20 Sunday Feb 2022
Posted in blog post, Flash Fiction, micro-fiction, publications
Tags
acceptance, amreading, amwriting, boundaries, cities, countries, courage, disillusionment, dreams, eternal love, experience, Flash Fiction, freedom, gains, loss, love, old age, publication, reality, The Rye Whiskey Review, the sea, travel, water, writerscommunity, youth
Many thanks to the Editor, John Patrick Robbins, I have a new microfiction story at The Rye Whiskey Review. 
Thank you very much for reading. 🙂
19 Thursday Apr 2018
Posted in Flash Fiction, Uncategorized
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.”
19 Friday Jan 2018
Posted in Flash Poesy, Uncategorized
Tags
benevolence, clarity, confusion, deception, greed, humanity, insanity, lack of clarity, lies, lost, reality, sadness, sanity, trouble, truth, vice, virtue
How to hold on to my
sanity
in the middle of
insanity
Should I ignore the
madness
despite the overwhelming
sadness
Maybe direct my thoughts to
puzzles and crosswords
instead of
the troubles and the theatre of the absurd
sensible,
calm and composed
rather than
impressionable,
vulnerable and disposed
Does that make me blind
or wise and unexposed?
I wish to change things
but lack the power to pull the strings
Rather than sulking and arguing
I plot secret steps to alter
the course of events
despite various
counter -arguments
In the end virtue prevails
though the virtuous suffer
and expire
in the dungeons of greed and fire
who wins is a question of time
while sanity versus insanity
become partners in
crime
Photos from The Matrix, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0133093/
23 Friday Jun 2017
Posted in Flash Poesy, Uncategorized
Tags
altered-consciousness, colours, dreaming, flowers, fruits, grapes, new-dimension, pomegranate, reality, sleep
“Dreaming of Pomegranates” (1912)_by Felice Casorati, Italy
She sleeps on the grass
with a pomegranate in her hand
Drifting into the world of altered consciousness
she dreams of other fruit,
apples, apricots, peaches, oranges and tangerines
cherries, berries, plums, grapes and melons
that give the world the names of colours,
like the bed of wild flowers upon which she lies.
Her mind and body at peace,
nearly all her voluntary activities ceased.
A tranquil expression spreads upon her face,
she travels into another world
where the rules and dimensions are different.
Her eyelids flutter,
her lips curl into a smile,
she takes her lover’s hand
as they fly towards the green hills,
racing with feathered clouds
and the birds in the sky.
Her reality becomes the dream,
unaware which realm she belongs to.
When she awakes to birdsong,
her eyes drift to the bunches of purple grapes
hanging down from the vine above her.
The only remainder from the dream,
the pomegranate her lost lover gave to her,
from the orchards on the terraced hills.
She blinks,
presses the pomegranate to her heart,
closes her eyes,
and slips back into the dream.
22 Thursday Jun 2017
Posted in Flash Fiction, Uncategorized
Tags
addiction, alcohol, attachment, disappointment, disillusionment, effects of alcohol, illusions, immortality, lies, old age, reality, rejection, stories, wisdom, witch, writing
Photo saved from Pinterest, crazyaboutphoto.com
The last customer leaving the bar, Harry staggered into the cold night air and made feeble attempts to walk in a straight line. The icy wind, signalling the approach of harsher weather, chilled him to the bone. Despite the protective shield of his padded coat and the woollen hat pulled over his ears, he felt naked. The combination of intoxication and freezing temperatures blurred his sight. All he could see ahead were dark buildings on either side of the road and a few flickering streetlights. He followed the pavement, counting his steps on his long walk home down Amber Street.
Harry kept counting to keep his mind active, but the road seemed to continue forever. 2500 steps later, he still had not arrived at the turn to the street where his flat was located. He halted and glanced back, and looked ahead again. There were no side roads, but one long avenue where all buildings looked the same. “I’m lost,” he muttered.
Though midnight had come and gone, Harry began to knock on doors, in panic. No one responded, not a single soul who might rightfully object to the disturbance of their peace. He decided to go back the way he came, hoping he’d missed his street. An eerie silence persisted in spreading its wings, despite the commotion he made at intervals. As snowflakes fell, misting visibility further, despair set in. He stopped in front of a weathered door, and seizing a worn knocker, banged on it several times.
A jeering voice answered. “The door is open. Shut it tightly behind you.”
Harry stepped inside. He blinked, surprised by an archaic hall, lit by candles poised on brass candelabras. The wheezing voice barked, “Straight down, the room on the right.”
Entering the chamber, he saw her- or him, he wasn’t sure, sitting at a table in the middle of which a large crystal bowl glowed. Wood crackled in the fireplace, casting shafts of light upon the creature’s face. Harry shuddered. Whatever this thing was, it looked older than the 250 year-old-man in China. Its features were deeply buried under the folds of time-chiselled wrinkles. A pair of sparkling amber, feline beams perused him through the slits below the forehead. Random spikes of white, straw-like hair escaped the grip of a colourful scarf wrapped around its head.
