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 Secret Gate

Tags

city life, countryside, despair, distraction, endurance, excursion, Flash Fiction, genetic memory, history, hobby, hope, human condition, instinct, nature, photography, remains, secret gate, structures, survival, time, toxic atmosphere

 

I switched off the morning news. While the TV screen darkened, I yearned to escape the gloom and the toxic atmosphere of the city. A photographic excursion into the countryside would do me good.

Picking up my camera bag, I left the flat and made my way to the garage. After a couple of stops at charming spots, I drove past a sleepy old town and slowed down when a detached sandstone house came into view. Through its open gates, a tilted For Sale sign caught my eye. Thinking this could be an interesting subject, I parked the car and entered the grounds.

The weathered signboard hinted it had been there for a while. The house looked decrepit and forlorn, its windows boarded and the paint on the front door chipped and cracked. Unkempt and overgrown, the garden conjured a strange melancholy. Taking a few shots, I walked around the building. Broken branches and decaying leaves from tall trees echoed the same neglect. Ready to leave, something behind the shrubs, along the back wall caught my attention. A pair of pale green doors which at first glance resembled a trompe l’oeil.

Something about the stately gate told me a story. It stood intact and supported by tall tapered pillars. The half-moon pebble mosaic steps that led to it boasted of history. Its ornate, solid iron body whispered tales from the past. Yet, the walls on its either side had partially crumbled, and peeking through the gaps, I saw nothing, but an expanse of wilderness beyond.

At the bottom of the steps, a pond had formed, housing an array of horsetail reed, water lilies, and sweet flag. Natural or landscaped, I couldn’t tell. It looked authentic and picturesque, in sheer contrast to the condition of the rest of the estate. Maybe the heavy rains of the last few weeks had brought it back to life.

At some point, the door that led to nowhere must have stood proud to protect a house and the people beyond it, allowing only friends and family inside. If so, what had happened to it, or its connection to the stone cottage remained a mystery. Confrontation, natural disasters, and family sagas came to mind. Nature had built a façade over the remains, if there were any, and camouflaged it to look like an extension of the massive open fields.

I tried to pull the door open. It didn’t budge. Most likely its hinges had been bonded by the threads of time. So I climbed over the wall and stepped into the meadow woven with a carpet of spring flowers. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I set out to find remains of life on the soft knolls. I picked up an old pipe, a metal button, a penny, and the broken arm of a wooden doll. They looked old. Would they be considered as clues to who had once lived here? Not really, I told myself. Such items could be found anywhere. The sun about to  set, I became weary of wandering in the fields.

Slowly, I walked back, pondering on the remains that had endured time. Like the iron gates, intact and still present. Similar to my genetic memory, the will to live and hope, despite the dystopia the entire world is going through.

I debated whether to return to the sleepy town to inquire about the house and the gate. I dismissed the idea. Instinct had already told me the story about the property and myself. Why I endure, how I distract myself with photography, why the structures remain standing, like sentinels, steadfast in their duty, despite the odds.

 

Photo credit: Google images

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

Survival

Tags

adaptation, ancient traditions, continuation, crop rotation, developers, evolution, Flash Fiction, fleeting, flora and fauna, harmony, immortality, industry, nature, resilience, spring, survival, threats, tradition, transience, virgin soil

 

 

I wandered into the field along the dirt road to explore the flora and the fauna. A kaleidoscope of spring flowers, dotted with herds of cattle, sheep, horses, and donkeys. The hyper goats and their babies preferred the rocky terrain, on its edge, climbing and leaping from the heights, and feasting on fresh herbs and blooms. The aroma of sage, rosemary, and oregano filled the air. No humans around, though. It seemed the fauna had the scene for their own amusement.

I was not to complain, as I trod on the young grass, taking care not to harm the beauties of early spring along my path.

Settled on a rock, I watched the vibrant scene as the animals shared nature’s bounty. I took photos, viewed them on my camera, and shot some more to capture the ambiance. At the end of the field, the dirt road snaked towards the village on the hills, after passing through a closed gate. The farmers had herded their livestock into the meadow for grazing till sunset.

In this part of the world, Spring is brief, fleeting like our youth. Hot summer sun burns the grass. The only plants that survive are the trees and thorny bushes. Flowers fade and the green becomes yellow.

I left the meadow with the villagers who came to gather their animals and lead them into the sheds. They offered me coffee at the coffee shop where men smoked and played backgammon. They were dressed in their all year round outfits, jackets worn over shirts, and trousers   The sound of rolling dice against the wooden board mixed with the background noise from the TV on the wall. Noisy, but not disturbing. Not that these people cared about what was happening in the world or in the country. Their world was their village. They had lived that way for centuries, despite devastating events that changed the lives of many. It was their way of survival, like the thorny bushes.

The village head, an old man swinging his worry beads around his wrist, sat next to me and spoke.

“Photographer lady, will you make us famous?”

“I take pictures for my own pleasure. If I publish or sell them, I rarely mention the place. Would you like me to?”

“Yes and no,” he said, taking a big slurp from his coffee. “This is still a protected site, but we don’t know how long it will last.” He pointed to the TV and folded his arms. “The developers are viewing the land, taking photos and measuring. We may not be able to live this way for long.”

I knew what he was talking about. Land profiteers, vultures that thrive on virgin soil. They were everywhere, digging mines, shaving off mountains, building hotel complexes, marinas, and power plants.

“What they do is against nature,” I said. “Yet, they have supporters in the government.”

“Isn’t it always so?”

“I came here to photograph Spring on these ancient lands. I witnessed it once before, but never managed to visit at the right time again when the combination of the animals and nature exist in such harmony.”

“Once harvest is over, the animals graze in the fields on the other side of the gate. Crop rotation, a four-hundred-year-old tradition.” He pointed to the area, peeking from beyond the houses.

“Spring is transient,” I said.

“Isn’t life?” he answered with a smile, tipping the brim of his flat cap.

 

I loaded my bags containing herbs, honey, and almonds from the local shop into the car, and left the village. Driving through magnificent scenery washed in the colours of sunset, I pondered whether I was spring grass, a thorny bush or an evergreen. Grass renews itself and dies, then comes back again. A thorny bush survives all circumstances. Nature is resilient. Bougainvillea bloom, pine trees grow into forests, from the tiny seeds hidden in their cones.

I decided not to publish any of the photos on my website. Let it be a well-kept secret, on my part. Perhaps I could post them as historical documents in the future.

 

 

 

Photos from Google

My Flash Story Exodus is at The Rye Whiskey Review

Tags

attraction, bar, dominance, Exodus, Flash Fiction, infatuation, manipulation, nemesis, surrender, survival, The Rye Whiskey Review, weakness

 

The drinking duck is the AVI of The Rye Whiskey Review.

https://www.facebook.com/The-Rye-Whiskey-Review-204485140361684/

 

Many thanks to The Rye Whiskey Review for including my flash fiction story, Exodus. So now I’m officially a Whiskey person! Cheers!  🙂

As the website is on Blogspot,  I can’t re-blog it. So, I’ll just post the first paragraph here and then the link to the story.

 

Exodus by Sebnem E. Sanders

 

He walked into the bar, and set the room on fire. A magnet that pulled me into his dark eyes. I tried to look away, but his gaze held me captive and stripped me bare. A force I could not resist. A friend mouthed something, yet I had become deaf and blind to anything except his presence. Surrendering to the magical glow and the current that washed me to his shore, I became his satellite.

 

Continue reading here:

https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/2018/07/exodus-by-sebnem-e-sanders.html

 

 

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?