face.

Monica screamed and covered her mouth as the policeman shouted, “You’re compromising the crime scene!”

She staggered to the bar and poured a finger of whiskey into a tumbler. Perched on a stool, she downed the drink, and scanned the fetish clothes, wigs, and accessories scattered around the room. She gulped and turned to the officers. “I don’t understand. Bernard was a very nice man.”

The Forensic Team found no fingerprints, other than Bernard’s and Monica’s on the glass and the whiskey bottle. They examined the photos on Bernard’s mobile. The mannequins in the pictures had curiously disappeared, having left their clothes and wigs behind.

 

 

PS. Please don’t ask me how these paragraphs are indented. I have no idea. I just uploaded an edited version and this is how it came up. WordPress has its moments!

 

Virginia Creeper

Tags

Flash Fiction, gardening, horticulture, ivy, loneliness, obsession, Parthenocissus quinquefolia, passion, relationships, retirement, vestal virgin, virgin ivy, virginia creeper

Happy to see my story published on Spelk Fiction today.

Spelk

by Sebnem Sanders

Ivy fascinated Ivan. English, with prominent white or yellow-green veins. Boston, with a reddish bronze colour in the spring, and bright, deep green during summer, turning to shades of scarlet, purple or orange in autumn. Yet, the Virginia Creeper was his vestal virgin, with five separate leaves joined at the centre. Just like a human hand, as described in its Latin name, Parthenocissus quinquefolia. Parthenocissus meaning “virgin ivy”. Why virgin, Ivan didn’t know, but he liked the connotation.

Ivan was a loner who never got married or had any lasting relationships. After his retirement, without a partner or close friends, he spent all his time gardening. A lifetime passion and hobby became a way of life for him. Despite his lack of formal education in horticulture, he was a natural with green fingers. The two-storey stone house he had bought in the countryside boasted a greenhouse…

View original post 494 more words

Sunset Café

Tags

connection, flashfiction, loneliness, memories, old age, sadness, sunrise, sunset, the past, the present

 

 

 

Like the flickering sunrays at the end of the day, Emily was at the sunset of her life. The golden ball of light would soon sink into the sea, and disappear temporarily, until its rise the next morning. That was a ninety-nine percent probability. She had witnessed this certainty throughout her life of eighty-five years. The one percent she put aside as a possibility for things that might happen otherwise. Just in case.

Yet, her life, as an aged mortal, offered her no guarantees that enabled her to witness the dawn tomorrow morning. That was a fact. Besides, as an old person, her beauty had faded away while the eternal splendour of the sunrise and the sunset remained. People did not possess the rejuvenating powers of the elements of nature, which made them preserve their appeal, at least for the duration of a human lifetime on Earth. Their bodies and organs deformed, though their souls remained young.

A dismal picture. Decay and die. When exactly the decaying process began, she couldn’t put a finger on. Maybe it starts at birth, or after puberty? Who knows? We only begin to see its visual signs in mid-life, during our forties and the fifties, and it’s downhill from there.

Emily was not a religious person, but thanked her stars for still being in command of her body and mind. Her movements, thoughts and decisions still under her control, she had wanted to go to the seaside café to watch, perhaps, her final sunset.

At the Retirement Home she had moved into five years ago, relenting to her granddaughter’s will, watching sunsets and sunrises was not an option due to the location of the building and its small grounds. From her home, at the top of the hill in the village, she had seen a myriad of memorable episodes of the same scenes, with different variations of light, cloud and wind, making each one unique.

On this glorious day in April, she had risen at first daylight with the wish to see the sunset that day. Her transport arranged by the staff at the Home, she settled into her reserved scenic seat at The Sunset Café. Her handbag and the just-in-case cane next to her, she ordered a glass of Merlot to enjoy the show.

Memories of long gone beloveds on her mind, she sipped her drink as the colours in the sky changed from golden to pink and coral. The orange sun turned into a crimson hue, and sank into the sea.

Emily lit a cigarette and inhaled. Thinking about her long lost daughter and husband, tears welled in her eyes. The loss of a child is the hardest to bear in life. I could have gone, she could have stayed. Life is unfair. Still, believing Bill was up there somewhere with her, gave her some consolation. At least, she’s not alone. My darling, you wouldn’t be able to cope with it. She fought a losing battle with the illness.

Emily’s mobile rang. She fumbled in her handbag, found the phone and pressed the key. “Hello.”

“Nana, how are you?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just watching the sunset, maybe for the last time?”

“Oh, Nana, why the last time? Don’t make me sad.”

“Sorry, Natalie, I didn’t mean to upset you. Just memories.”

“I know, dearest. Listen, I’m coming to pick you up next Friday to stay with us over the weekend.”

“Ah, you’re planning a birthday party?”

“Yes, and without you, I’d be sad. Say, you’ll come.”

“Of course, I’ll come. But I’m hoping you’ll accept a cash gift from me. No nice shops around here to find something special for your fortieth, and I might buy the wrong thing.”

“Thank you, darling Nana. We’ll go shopping together, if you like.”

“I’ll enjoy that, sweetheart.”

“See you, Nana.”