The thin, lipless slit at the bottom of its head opened, displaying the odd jagged tooth. “Sit,” it said. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Amacunda.”
Harry hesitated, but he obeyed his exhausted body and sat. “I’m Harry,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m here. I’m lost.”
“I’m also lost. My reasons are unclear, but I know yours.”
“Why are you lost?”
“I’m in purgatory. Neither here, nor there.”
“How long?”
Deciding the creature must be female, Harry watched her raise a lizard-skinned hand and point a crooked finger with a curled nail at him.
“Too long. I’ve been here forever. It defies your notion of time. Let’s come to your story. Why are you lost?”
“I can’t find my way home.”
“What’s home?”
“My writing. Stories. My dreams. Illusions, disillusionments, disappointments.”
“Rejections?”
“Exactly.”
“You must leave her.” She giggled, her rasping voice whistling between jagged teeth.
“Who? I’m not in a relationship.”
“Whiskey. You’re an alcoholic.”
“I’m not. I’m what’s called a functioning alcoholic.”
“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. Why do you think Hemingway committed suicide?”
“He couldn’t write anymore.”
“Why? Because alcohol ate his brain. No more grey cells to dream stories.”
“Dostoevsky wrote all his life. He also drank.”
“He wasn’t an alcoholic. Some can hold their drink, some can’t. You’re drinking earlier and earlier in the day. There’s always an excuse. Pain, pleasure, anger. Find another relationship, a woman, a soul-mate.”
“The ones I want reject me.”
“Probably because you’re drunk all the time. Sober up and look around with eyes that see. You’ll find the one.”
Harry lowered his eyes and sighed.
“Regarding other rejections. There’s a name … I can’t remember, like thorn, splinter, something sharp from a tree or plant. My memory escapes me these days. Look them up and send your stuff.”
“Thank you.”
“Healthy eating, healthy drinking , healthy living and like me, you can live forever.” She chuckled again. “Time to go, young man. Remember what I said.”
Amacunda snapped her claw-like fingers, and Harry found himself at his front door. Once inside the flat, he crawled onto his bed and crashed.
The following day, he woke at noon and ambled to kitchen. Whiskey beckoned. The moment he grabbed the bottle, Amacunda’s voice rang like a siren in his ears. “Healthy eating, healthy drinking .”
Harry dumped the bottle on the counter and put the kettle on. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, buttered toast and tea, he took a shower and shaved. In fresh clothes, he sat at his desk and began to write.
During a tea-break in the late afternoon, he remembered something else she’d said and began to search on his computer. Wood, Woody, splinter, Spillane, Tor, thorn – Thornton Publishers are looking for Anthology submissions. Submission deadline March 31st. A week from today, enough time to edit his stories. No alcohol for a week?
That evening Harry dined at a steak house and only drank mineral water. On his way home, he stopped at the supermarket and stocked up on healthy food. Just before the checkout, his hand went for a pack of bacon he’d missed in the morning. He wavered, unsure, then grabbed it. The sirens didn’t shriek. Maybe once in a while it would be okay.
Amacunda’s voice reverberated in his head each time he accidentally approached the liquor section in the supermarkets. After a sober period of many months, he became a social drinker, enjoying the occasional glass of wine at dinner parties.
Thornton’s published his Anthology and The Witch of Amber Street became a hit. Harry didn’t live forever, but his stories did.
21 Tuesday Feb 2017
Posted in blog post, Flash Poesy
Tags
amreading, amwriting, awareness, black, blind, collective consciousness, collective memory, confinement, dark, darkness, deaf, dystopia, enlightenment, eye contact, freedom of speech, grey, ignorance, light, mute, perception, prison, reality, transfer of thought, utopia, walls, white, writingcommunity
It was a time of ignorance
and a time of enlightenment
an era of awareness
and one of darkness
The enlightened sought
the light in the heavens and beyond
the ignorant worked in darkness
setting light to the treasures of the enlightened,
all buildings, books, works of art and heritage
were demolished under the axes of the demons of darkness
yet, everything remained in the collective memory of the Light-workers
The dark demons built high walls around the prisons
where the Light-workers were confined
Speaking was forbidden, even looking eye to eye
The prisoners who broke the law
had their tongues cut and eyes removed
The blinded and muted Light-workers
developed a communication skill
of transferring thoughts without speaking or eye-contact
Waves of thoughts travelled in the air
while the dark demons carried out their atrocities unaware
The frequencies of thoughts became so high and powerful,
deafening the dark demons who
failed to complete their mission of destruction,
as the wavelength of thoughts
damaged their sensory systems
Unable to move or act, they lay still on the ground
The Light-workers fed their minds with ideas and
knowledge about the planet and the universe,
theories of law and justice for all,
science, art, history, philosophy, and
awareness of nature and the balance of creation
Dark-workers awoke with the beam of enlightenment
in their eyes.
