I’m curled up in a corner

hugging my knees

to my chest

alone

solitary in my aloneness

forlorn and desolate

in my isolation

from the world

and from you.

The sadness

I feel

is suffocating

and pressing on

my soul.

Why, tell me why

did you leave me

without

a backward flicker?

I shiver bereft

mourning your death

left in the cold

but your imprint

is still there.

As the days goes by

As my heart mumbles and fry

I'll remember you

.

.

.

#haiku

Darkness looms

Confusion thrives

Hysteria glows

Pain gnaws

Hunger out of its small hole looms and you are lost in the badlands. Watch out!!

#Badlands

seas rock my soul

     inflate my empty spaces

     billow with dreams

     kites of saffron emotions

     wind ruffling blushed beaches

bleached walls of sand

     wrap arms around foamy cusps

     slipping between sheets of water

     purity of cleansing mist

     whispered secrets released

love notes scrawled in grains before us

     flirting seagulls soar above

     poured light of amethyst beams

     sunshine swims in sprinkled rays

     sunlight drips mustard on my toes

flowing water of overlapped waves

     jaunty fish silhouettes

     fragrant wisps of clinging seaweed

     truth cradling purity of tints

     embraced by daylight eyes

utopia a mirage just one step ahead

     serenity of secret promises

     saline breezes ruffling senses

     I take a deep breath of aqua

     knowing I am my own utopia.

My skin caught on fire at the sight of the creamy ivory of her lushness just begging to be sipped and savored with my tongue. Seductive heavy lashed eyes gazed at my inner soul, urging me to fall abjectly at her feet. Her breasts were like full moons shining luminously in white gold beams of enticement. Shapely legs begged me to travel to their molten source. Even her name was beautiful – Lorelei – named after a woman who was rumored to be a bewitcher of men as well a siren calling them to their deaths.

“Stay away from her.” My deceased mother’s voice instilled itself into my head, pounding in her insistence, “She is no good. She’ll hurt you.”

“Be quiet, mother,” I shouted, “go back to your netherworld and leave me alone.”

I knew in my last kernel of awareness that my mother was right. Although I was overcome by a malignant aura foretelling that Lorelei was evil incarnate, I chose to turn my back, ignoring my subconscious warnings. I argued with myself in heated words, rationalizing that I would just ride the magic carpet to wherever it took me, without worrying about the consequences. I promised myself that I would leave after sampling her wonders. My pulse quickened as little beads of sweat decorated my upper lip in moistness. “I am coming, Lorelei,” I crooned, as I floated toward her in ignorant bliss.

“You’ll be sorry. Don’t do it!” I paid no heed to my mother’s distant fading voice.

Lorelei was everything that had been promised to me as I lost myself in her

whirlwind of pure lust. She gave to me until I begged her to stop. “Please,”

I cajoled, “I can’t go on forever as you can. There has to be an ending.”

But Lorelei continued with her passionate ministrations of moist lips, probing tongue, and stroking hands leading me to her very center. Finally, I crashed into the rock wall that the Song of Lorelei had promised me in legends of the past. My heart could take it no longer and ceased its hammering life.

Once again, I heard the warning voice of my mother, “I warned you, son! Now you’ll be with me forever in the clouds. She was the death of you!”

leaves fell to the ground that day, and psithurism dominated the air. and she enjoyed hearing their rustle and whispers as she sat under the old tree with those leaves gorgeous leaves of brown and red, their sweet memories stuck to her mind and a plastered smile to her face. but the agony from his death made her weep. she heard the whispers of the dried leaves while she narrated her story to them, the only real friends of this "mad" lady. and with each leaf that fell to the ground, she felt her pain alleviate as she experienced her last agony. together, the friends faded away. what a sublime feeling it was, both bitter and sweet at the same time

       My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.

       I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.

       At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.

       He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.

       My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.

       “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.

       After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.

      Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.

       “But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.

       The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”

       “Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.

       A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for he crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.

       Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.

       I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.

       “I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”

       I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.

       “Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.

       “Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.

       “I promise, Sam.”

                                                    To Be Continued...

Title: The Prince of Pirates

Genre: Historical Fiction, Science Fiction

Age range: 16 - 45

Target audience: North America, Central America, Europe

Word count: 1111

Author's name: Jefferson House

Synopsis: "My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time." After losing his mother at birth, Samuel Bellamy is set on a path in his life that no one could predict. Filled with loss, blame, and a beloved to return to, Samuel must face the test of time in order to return home.

