Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Emotions War

When I was little and very new,
My mother would tell me a story,
Advice to help you live.
She says there is three things you need,
A heart, soul and a shadow,
And to not make plans with witches.
Even though she said it was three,
she would always say four things.

As I grew and wondered my town,
On the corner of my eye,
I saw a woman,
And has a cloak black as the hole in the wells,
Wells that never end,
Forever to the bottom of the Earth they go.
But as she disappeared,
I grabbed my chest in pure horror,
And down my body went like a stone.

Deep in my insides,
Emotions started to go in war.
Sadness cries,
Happiness is on the run.
Anger rules the land,
Love is dying in the abyss of fire.

Joy is in hiding,
Fear is creeping in every shadow,
And I,
The Soul of the body,
Is in the chains of my emotions.

As I walk across forbidden fields full of thorns,
And seas that cut even fresh skin,
Forever blocks my way out of the past,
The ghost I wish to escape from as I run,
Farther and farther,
My feet directs me.
And faster repeatedly,
My heart skips beat.

As I now travel distance lands,
Like the nomad I've become,
I've also adapted the skill of observance.
I see children laugh and play with their hearts,
And parents holding close to their spirits.
I clench my dress as I bite down my lip,
As I only thing I have is my shadow left.

I have no more heart as I gave it to the witch,
For she said she could help me with my issues of my past,
But she burned my heart in the hearth she laid on the dirt floor.
My grave for the emotions I have no more,
Yet I still cry sour tears.

I even lost my soul to the wind.
As the ghosts still haunt even if I gave my heart,
They grabbed my insides with claws and talons.
As they gorged on me,
 My blood danced around on the ground.
They quick stepped as they slowly went into a passionate rumba,
I can't feel the pain as the ghosts physically pull and tug.
Then in the vanish of the world,
My soul was taken hostage by the hunters of the dead.

Now with my feet dragging the shadow,
I cover my face with the hood of grief,
Hiding the misery,
"I should have listened to my mother".

On the green fields that hurt my bones with their glow,
I release my hands to the grey sky,
Now my pale and scarred face to the universe,
Fully exposed.
Nothing to cover it to the burning sun of truth.

And soon my upper body is highlighted red,
As a knife is hanging around my neck.
But it doesn't touch a vein,
Nor any artery,
But at the chains that dragged me down.
I slash open the chains of my hands,
I break open that hang on my ankles,
And tear apart the choker on my neck,
As I suddenly turn into bird of a feather,
A white feather,
When the chains fall to its surroundings,
And sent my shadow flying to the stars.

But as I look upon this,
I stare above in the sky,
A never ending place for the strangers,
And of course,
The Unlucky ones.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Sun (A song I made up)

(To understand the melody, go on a one-two step beat.) 

But you know that I couldn't handle it.
Was all that you could say,
But what I say to that sorry,
It didn't fit right with me,
So I,
I threw it,

In the world,
 Of space where I float,
 Like the broken lily I am.
I have my hands,
 Open and uncleanly,
Ready to hold,
 The warm light of Sun.
But instead of that,
accidently grabbed yours,
In the eerie dark of black.

You told me, (Told me)
That you would be here.
You smile at me, (At me)
Saying that the Sun will shine on us.
But now, (But now)
Now the light,
Now stands at you,
All alone-



I won't,
 Let you take the light, 
To my,
Happy freedom.
I won't,
 Let you take my escape.
I will in the end,
When I will meet you there,
There will be no end,
 For you.

Was all came to the open air.
Was all can heal the wound,
But what I ordered,
 To that sorry,
"Is the window,
It shall go."

But you know that I couldn't handle it.
Was all that you could say,
But what I say to that sorry,
It didn't fit right with me,
So I,
I threw it,