Emily put the phone in her bag and sipped the remainder of her wine. The pinkish brush strokes against the pale blue sky seemed to promise a few more sunsets and sunrises in her life.

 

 

 

Photo credit:

The view from Lapad Bay © raspu / Moment Open / Getty Images

 

 

Monsoon

Tags

attraction, devotion, dreams, endurance, exotic, loneliness, love, loyalty, magnetic, monsoon, mysterious, patience, physical love, rain, storm, theoccident, theorient, true love, void, winds

A blank page, that’s how Jeff felt. Lonely, abandoned and unfulfilled. There had to be something more than the physical love in brief relationships that led nowhere. He hadn’t  found the magic told in books or heard in songs to fill the page with words.

The house seemed empty without his mother.  He’d lost her to cancer a year ago. A widow who had brought him up with love and affection, but a tight grip on discipline and manners. He didn’t remember his father who had died of a heart-attack when he was four. Only the images from photos in his mother’s album. A stranger called ‘dad’.

Throughout his education, he achieved good grades, a degree in computer sciences, and had begun a career as a programmer. Science, sports, and a keen interest in arts were the highlights of his preferred pastimes.  He kept away from politics and daily headlines. His mates, mostly married, with kids, teased him on a being a confirmed bachelor at the age of thirty-five.

Yet, his single status came with rewards. He was the sought after guest at dinner parties to balance the number of the male and female invitees. Sometimes he would have a fling with an attractive blonde in the party, other times he would return home on his own.

On one of these occasions, when his eyes landed on a brunette sitting at the far side of the long table, something ticked inside him. Pushing the dark locks away from her face, she seemed to be engrossed in a heated conversation with the guy sitting next to her. He tried to read the movements of her cherry lips as her animated hand gestures accentuated the many rings on her fingers. Then, she had turned around and when their eyes met, she had smiled to him. He smiled back.

After dinner, he followed the trail of her spicy perfume into the lounge and at the first opportunity introduced himself . “Hi, I’m Jeff, friend of Allison.”

Dark eyes lined with kohl perused him. She beamed, perfect ivory teeth peeking between full lips.  “Nice to meet you, Jeff. I’m Monsoon.”

“The artist? How delightful. I love your paintings and the exotic name that complements them.”

“I was born in the Far East, hence the name and the subject matter.”

“Do you live here, now?”

“For many years, but I do visit the Orient, occasionally, to find new inspiration.”

“What is the latest theme?”

“Bali, the Hindu paradise.”

“I’ve never been there. Are you with someone? Can I refill your glass?”

“I’m with an old friend, I’d love another drink.”

They talked the entire evening at the end of which she took him to her studio apartment and to her bed, after slipping off the colourful sarong wrapped around her slim figure.

When Jeff woke up, he was in love, with the artist, the mysterious female lying fast asleep next to him and everything that made up her world.

What Jeff didn’t know about Monsoon was that she was a political activist, a human rights defender in countries where such violations peaked. Indonesia being one of them. A few months later, he took a sabbatical and followed her to Bali, where Monsoon had rented a house by the sea.

Life was perfect until she joined demonstrations on behalf of Amnesty International. She was arrested for disturbing the peace on the island and taken into custody.

Jeff was devastated. He hired lawyers to defend her, yet the authorities were strict and ruthless against protesters who were jailed under primitive conditions. Three months later, when he was finally able to obtain a pass to visit her in prison, he could not believe his eyes. She had lost weight and bruises on her bare arms showed the extent of the circumstances she was confined under.

Her lively eyes clouded with dark circles around them, she gazed at him. “Jeff, you must let go. Go back and live your life. I’ll be here for a while. This is not the first offence I’ve committed in this country. They’re digging up all the information back in Jakarta where I organized many demonstrations in the past. They might relocate me there. It will be a long trial if there is ever one.”

“I will not, my love,” Jeff said, adamant. “I’ll be wherever you are, until they set you free. It’s not like they’ll give you life sentence. I’ll wait.”

“What about your job? You can’t ruin your career and stay here indeterminately.”

“I’m a computer programmer. I can find a job anywhere in the world, working freelance. All the global companies are here. Don’t you worry about that. If necessary, I’ll sell my house in England.”

“This makes me sad, Jeff. I’ve been nothing but trouble to you. I’ve run over your life like a hurricane, destroying your peace. Please, forget all this and make a new start.”

“I can’t, Monsoon. You taught me love, filled my life with that warm breeze, and the soothing rain that comes afterwards. The winds can be fierce at times and the torrential rain can cause floods, but I’m strong enough. I’ll endure the pain.”

He held her hand and brought it to his lips. “Marry me, Monsoon, even the wildest storms subside in time.”

Selma of Soghut

Tags

cat, fishing village, loneliness, loss, love, octopus, Söğüt(Soghut), sleeping partners, stories, The Aegean, the sea, weeping willow

 

 

 

Soghut, a pretty seaside village on the eastern coast of the Southern Aegean, beguiles newcomers with its stunning views of the islands in the cove, and Symi in the background.

