A widowed wife. A mother of two. Living in a country of chaos. She lives in a scattered pile of concrete held together by fractured planks of wood. Trying to survive in a country that wants everyone dead. Seeking refuge in any broken, run-down house that is still standing. Living every moment of her life in constant fear of death for herself and her children.
In my craft I fashion a thing that time cannot wear down, a product no person may consume; yet my craft elevates the soul by consuming the poison of emotional indifference and medicating with love. My words are part of our societal immune system and that makes me proud to call myself a writer.
Bottle in the Sea
To Whomever Receives This Bottle:
I never expected that I'd be lost and forgotten to the world. I suppose I write this hoping that perhaps you will remember this note sometime after you finish reading it, and in that way my memory lives on. Somehow that's enough. Now listen closely, if you've found this bottle it means that even though it has been tossed to and fro by the waves, perhaps pulled by the undertow and cracked against the rocky reef, it still found you. With that being said, life may break you, but know you are too strong to shatter. Your journey is your own. Do not be afraid if it's perilous. Take heart. Face your worries for they will be too afraid to face you. Ride the currents, do not let them control you. Listen to your heart for it is more than just a beat. The one you seek will find you when you least expect it, and they will give back what your journey has taken away. Your boat, your guide: you chart your course, not anyone else. Take responsibility for your faults, but do not apologize for them: they are what make you human. Dwell not on your mistakes, because your mistakes will sail you on the greatest adventures.
I froze when I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, my knuckles going white as I clench the edge of the sink tightly. I stare at my reflection, or more specifically my neck. A long jagged scar snaked down the right side of my neck. It was an unusual looking scar, an odd mixture of bright white and light pink. The skin around the scar was also slightly discolored, suggesting that it did not heal properly. I slowly unclench one of my hands from the sink and lightly brush it down the scar, tracing the jagged line slowly with the tips of my fingers. I sigh and avert my gaze from the mirror, biting my lip. It's been months since I had gotten the scar, but I was still unable to look at it for longer than a minute. I hang my head, shame washing over me as I stood alone in the dimly lit bathroom.
"Mirror, mirror," called the evil Queen, "Who is the most beautiful in the land?" But the mirror never cared for the wrapping paper, as it were, only the gift inside. On seeing the rotten core of the queen, so putrid with odorous decay, it knew that any fair hearted one would outshine her even in the deepest forests. So it told her that she was the poisoned apple and the bitter cold snow too, that she needed to dilute her toxins until they were no more and let warm sunshine into her soul.
I could feel my heart beat… every single pound in my chest. Not through my ears, that was occupied by the steady drum, pipe, and dark voice of the Celtic music; drowning it out in the ears. But I couldn't lay there. I had to but I couldn't. This great pounding, this great pressure; every beat. I couldn't hear it, but I could feel it. It remains now, even as I write, it remained through what little of the Great Gatsby I could shove down my throat. It remained when I stood and stumbled into the other room trying to relieve myself of the small dogs who wouldn't stop nagging. That dark beating remained, alone in this house with me. Every beat a turbulent push from within pushing as a giant placed within the chest; as a great wave against a minuscule dike. This pressure urges the words, this horrible pressure. I tried sleeping through it, drums beating along with the muscle; but the music lost, ran out of time. I don't know for what reason I have to be placing these words here. I started in an attempt at relief, from the beating; some trickle of words to relieve the flood. I can feel it still, beating, pulsing, thumping. It didn't work; why won't it stop.
The golden flowers were a sunrise that stayed, blooming with determined brilliance. It was as if they saw they were not the leaves nor the grass, and so they became themselves all the more; ever more beautiful for their boldness.
He watched the sunset at the horizon, spreading its largess into a grateful sky. Rich hues of red blended with oranges, purples, crimsons. Bob's spirit soared at the sight as he was transported into a timeless existence, ready for the protective blanket of night and new dreams.