Haikou of the Moment (No. 2)
Rain showers cleaning
Beautiful show in the sky
Light and dry inside.
Lucid Waking
“Not much between despair and ecstasy”
Genevieve’s Kitchen
She opened the door to her house with two armfuls of groceries in her hands. She flicked the keys to the table to her right, and kicked the door closed. Her feet were sore from her pumps and she ached from the cold. As soon as she shut the door and kicked off her shoes, she realized there was a lot of bustle in the kitchen as someone banged around with the pots and pans. She walked slowly into the kitchen with her groceries and put them on the table. The room was in complete disarray: eggs were shattered on the floor and water was dripping from the ceiling. Catsup, and various raw meats were smashed into the countertops and her sink was overflowing with suds. Small handprints were all over her utensils and dishes, yet there was no one in the kitchen and most definitely no one in the pots and pans cupboard, which she checked twice. She raised one eyebrow and stepped back into an egg yolk. She sighed, aggravated, and grabbed the paper towels by the sink. Once she had gotten through the first two that were soaked with mustard, she managed to soak up all the eggs. She slipped off her hose and threw them onto the table. Her bare feet were raw and red, but she continued to stand as she cleaned off the counter and walls. The sky was dark outside when she plopped down on a kitchen chair. She closed her eyes for a bit until she heard rustling behind the garbage can under the sink. She got up and flung open the doors, finding nothing but a clean bag where a full one once was. She closed the doors cautiously and started putting the groceries away. When she was finished, she went upstairs, taking her hose and shoes and got ready for bed. (more…)
Madren’s Choice
It took a while for Madren’s eyes to adjust from her night vision to see through the wall of blinding light and when they did, her nose wrinkled in disgust. She turned to him, blue eyes flashing.
This is disgusting, why did you force me here?
Conleth shoved the gun barrel farther into her back and stayed silent. She trotted along as slow as she could down into the ravine.
“Unfinished business,” he said and continued to push her through the muck.
She tried to file through his memories, but he kept pushing her away and all she could sense was melancholy anger. His silent persona wasn’t new to her, as they had been traveling for months to reach this dimensional pocket. The air was static with lingering souls from the bodies drowned in the muck. She sensed anger in every step underneath a begging pull at her heart. One of her hands clutched at her chest, involuntarily as her head started to throb. The mud came up to her ankles and buried in it were small sharp stones that dug themselves into her feet. She winced with pain and for once wished that she had those bizarre things called shoes that Conleth wore. At the speed he was pushing her, she had trouble sidestepping the numerous bodies. (more…)
The Prince of Air Castle
Originally published September 06, 2005
“It starts out as a dream. I’m in an endless field of sugar cane with my little sister, Abby. She’s running around laughing when we hear thunder. We turn around to leave, and that’s when I see the smoke. Abby doesn’t seem to notice it, though, and runs toward it. I’m yelling at her to come back, but it’s like someone cast a silent spell and there’s no sound. She turns back occasionally, egging me on; I guess, ignoring the fact that I’m frowning and waving my arms up and down frantically. Sometimes I run after her, wishing- praying- it would rain. I see her stop as the fire engulfs her. Then I actually feel defeated, and I lose my will to live and sit down in the field waiting for the fire. That’s the scary part- I actually want to die.”
Silence before: “I don’t know. Perhaps you’re having premonitions. Maybe just strong emotions about your sister.”
Peter had always had frightening dreams. He had kept them inside until he collapsed. Now, barely able to walk with a crutch from sickness and mentally instable, he had gone to the town witch for help. She was a small person with a fair complexion and midnight black hair.
“You say you’ve had other dreams?” she asked.
He handed her a black leather bound book. The cover was filled with the story of Joseph and had twelve stars, a moon, and a sun at the top, with bundles of grain at the bottom. The middle between these two scenes had a crow, cornfields, cows, grapes and baskets full of an assortment of food. She smiled at his choice of books and opened it up to the first page. Disturbing images of various feelings and death filled each page.
“How long have you been having these dreams?” the witched looked up at him from the disturbing pages, her face white and her lips drawn thin.
“Since I was five. Those dreams mostly consisted of getting hurt on the playground, but they got worse as I got older.”
“I see.”
There was silence as she stared at the page in front of her.
“Would you mind coming back tomorrow?” she asked as Peter shook his head. “Good, because I need some time to look at this.”
The Music Box
The sky was mauve, now, and the crickets had started their orchestration to the sound of her patent leather heals sharply clicking across the scratched wood floor. She absent-mindedly brushed the light switch and lavender hued lights slowly brightened. Tiny specks of stars peeked through the clouds as she bent down to brush dust off the piano bench before sitting down to gaze out the window. She glanced at her reflection in the glace and rested her head on her relaxed fist.
“Mother? Is something wrong?” a young woman with cinnamon hair and blue eyes, poked her head around the corner into the room. She was wearing a navy and white polka dotted dress that blossomed neatly around her knees.
“No dear, I’m fine,” the woman smiled, diminishing wrinkles on her forehead and accentuating ones around her mouth and eyes. Her hazel eyes were the only bit of color left and stood out with her silver hair, which were in soft ringlets around her shoulders.