They learned to communicate without speaking,
seeing beyond the perceived and feeling without using their senses.
Dark-workers became Light-workers
moving humanity into a new dimension
of enlightenment.
Still, some Dark-workers remained,
in the periphery of humanity,
scheming plans to carry out their dark intentions,
to make a revolution to change the world.
Light-workers ambushed them and built high walls around their towns
so that they would stay confined within their own surroundings
unable to infect their backward ideas into the enlightened zone.
The angels in the heavens watched the humans in dismay,
“When will they learn?” they asked their Leader, the wisest of All.
“Only when they discover grey, against the black and white.
It will take time, but I have hopes for my children.”
22 Friday Apr 2016
Posted in Flash Fiction, Uncategorized
Tags
air, blue planet, children, civilization, dreams, earth, fire, innocence, reality, the elements, the universe, water
A dark indigo sky, inhabited by granite clouds, blown by gusting winds and torrential rain. The water cascades down the hills, together with my tears of sorrow and joy. The valley is flooded, the forces of the elements wash everything down to the sea.
Stuck behind a tree trunk, I open my eyes and look around. An eerie silence. Behind me, the pine tree covered hills. Before me, the beach and the sea. Everything seems familiar, yet unfamiliar. Nothing manmade is left in sight. Only nature, as it was created. The vast waters resemble a lake, not a single ripple disturbing its surface. As though time has stopped.
The clouds have disappeared and a golden ball of light dominates the azure sky. Sunrays touch my skin. I am naked, the way I was born. Vulnerable and lonely. Do I remember that moment? My memories of that instant are not clear, but I feel the solitude and the despair deep down in my heart. The pain of that first breath, a cry in the void. I am frightened in these alien surroundings.
I have no belongings now. The memories, the only baggage I am allowed to take with me.
Am I the last person on the Blue Planet or the first one in a new world?
What about civilization, everything we have built and done? Have they all been washed to the sea? The heritage we wanted to leave behind, the traces of our existence, to make a difference, to be remembered by and recognized. The untamed part of the human ego. As if the universe cares whether we make a difference or not.
Progress, heaven and hell at the same time. Creation and destruction. Yet, nothing manmade is more powerful than the forces of nature, orchestrating life and death simultaneously, and recreating life from death, through the eternal cycle.
I hear the lullaby of waves. The water starts to move. A warm breeze sweeps across my face. A flock of birds appears in the sky and flies towards the horizon in a perfect V. The perpetual motion begins. The earth beneath me stirs, then rocks and continues, vibrating in sporadic tremors. The breeze turns into a wind, then an angry storm. The branches of trees bend and bow to the ground at the whim of the great force. Lava gushes out from the centre of Gaia, red-hot. It flows like a river down the mountains and across the plains, melting everything on its path, destroying and creating at the same time. I try to hold onto the tree, with all my might, but I’m weak. My fingers give in, and I go with the flow.
******
Faint voices in the background travel through the air. Then the most delightful sound in the universe. Children’s laughter. I open my eyes and scan my surroundings. I’m stretched out on a deckchair, under a parasol on the golden sand of the beach. My half-read book, lying on my chest.
A little boy and a girl are playing at the edge of the sea. They fill their tin buckets with water and empty them, giving each other generous showers. They giggle and yell, the wonder of life vibrant on their faces. No illusions or disillusionments. They have not yet been injected with fear and doubt. I pray for them to hold onto that childhood curiosity forever.
Then I remember my dream, that moment stolen from time. Was it a dream or reality? Life, as it seems, is painted before me, reflected in its three dimensional ingredients. Sound, light and depth. Is this an illusion I have created?
I pick up my belongings and head towards home. The laughter of children still in my ears.
I have no answers.
01 Friday Apr 2016
Posted in Flash Poesy, Uncategorized
My eyelids flutter
not wanting to leave
the pastel coloured dreams,
and to stay in that moment of tranquillity,
instead of the harsh solid colours of reality,
shades of darkness, splashed with violent blood-red,
dark purples of sorrow and pain, flooded with tears.
What happened to the golden sun,
the blue sky of hope?
Why is everything grey,
has the purity of white disappeared completely?
What did we do to mankind,
where did the dreamers go,
did we exhaust their dreams?
The culprits lurk in the shadows,
they come in shades of gloom
and in different shapes and minds.
They will not rest
until they have destroyed every one of us,
but the Planet will remain and
there will be new life
with a fresh spectrum of colours
after death.
sebnemsanders 
You must be logged in to post a comment.