The Second Time

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amreading, amwriting, arts, authority, budgies, cello, control, family, father, Fiction, Flash Fiction, freedom, loss, mahler, Micro Fiction, music, pain, passion, science, support, talent, writerscommunity

My flash fiction story, The Second Time, is in the March Issue of The Bosphorus Review of Books. Many thanks to the Editor-in-Chief, Luke Frostic.

Happy Spring! 🙂

Thank you for reading. 🙂

https://bosphorusreview.com/the-second-time-sebnem

Image: Paul Delvaux (23 September 1897 – 20 July 1994) Winter Evening

My story, The Hunter, is at the Yellow Mama Webzine

Tags

child abuse, child molestation, christmas, crime, criminal, disguise, Fiction, Flash Fiction, ghost, grief, holidays, innocence, loss, paedophile, pain, pervert, punishment, retribution, revenge, Santa Claus, sexual abuse, spirit, vengeance, victim

Many thanks to the Editor, Cindy Rosmus for publishing my story, The Hunter, at the Yellow Mama Webzine. The above artwork is by Ann Marie Rhiel, the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama Webzine.

Here’s a link to the dark, holiday season story which appears on Issue  #77 of YELLOW MAMA:

The Hunter

http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmamaarchives/id712.html

 

 

Many thanks for reading and Season’s Greetings to All!

 

 

My story, House of Detachment, is in the September Issue of The Bosphorus Review of Books

Tags

addiction, apathy, attachment, Bosphorus Review of Books, dependence, detachment, elimination, erasure, Flash Fiction, happiness, memories, neutrality, pain, past, publications, remembrance, September Issue, sorrow

 

Many thanks to the Editor, Luke Frostic, for publishing my story, House of Detachment, from  Ripples on the Pond ,in the September Issue of  The Bosphorus Review of Books  .

Here’s the link to the story:

https://bosphorusreview.com/house-of-detachment?fbclid=IwAR22dgYkEM18QfyPjUAhPRDlVGI84csiUWS2ORhpWi5y-1PO9UoU00ActyA

And the link to the contents of the September Issue of  The Bosphorus Review of Books , full of interesting articles and selections of fiction and poetry:

https://bosphorusreview.com/new-page-70

 

Many thanks for reading. 🙂

 

Sebnem

 

A Brief Encounter

Tags

attraction, compass, deja vu, experience, heartache, love, pain, suffering, youth

 

I boarded the plane and settled into my aisle seat, after saying  “Hi,” to the young woman sitting next to me.

She turned her misty gaze from the window, to greet me, and resumed her dreamy state.

The engines began to roar as the plane taxied down the runway. Without averting her eyes from the window, she began to sob, her shoulders shaking. The loud sounds from the turbines muffling her voice. From the corner of my eye, I saw tears rolling down her face, wetting her t-shirt. I’m not a nosy person, but I thought she needed help, yet didn’t know how to. Ignore it or try to communicate?

“Here tissues,” I said and offered her a pack from my handbag.

“Thank you,” she replied and took them, without looking in my direction. She wiped her nose and face, and continued to cry until we were high up in the clouds.

“Drinks,” the stewardess asked. I opted for a glass of wine and asked her if she’d like some.

“Something strong,” she muttered, turning her distraught gaze at me.

I passed her a miniature bottle of Scotch and a glass filled with ice. She opened the bottle, poured it in and began to sip.

“Did that help?”

“A little,” she said and cocked her head.”Sorry, for being a nuisance.”

“Not at all. I’m sorry if you feel I’m intruding. I just can’t bear to see tears on such a beautiful, young face. It must have been bad. You need not explain.”

“It was. A big heartache.”

“Hmm, life is full of them, unfortunately. So, shall we say cheers and try to make it better?”

“Cheers, though it doesn’t feel so. I’m just going numb now.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Numb is good. Takes the pain away.”

“Hope it lasts. Have you had heartaches?”

“Many. ”

“Tell me.”

“When I first fell in love, my head in the clouds, I used to get angry at my mother for not understanding my feelings regarding my choice of boyfriend. She said to me ‘You’re not the first one in the world to fall in love. We all have.’ So, at my age, probably around your mother’s, I’ll add to that. We all fall in love and suffer.”

“Is that so?”

“But of course. A heartache is the most common ailment in the world. There is no immediate cure. It only heals with time. Naturally, there are exceptions. Some people find the right partner and manage to keep the flame going all their lives.”

“Did you?”

“Not even when I thought I was wiser. My mother was right about my first boyfriend, but the heart doesn’t have a compass showing you right the way. It has its own magnetism which cannot be explained. After my teenage flop, in my twenties, I thought I made the right choice, but that didn’t work either. I think I have the tendency to attract heartaches. Wrong choices.”

“Tell me.”

I did. By the time we arrived at our destination, she knew more about my love life than those closest to me. I did not exaggerate. Just told her the truth, over many drinks.

She picked up her luggage from the carousel, waved to me, and walked away. I stared after the deja vu of my youth, a brief encounter, and prayed for her to be strong. I knew nothing about her, not even her name. Yet, I sensed sharing something mutual perhaps would help her deal with the pain.