A World War I Letter

January 30, 1916
Dear Mother, Father, Jane, and George,

I know it’s been sometime since I’ve wrote a letter to you all, but it was a long time for the war is getting a lot worse. It’s night as I write this letter in the most of rare calming atmosphere of the Medic Tent, however, the linger of fear never leaves the heart of any soldier so it probably shouldn’t leave mine. Nor it does to any nurse who I work with. We work all days, long and hard, as we carry men from the Front with bloody faces on stretchers, disembodied limbs, and men who gotten sick from Trench Fever and other diseases from where they sleep in the trenches. We also have some rats that scurry around, but I know that the Matron, Frida, would be happy to take them down with her pocket knife, always shiny and smooth and had engravings that said in cursive: Use of Power is made for Many. I never dared to ask how she got such a weapon; nor did anybody else, but we were happy that she was able to keep such nasty creatures out of our hair. Oh that reminds me, one night, I think it was last week, Jane, a regular nurse with no stature like myself, found two mice scurrying in her puffy, brown hair. She screamed like a wild animal and cried with such sorrow of pain as she felt their claws, digging and scratching into her scalp. She woke many of the other nurses in the broad morning and they all stared in such horror, but Frida was the first to take action. She took them by the tails and the screeches of the rats woke me from my slumber at two in the morning. I saw in my sleep-foggy eyes, one brown and one black, hanging upside down in Frida’s hand right hand as her left held the knife, pointing at their throats. Before I realized what she was doing, I saw for the first time how she dealt with the rats. She cut their throats and like a balloon filled with air, they deflated and all the blood drained out. A speck of blood fell on my face and my pale-navy blue eyes were wide as I slowly said “Poor rats” deep in my mind.  To make matters worse for poor Jane, as Frida threw the rats out of the tent, Frida told the nurses that they were a male and a female trying to make a home on the top of her head. We all believed her for we all knew she was turning into a rat expert. Poor Jane was off duty that day as she was traumatized from the rats and whenever she saw one, she would flee to Frida’s side like a child running to the safety of her mother from a scary creature. For me, rats are the least of my worries. My worries are more directed to when I have to run to the field in No Man’s Land. My heart jolts and runs laps in my chest from hearing those bomb shells rain down like Hell is taking over the land. For me, however, I think it all ready took over some. I know it’s slowly taking over Jane and some men who I’ve met when they come in, but I’m still trying to hold strong.

A few days ago, as my sector was traveling north to a hill for safer ground, I came by a interesting tool. I saw that it was a bayonet; its row of teeth almost cutting into my skin for I didn’t see with my eyesight was clouded with the details; a mark or engraving of some sort. I took it to a soldier, a tall fellow with broad shoulders who had a long beard with dirt around the edges who I remembered helping when he got shot in his right leg. I asked him what the writing on it meant once we came to the spot on the hill and all the tents were made. He told me it was their allies, the French, as he also told me that the teeth proves it all that the French made them. I thanked him and wrapped it in a cloth as I put it under my bed for safe keeping. I now forever keep this bayonet inside my boot when I go out, hoping to use it for safety and at the same time; afraid to one day use it. But, even with this security, I unfortunately didn’t expect the sorrow of the army weapon. I showed this to one of the nurses I was the closest to, Mary, as she looked along with me in awe. She touched it carefully and was happily to hear what I learned from the British Soldier that day. But, one day though, she asked me if she could borrow it. I looked at her with a weird sensation that I will regret as she never asked me such things, but obliged non the less. Sadly though, I soon learned to discover that she killed herself behind the Medic Tent as we woke up the next day. The blood of her wrist and neck encircled her like a ring of stones in a child’s story to make fairies appear. But as I saw the bayonet in her pale hand, I knew it was demons who appeared instead.

We buried her in that spot as Frida made a prayer for her spirit to hopefully make it to heaven and for God to forgive her inconvenient death. I unfortunately deep down thought otherwise later on. I once decided to look through her letters to see why she made this decision. She always seemed happy around me so I had to see why she did such act. The answer then came to me as I saw a letter written that her husband and two children died from a fire that happened. The images of fire burning furniture, putrid smoke that can choke the air out of you and screams of pure terror ran through my mind as I realized the reason she killed herself. I looked at the date of the letter: January 18, 1916. It was in Mary’s handwriting, so I resumed it was the day she received it. I then tried to remember when I showed her the bayonet to her. I then dropped my jaw and eyes watered as I realized it was three days after she got the letter. “Oh dear Mary? Did you think it was a present from God that told you could join your dead family and I was the messenger for your death? Or did you think it was the Devil who possessed me to give you such a way to ease your sins of wanting to die?”  was what I asked her that night before I slept. I  however couldn’t sleep that night. I now have a weight of guilt that hangs over my head for I was practically the murderer for my best friend.

I now wish to be in the dugout where the soldiers hide so I won’t have to keep seeing the empty bed that Mary once laid in. I have a craving to hide away behind the parapet of mud and blood so I can be far away from the rats that scurry in the Medic Tent. I want to move to another sector even to just start over with new, different nurses. I know that this can never happen. I need to remember that Mary is in a better place now.

