"So Now?"

Short Stories #1

Missing

He disrupted the crisp, foggy air with his hurried gait. A man dressed in a brown trench coat and a peculiar black top hat moved swiftly but stiffly, as if trying to act casual, through the dim lit, narrow, cobbled street of Paris. Mist drifted lazily at his feet due to his fast pace and a crescent moon peeked from behind the dark, heavy set clouds, just barely illuminating the mysterious, harried man's face. Beads of glittering sweat had gathered on his forehead and brows while his face held a sickly pale pallor. Though his face was blank, there was poorly concealed fear in his dark eyes. His hands trembled and lips quivered, twitching the greying goatee on his chin, for the barest second. His shoulders were tensed and held taut and his back was ramrod straight as he took a sharp turn into another street. The lights flickered but he continued, his pace getting swifter. The lampposts puttered and the lights went off allowing darkness to envelope the surrounding. For a long minute there was stillness and silence. Even the echoing clacks of the man's shoes had halted. After a minute, the lights flickered on again and underneath one of the lampposts lay, on the dewy ground, a brown trench coat neatly folded and a peculiar black top hat resting on it. The man himself, was nowhere in sight.

“The Strongest Of The Strange”

you won’t see them often

for wherever the crowd is

they are not.

those odd ones, not many

but from them come

the few good paintings

the few good symphonies

the few good books

and other works.

and from the best of

the strange ones perhaps

nothing.

they are their own

paintings

their own

books

their own

music

their own

work.

sometimes I think

I see them – say

a certain old

man sitting on a

certain bench

in a certain way

or

a quick face

going the other way

in a passing

automobile

or

there’s a certain motion

of the hands

of a bag-boy or a bag-girl

while packing supermarket groceries.

sometimes

it is even somebody

you have been

living with

for some time –

you will notice a

lightning quick

glance never seen

from them before.

sometimes

you will only note

their existance suddenly

in vivid recall

some months

some years

after they are

gone.

I remember

such a one –

he was about

20 years old

drunk at 10 a.m.

staring into a cracked

New Orleans mirror

facing dreaming

against the walls of

the world

where

did I

go?

~Charles Bukowski

Katerina Marchenko on Etsy

Jacob Wrestling with the Angel (Painting), 1843

by Alexandre Louis Leloir.

One day we will be able to breathe again.

So peaceful Souvenir. A brother singing ancient Andalusian song in Al-hambra palace.

And the forest hugged me, the moss sheltering, the leaves and vines curling and the wild flowers showering me with perfume.

"Welcome back," the forest whispered in my ear," I've missed you."

~Me

Everyone who reblogs this will get the title of a book to read based on their bio/posts.

Everyone. I mean it.

"No War"

I looked to the east and there was a war.

I looked to the west and there was a war.

I looked north and I looked south and there was a war.

I looked within and there was a war.

I felt no peace, no safety, no comfort anywhere.

With bone deep, aching tiredness, I looked at the arduous journey before me with quiet, blank eyes.

Whatever my destiny maybe, I started with the war within.

I bled and cried out emotions, pains and fears.

Years of souls haunting me from beyond their graves.

I fought and I fought and I fought.

They whispered sweet nothings in my ears. Their sirens call piercing as they wail and they wail and they wail.

I still fought and I fought and I fought.

And before I knew, their voices grew weak.

They washed over me like sea foam, dull and bleak.

Then I built and I built and I built.

After what felt like centuries, I lifted my head.

I looked to the east and I looked to the west.

I looked to the north and I looked to the south.

There was no war, only peace.

~Me

When did I get so grey. Or maybe I have always been this dull shade of nothingness. I'd like to think that I was once an exuberant yellow just to have something to compare with. To know that I've moved and changed and grown, to know that I had once tasted the sun,that I held it in my gentle hands and for once I didn't burn. But that's a lie isn't it? A comforting one but a lie nonetheless. Maybe I've always been grey.

~Me