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

Purgatory and Hell

Tags

confusion, despair, endurance, grief, Heaven, Hell, hope, mayhem, new year, old year, pain, Purgatory, super moon, survival, welfare of mankind

Ione Citrin

“Heaven Purgatory Hell” (acrylic on canvas, 36″ x 36″ x 1″)

 

 

I’m between purgatory and hell

with so many sad stories to tell

I look for joy and good tidings,

all I get is grief and tears

in a world rocked by fears,

uncertainty and mayhem

A New Year is about to begin,

the last super moon

of the departing one

has already graced our skies

Is it too much to ask

for hope and welfare of mankind

despite the odds?

to ignore the hell, briefly,

and hold on to the purgatory,

a little longer,

to endure the pain

and try to survive?

Avocado Dreams

Tags

balance, enduring life, equilibrium, future, pain, present, remains of the past, remedy, strong heart

 

Avocado dreams, soft and mellow. Avocado schemes, tough skin on the outside and a hard seed at the core. The outer layer, to protect the softness in the middle from external influences, the solid centre, for an enduring heart to maintain integrity. The pale green colour in the middle for positivity and awareness, with hints of renewal and promise. The smoothness for a balanced equilibrium between the layers of hardness.

 

Jade was an avocado person, with olive green eyes. Her magnetic gaze fooled many, who believed her to be a soft person. Little did they know of the firmness inside her, where she kept her pain wrapped under layers. The folds of protection enabled her to isolate the sorrows in separate compartments, to sustain the stamina of her receptive side.

 

Her mother’s dove-like eyes watched and followed her. Jade knew there was still some light inside her although, confined to bed, the only movements she was capable of making was through her gaze and turning her head. Imprisoned within her body, what remained of her senses of sight and hearing seemed to be the only portals that connected her to life. She responded to sounds, even the distant doorbell ringing, perhaps looking forward to a new visitor.

 

So, Jade played music for her, the songs she liked. She opened and closed her eyes, most likely dreaming of days when she had full control. Jade wondered what it must be like to be handled by others, though gentle and kind? She was unable to make a sound even if Jade or the nurse unintentionally hurt her, while caring for her.

 

Jade’s gaze drifted to the black and white photograph of her mother on the wall. A studio picture taken when she was one and a half years old. Standing against a wall, in a frilly white dress, with a small basket of flowers embroidered on the chest. Black patent shoes and white socks. The picture of innocence made Jade’s eyes well.

 

Underneath that, a photo of Jade, taken when she was ten months old. In a floral frock, white boots and socks, she sat, gazing at the camera with curiosity. Of what, Jade pondered. The mysteries of life, the unknown adventures of joy and sorrow yet to be lived.

 

If only we knew, but if we did, we wouldn’t be able to survive. Does my future lie in front of me, in the story of my mother?

 

She wished for an instant death, like her father’s. One moment here, the next moment there. Maybe my future will be like his, not like hers. Maybe the angels will have compassion for me.

 

The other pains concealed in their respective compartments, she glanced at the mirror and scrutinized her eyes. Shadowed with life, no longer as vibrant as that baby girl’s, but still some sparkle remained inside the olive core.

 

She returned to her avocado dreams and carried on writing the story, spiced with the remains of the past and seasoned with the uncertainties of the future, composing a fresh remedy for enduring life.

Soothing Waters

Tags

awareness, fireballs, learning, pain, seapeople, soothing, sorrow, the sea, water

 

The leaves of the tall eucalyptus trees lining the narrow lane sang an unfamiliar song in the warm breeze. Murmurs, mutterings of ghosts from another life, in a quaint language I had not heard before, yet understood.

“Come,” they said, “just follow the road.”

So I did, though it was twilight, but fear didn’t cross my mind. Where the eucalyptus trees ended, a horse carriage waited. The driver beckoned me with a smile. I rode the cab that took me down the path between the orange groves all the way to the edge of the sea.

I thanked him and stepped down. The full moon illuminated the beach and the waters of the bay. To the right, colourful beams of life from the slow town danced upon the water, to the left a haphazard array of dim lights twinkled like fireflies on the ancient sites.

There was music without music. I sat facing the full moon, my eyes drifting between the shores.

Then I saw Marvin, walking to the shore from the sea.

 

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“We have ways of understanding,” he said.

“Did you come to see me?”

“Yes, and to extinguish the fires.”

“What fires? There are no fires here.”

“Fires are everywhere, we help people deal with the pain.”

“You mean…”

“You know what I mean…”

“Where do they go?”

“There are many places, it depends on who they are.”

“I came back to find you and you were gone.”

“We cannot stay in the same place for longer than we have to.”

“So will you be gone again now?”

“I must, but this is so that you know I exist.”

“I know you do, but I couldn’t prove it.”

“Proof in the third dimensional existence is difficult. Awareness is unable to produce such physical evidence.”

“Will there be more fireballs? More sorrow?”

“I’m afraid so. Until they learn.”

Marvin stroked my hair and kissed me. Then he rose, and bowed his head, a farewell smile lingering on his face before he disappeared into the sea.

In the emptiness, I watched the moon’s reflection on the bay and pondered.

Still so much water to extinguish the pain of fire, despite the many more fireballs to come.