So long my dear family,
Madeline Jones

Monday, April 16, 2012

The Story of the Ages: Youth vs. Adults

       On the very bleak and grey morning, the sun seemed to almost shine in the distant. The spring breeze was flowing like usual to the west of the island; blowing green seedlings all over the fields, also carrying fresh drops of river water on the seeds and petals from the trees with overbearing flowers. The sweet scent also brought many youngsters swarming with the fuzzy feelings in their stomachs, tickled out of their toes and got inhaled again through their noses.

       Many older children are standing in a circle in the green fields, holding hands and dancing in the giant circles while the younger ones stood inside it. They all sang simple tunes. Fun ones. Soft ones. The songs to represent spring:

Dainty flowers,
Spring flowers,
Carry my spirit,
 To the love for my people.
Let my spirit dance in harmony,
With the Goddess of Spring.

She will watch over me,
Protect me,
And always hold me,
Till the sunlight breaks.

        The song goes on forever. Never ending as the children start to break apart and dance in the circle they made. They still continue to sing until little by little, the children take their over-used shoes and abused hats and throw them up to air as they chant a bit louder:

Take my soul to my mother's womb,
Where she will bore me again, 
Like our Goddess does to her children.
For we are her children,
The Sprout Saplings.

          Soon, their shirts and rest of their clothing are scattered remains of their past lives as they dance again all close and huddled to one another. The young almost grown girls not afraid to show their beauty and the foolish boys not commenting by their appearances either; like they were all in their own worlds. The youngsters however didn't care. They all danced with each other as they chanted the same melody over and over again. Some laughed til the air was released out of their precious lungs and some even laughed til they cried soft, pure tears of happiness. They hugged each other as each of them cries, later turning into harsh sadness. Some got goosebumps as the sadness shook them to their were freezing cold.

           Suddenly, gun fires were shot in the distance and one of the younger girls squealed but was quickly covered by a older girl that was behind her. They all stared at each other and then ran off, grabbing their remains of their dignity and ran to the bringer of the sweet scent. They all held each other; hand in hand like the Children of the Gardens they are...

           "Crap they got away." A husky, almost chocking voice proclaimed in such annoyance to the fields. The old cracked voice gave out after his old smoking habit as he coughed and snarled saliva from his throat. A older fellow, almost in his thirties, wore a blue cloak and held a hunting gun in his brown ripped gloves. He strolled on his aching but muscular legs that were shown in his brown trunks as other men followed him behind; some riding their horses.

            The men who followed were all much younger then their leader was, but even with his youth of having bolt loads of energy, all of them were exhausted and tried from tracking down the children. Some don't even know why they joined him. By their birth right? Parents? Laws of their town? Others thought it was their rightful duty. However, to the leader, it was almost his religion if he could try. The youngest but the most tired was the rookie of the men, who was all ready weak from carrying his gun and would pass out any moment. He held his head low until he let out a moan of pity, "Should we set up camp General Kipp?" 

            Suddenly, all the men stopped in their tracks as they held their guns tightly. Some even lowered themselves to the ground like a mine was detonated. The young man gulped a vomit he hiccuped from the bellows of his stomach as he realized what he just did. The General then stiffened and then turned around, spying the young man in the eyes like poison darts.

            "You can rest when you're dead," He said in a low voice as he raised it a little, "I'm not letting those youngsters get away from me. They need to remember where they came from and not some mythical fairy story. Now keep moving, or I will do the honors that the King has the privilege to do. It might even be the killing part."

             The men were praying their minds that the new recruit had some brains to keep quiet about the General's retoriqal threats but again the voice was heard, "But General Kipp, we all technically believed in that story once in our-"

           A bullet was suddenly flying out one of the General's three rifles as it went through the young man's hat. The shock made the young lad duck to the floor and hug his head tightly. He searched for loss of life inside his closed eyes lids as he realized the blood from his head went running down his nose and diving off his chin. It barely scraped him scalp, but he can still feel the puncture wound as he held back tears of still being alive.

            "Watch your mouth Squirt, or I will make sure it doesn't miss the initial target. Got it?!" His voice raised with warning signals.

            Silence was answered as two other men brought the young man to his feet. He was now biting his lip which was bursting with blood. 

             "Yes sir." He said through gritted teeth and hollow voice. 

             "Don't call me sir Squirt or do you really want to die on the first day of you being a man?" He asked, now aiming and cocking his gun to full throttle. 

             "Yes General Kippert! He spat blood on the floor that spaced them apart. 

             The gun was then shot into air and he yelled, "Keep moving men! I want them dead as they are in range of my guns!"