The woman nodded and left the room. The crickets had calmed in their chirping and the lavender lights were now a pure white. She walked towards a small door in the wall behind the piano and unlocked it with a small silver key. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them neatly beside the doorframe, and closed the door behind her. She pulled the silk ribbon in the middle of the closet and turned on the normal light of a dying light bulb. She walked past cases of instruments she never knew how to play and past several hundred records placed on shelves to the ceiling. She stopped at the phonograph and moved it aside, pulled out a sage satin box and opened it up to pull out the pair of Pointe shoes she hadn’t used in years and she brushed them off. The cardboard was still in perfect condition and besides the slight fraying of the ribbons they were just about new. She tried one on her foot and looked down; her old companion sat expectantly on her foot looking up at her.
“No,” she whispered, taking off the shoe, “I’m much too old.”
She replaced the pink satin slipper and moved over in front of an ordinary cardboard box. Opening it revealed countless satin and netting costumes of any color imaginable. She nostalgically brushed the tutus, closing her eyes and going over every stitch.
“Mother?” she heard her daughter call, far away. The door was still shut, but the light from the bulb inside shone under it, beckoning. Her daughter smiled and sat down at the piano and started to play. The cracked and sun faded keys pushed out unfortunate notes with every touch in a tired old way.
“It was young too, once.” The elderly woman said closing the door behind her and slipping on her shoes. “It used to dance with the rest of us.”
“I don’t know,” her daughter said walking towards her, “I think it still is, in its soul. And it will never stop until the end of time. The angels dance, too.”
The elder woman smiled. “I hope so.”
The daughter followed her mother out of the room and shut off the light. The white turned to lavender as it dimmed until it was completely off. The crickets continued to chirp outside, orchestrating nothing but dancing memories, using the moonlight as a spotlight.
The next morning, the daughter found her mother sitting on the piano bench, plucking out a tune. The timid and staccato notes sung out and filled the space like drops of water in a pond.
“That’s strange. This old piano hasn’t sounded like this in years. I wonder who tuned it.”
The daughter walked over and looked at the instrument. “Hmmm, it’s been dusted, too.”
“The floor was waxed, it looks brand new. Did you do this?” Mrs. Charity said pointing at the floor.
Her daughter shook her head and opened the piano bench, which was propped open by something. “Look,” she said, pulling out a pure white feather. It glistened in the sunlight and cast lavender refractions on the ceiling.
“Angels,” The elderly woman said. She turned around and left the room. “I think it’s time for breakfast, Charlotte. Let’s leave the angels to their work. They’ve quite a bit to do to give that room life again.”
The next week, she explored the closet and found every record alphabetized, every instrument polished and every costume hung up on display. She smiled and locked the door again, leaving the silver key in the piano bench as usual. When she came back later in the evening, she left the lights turned off and watched the orange and purple sky blend into blue. As she turned towards the door, a glimmer caught her eye and she flipped towards the piano. Sitting with a neatly tied silver bow was a box wrapped in pink paper. She picked it up and carried it to the kitchen.
“Well, open it,” Charlotte said sitting down in a chair opposite her mother. She slipped the ribbon off the box and ripped the paper. Royal blue velvet faced her and she slipped the top off pulling out a music box. A tall ballerina dressed in white with hazel eyes and dark brown hair stood on her toe as a marionette. Her other leg was pointed up and bent towards Charlotte. Charlotte turned the key in the back and the music box gently presented the theme to Swan Lake in a flowing theme.
“That’s me, Charlotte. That’s who I used to be.”
“It’s still you, Mom. Just not the physical you.”
The elder woman smiled and looked up at the sky. “Thank you.”
When the song finished, Charlotte turned the key again and the ballerina change positions and her tutu changed colors as the music box played the theme of Sleeping Beauty.
“Very impressive,” Charlotte said as she went to answer the door. She came back with a feather in her hand and placed it on the table, before walking to the sink to wash the dishes. Over the din of the faucet, the tiny music box cranked out crescendos and decrescendos of the beautiful overture. Beyond all that, one could still hear the crickets continuing their songs outside to each and every twinkling star.
Weekend Days
Previously published on September 05, 2005
Weekend in the country
It could be a gift or a gathering-
A word. A weekend. A whisper.
In shades of chocolate, honey, and biscuit
The perfect partner
Summer day heat wave
Sugar and spice
a chameleon hiding in plain sight,
our island universe
you asked for it
it is ending…
Hi…
She sat down at her computer, fingers poised above the keys, mind blank. What to write, what to write, she pondered, going over and over the thought as a mantra. Her stomach started to growl quietly as she sets her fingers down and wrote hastily:
Well, welcome to Lucid Waking! I suppose I should start with the basic information: This is a creative writing blog, and is copy written for 2005 and later. Every Sunday, unless I have other plans and/or cannot get to a computer, I will republish previous posts from lucidwaking.blog.com. The rest of the week is open for new posts. Generally, in summer, I will post more often than the rest of the year. Feel free to comment and check in on a daily basis. If you really love anything you see, send me an email, and I’ll accommodate for you. However, this is only alright if you email me first! If you wish, I comment on almost every post and other news, will be published on the first "parent" page. That’s about it; thanks for visiting!
Lucid Waking is proudly powered by WordPress and WPDesigner.
Entries (RSS)
and Comments (RSS).