If you say “good morning,” he will look up

from his weeding, or whatever he is doing in

the fenced area of his front yard, look at you

as if he just caught you mid-squat in the dirt,

and turn his wrinkled nose away. If you knock

on his door to talk about his rusted Accord

blocking your driveway, you see his scowling

face in the window—his greeting, a middle finger.

He’s been known to throw things. The family next

door know not to say anything as they pass by

on the sidewalk; he will snarl at them, and nod

to Mr. Torkington, their pet Doberman.

His house smells like musty papers and

dog food. Scout troops are warned from

approaching his door, a girl fractured her

leg when he had chased her away from

his stoop with a rolled up newspaper.

Animal control makes annual inspections

of his house. One time a concerned neighbor,

startled by all the rabbits, called for a wellness

check. They came and took hundreds of

floppy-eared, snuffling rabbits away in crates,

while he hovered by the front door and sobbed.

Spring finds him kneeling in the fresh dirt of his yard

tilling the soil with a trowel, he spies a baby robin

gray and ugly, crying in loud braying cheeps

—sounds too loud for such a tiny body—he

uses the trowel to expose pink fleshy worms

in the muck and the baby bird hops closer,

dodging nimbly between each shower of dirt. 

“You deserve better,” he says, clucking his tongue,

and scans the sky for more friends. 

Ever heard of the blame game?

‘Been there, done that!’

Ever wondered what led you there and why you did what you did?

‘Well…..’

We believe we own the people we’re in love with, that every fiber of their being is obliged to satisfy us in every way possible. We easily announce our claim onto their souls. It’s as if we created them, and that their existence is purely cynical to our being and not even for themselves.

Mistaking this for traits of possessiveness or love is downright stupid. Practicing this kind of control over someone is justifiable only if we’re mentally disturbed or a narcissist and apparently most of us do fall under either one or both of these categories.

All that being said, when one of these people, go out of their ways and for the first time do something that does not include in our book of ‘101 ways to owe me your soul’, it seems like the end of the world. It feels like they have cut us into a million pieces, like an involuntary euthanasia. We’re left heartbroken.

But wait, we are still alive.

Our social media, which becomes a canvas to showcase this anti-climax, is livelier than we have ever been. Still a few breaths old, we paint a million similar looking images of a broken heart with quotes dealing with pain and suffering written across with the blood of this very broken heart (which is, surprisingly, still beating) onto the canvas.

This is when it all starts, the blame game. After we have successfully escorted our hearts into this self-made hell, we just can’t stop blaming them people. We blame them out and out, day and night even for the wrongs that already exist in our lives that they have nothing to do with. We book the entire terrain of bad spells under their name. That’s just how we deal with it and try to mend our seemingly broken hearts.

But what we fail to understand is that, everything we go through has a direct link to everything we put others through. When we put our faith in others, we often forget to read the book named ‘the consequences’. I mean, how much can we expect from something created out of sand, sporting a heart that is designed to keep them alive, provided they do what makes them happy?

Can we all stop being so selfish, please?

The idea of expecting the best from people must be terminated. To put someone under an invisible burden which pushes them down to resort to a level where they do something that is likely to upset us, that’s our fault.

An important task is to understand that we are all equally trained to do what we are supposed to do. If some can expect, others can decide to not live up to those expectations and that should be accepted wisely.

We do what we do because, to be spiritually attained, we realize that it’s okay to not always try and be happy or be the cause for someone else’s happiness. Everything has to be done in right proportions, because adding 2 tablespoon of sugar (instead of teaspoon) to 1 cup of coffee might better the bitter taste of our tongue but also spoil our coffee.

I was in this world,

before the 'self' awoke.

I was in this world,

manifest in everything.

though I did not pester

the course of the living,

nor hold a breath of air, 

I was in this world.

oddly enough, if I gaze

at a higher level, or

deep in profundities

of creation, and if I 

consider hard and true

a distance, I clearly see

transcendence...

a womb from which

my form took shape,

I see myself budding out

like leaves from a branch

I was wind before 

I became a word, 

a word before a seed, 

a seed before a pupa,

a pupa before an infant.

I was in this world, 

way before I drew 

the first breath...