My Flash Fiction Story, Elsewhere, is at the Ekphrastic Review

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amreading, amwriting, Annaliese Jakimides, autumn, Ekphrastic Challenge, Ekphrastic Fiction, Ekphrastic Review, Fiction, Flash Fiction, future, hope, loss, love, memories, microfiction, past, portals, present, publication, Time-Molt Tender, time-travel, writerscommunity

Time-Molt, Tender, by Annaliese Jakimides (USA) 2022

I’m honoured to have my flash fiction story, Elsewhere, at the Ekphrastic Review, along with many talented writers and poets. Many thanks to Annaliese Jakimides for her inspiring painting as the ekphrastic challenge and to Lorette C. Luzajic for her wonderful literary magazine.

Here’s the link:

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/ekphrastic-writing-responses-annaliese-jakimides?fbclid=IwAR1OQcHYxWX_WnCLWxjQllMNBLdFeetmSzcBDNYfvqM5OK26jNVA1pdNf4s

Thank you very much for reading. 🙂

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Movies

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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no longer valid in this act of the play,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.

Mirror, Mirror

Tags

aging, approval, illusion, images, memories, memory, mind's eye, mirror, moment, past, present, reality, reflection, time, vanity, vision

 

An ad I came across on the Internet got me pondering. Round mirror for sale, never used.

Once I arrived home, I confronted the hexagonal, guild-framed mirror hanging in my lounge, one I’ve had for a while. “Are you used? Your frame must be chipped and the glass slightly scratched, but that’s not what I mean.”

How can a mirror be not-used? Hasn’t the factory worker ever looked in it after coating the glass with a reflective surface? The framer assessed his work, as he raked his fingers through his hair? Hasn’t the seller peeked and winked at it while smoothing his tie? Or a female customer paused in front of it for a moment to refresh her make-up, and continued shopping. So it’s not wear and tear I’m talking about, it’s the functionality, the main task of a mirror that should count.

A mirror’s first duty is to create a perfect reflection of the person or an object in front of it. If we accept some of the above probabilities to be true, then we must conclude that the mirror has been used. Yet, there’s no proof because the mirror doesn’t have a memory. It doesn’t record anything. There’s no flashback, a rewind button, or any tangible evidence. In that sense, a mirror is inferior to a camera that produces printed or digital copies which people can later peruse and reminisce the moment.

So, my lovely looking glass of  thirty years, every time I glance at you, you reflect back my current state, but nothing from the past, when I was younger. Nor my late mother’s image when she stood before you and touched her hair, or any glimpses of my beloveds who are no longer in my life. You say the departed cannot be perceived with the eye because they become tiny specks of light. I agree with that, but I’m still here, so are the estranged ones.

I can’t remember when I first saw my own reflection in one, but I do recall watching my father shave before the bathroom mirror, his face covered in white foam. And my mother sitting at her dressing table and putting on lipstick, then dabbing it lightly with her finger.

Is it vanity, a narcissistic habit that we consult mirrors for approval each day? Or is it a self-destructive approach that gives us pain as we age? I don’t know when the attachment starts, perhaps with a shy peek during teenage years, until it becomes an addictive routine. I’m three-dimensional, though the image you project is two-dimensional, an illusion of how others see me, just like the photos.

Yet, when I look into you, I see other things than what you show me. I can search your depths and bring back visions from my mind’s eye. Maybe I should avoid you, stop witnessing my aging process, if not day by day, but from year to year. Perhaps, you’re being kind by not showing me the past. Telling me I should stay in the moment and not delve into the folds of time.

Sometimes I see my mother peeking back at me or my grandmother’s eyes in mine. Other times the radiant face of a young girl greets me with a smile and whispers, “What will be, will be.”

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.