A well-kept secret, with exquisite villas on the hills, it had been recently featured in Exclusive Escapes.  The article gushed:  the unspoilt beauty of its shoreline boasts of a small restaurant called The Octopus Man, renowned internationally for Ali’s unique recipe.

 

I met Selma during a walk on the pebble beach after my first scrumptious grilled octopus lunch at Ali’s. An old woman with striking blue eyes, a small, upturned nose and delicate features on her weathered face. In a printed dress that swayed with the warm breeze and a white scarf wrapped around her frizzy, grey locks, she greeted me with a toothy smile.

 

“Hello, are you visiting?”

 

“My first time here, but I love your village.” I smiled in return, and gazed at the seascape.

 

“I came here as a bride. I’m from Bozburun.”

 

“I’ve been there.  It’s very close.”

 

“It was love at first sight. One look, and we were enamoured for life. That’s until he left.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He was lost at sea. Told him not to go out that day. He didn’t listen.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I miss him. My house is down there, by the sea. Come visit me next time you’re here.”

 

***

 

The following summer I drove to Soghut again, and walked to her house to see if she was around. She was sitting in a wheel-chair under the canopy of her patio, stroking the fur of a gorgeous golden cat lying next to her.

 

“Hi, Selma, do you remember me?”

 

“Come closer, my sight is not very good, lately. It’s too bright out there.”

 

I stepped inside and sat on a chair, looking into her clouded blue eyes.

 

She pointed a crooked, arthritic finger at me. “Oh, yes, you’re the lady from Istanbul.”

 

“That’s right. Lovely cat you have.”

 

“That’s Tonton. He’s been my sleeping partner since my beloved left.”

 

“Pets are great company, especially if you’re on your own.”

 

“Told him there’d be a storm that day, but as they say, if you love someone, set them free.”

 

“I know. Sad …”

 

The table next to her was stocked with her immediate needs. A bottle of water, a glass, some food and a roll of paper towel. My gaze returned to the wheelchair.

 

She pointed at her legs. “Arthritis, very painful these days. I can move a little, but with difficulty.”

 

“Your children, are they here?”

 

“All in the big city. They want to take me there, but I don’t want to go.”

 

“Maybe you should. Isn’t it hard on your own here?”

 

“I can’t leave. They never found him, you know. Just the boat, washed up on the rocks. He’s out there somewhere. Besides, I have many sons and daughters here. Ali brings me food every day. The women help me and I entertain their children, telling them stories. That’s how village folk are. ”

 

“What stories do you tell them?”

 

“About life in the village. Their favourite is Ali’s tale. How he was stranded on the rocks with a sinking boat, a huge octopus he’d just caught, a supply of lemons and some vegetables, and came up with his famous recipe. When the fishermen rescued him and brought him to the village, he kissed the ground, and opened the restaurant to honour the octopus that provided him with food for many desperate days.”

 

“I read the story on his website. It’s curious how necessity is the mother of invention.”

 

“My beloved sometimes visits me at night. I say, take me with you, but he keeps saying, Not yet. Then I wake up, and watch the stars and the moon, my other sleep partners in the night. I wish he’d hurry up and steal me away, and take me into that world of his.“

 

The golden cat with amber eyes purred and jumped on her lap, surrendering  to her caress.

 

***

 

The next time I was in Soghut, I asked Ali how she was.

 

”She’s gone. Back to her beloved, I hope.“

 

”I’m sorry. I was hoping to see her again.“

 

“The cat, Tonton, is also gone. I was going to adopt him, but he hasn’t been seen since the day she passed away.“

 

”Sometimes cats are like that. They just disappear.“

 

”Her children put the house up for sale. They’ll make a fortune. Prime position on the beach with a big garden at the back.”

 

 

 

A knot in my throat, I walked to her house and peeked at the empty corner on the patio where she had sat last year. I passed the For Sale sign and ambled to the back of the house to see her garden. A spacious patch of land with walnut and almond trees, and to the left a magnificent weeping willow by a small creek that ran to the sea.

 

Soghut (Söğüt) means weeping willow. Weeping willow, weeping widow. For a moment I pondered the meaning behind this. It’s graceful branches, leaning towards the water and the water reaching the sea.  Perhaps, like Selma.

Friends for Life

Tags

attachment, belongings, clutter, cuddly toys, dolls, friends, loneliness, minimizing, obsolete

She seems a bit strange, lately,
distracted, muttering to herself
about things.
Though she never stops talking to us,
she only shares her joys,
tells us jokes and stories.
We know her too well
to believe things are swell.
She weeps on her own,
has stopped playing music,
reads silently on her computer,
and sighs

The other day
she grabbed the fancy dresses,
elegant shoes and handbags
from her wardrobe and
tossed them inside a bin liner
Too much, obsolete
We could hear her thoughts.
She used to look so good in those
many years ago.
We stay the same,
only fading and fraying at the seams,
over time,
yet humans age and pass.

Will it be our turn soon?
Pondering on an orphanage,
she perused us.
Oh, no, not yet.
Maybe later.
She reached for the Raggedy Ann,
in her washed out dress and
pressed her to her heart
Then kissed all the other dolls
and cuddly toys, one by one, saying
“We are friends for life,
Till death do us part. “