As soon as I step out of the car, the strong scent of incense hits me and mingles with the humidity in the gray, rain-heavy air. The smell reminds me of citronella, the mosquito repellent my mom would slather on herself early in the evening, only for it to end up caked under her nails after scratching the bug bites that would inevitably dot her arms and legs. This is where my great-grandparents are buried, where my grandparents are now sealed away behind a slab of engraved stone, in a suburb of the extravagantly sunny Los Angeles next to actors and stuntmen, the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz and the former princess of Egypt. This is where home is supposed to be.
Tag: Pensive
Sunflowers by Sevde Kaldiroglu
I decided not to publish the book I wrote about him. I know you want me to, Eymen, but he wouldn’t forgive me for it. Not when he’s trying so hard to get better, to be better. Not when he’s cooking me eggs with the sunny side up, the yolk just the perfect consistency of a semi-ripe apricot.
He’s approaching me now, his circular, friendly belly leading the way. He’s cut up pears for us. I don’t like pears, but I take a slice anyway. I smile. “Fresh from the trees?” I ask.
Outcast by Elliot J Harper
He lingered on the borderlands between the bar and the raucous scrum that resembled the pub proper. His was the liminal space that lay in that strange realm, watching and feigning participation. As always, he was SOBER – that dirty word. He had abstained for five years now and planned to remain that way for many years to come. He was happy with his status. The decision had been made, all that time ago, to live without a drink. His life before, one he often thought of as a strange, fever dream, was like a completely different world to him. There, he had spent the time striving toward drunkenness. His weekend had been awash with booze, often commencing on Thursday evening, forsaking the hope of Friday, and then devouring the weekend like a famished animal. Treating it like an odd hobby, rather than the destructive force that it really represented for him.
But that was years ago.
Even the Dawn Needs Help Breaking Sometimes by Patrick Meeds
The human handhas six striking surfaces.That is good practical informationto have when you considerthat most of the mysteryleft in the universe is microscopicand yet at the same time, there are stillmany immense things still left […]
Movie Magic by George Nevgodovskyy
I could always spot the look. That glint of recognition. A sideways glance, a tinge of embarrassment. Most people crumble – unable to separate fiction from reality. You’ve thrilled them. Aroused them. You’ve made them sob violently in an empty theatre. A matinee.
They’ve even modelled themselves on the characters you’ve played. The way they speak. The way they dress. That’s why most can’t resist the urge to approach you. Make sure you know they exist too.
Aren’t you that actress from –
I just loved you in –
Through Winter to Spring in SE Colorado by Donnie Hollingsworth
I have to step away and let myself break
to let it go
like I’m a ghost hanging from the wall (putting my head
in the mouths of ghosts
I’m a million tiny birds walking
silently on snow
Epithalamium by Salvatore Difalco
The wedding cake looked like a coffin
for an infant, all pink and white fondant,
under a smother of snow white blooms.
The groom wore a chalky blue tuxedo
that weakened his chin and tinted his skin
and gave him a generally terminal bearing.
The best man’s hair looked amniotic,
his lip-licking eye-popping manner lubricious.
The bride resembled a wild mad bird,
flapping her wings and squawking
about the flowers, the flowers—there
weren’t enough flowers: two sombre violinists
stroked out a contrapuntal Bach thing
and bridesmaids in yellow chiffon singsonged.
Gaia by Elijah Basler
The forest is alive
Branches snap in exclamation to a joke
Whispered by the trees
The wind whines in protest
To the crushing of flowers
Not by a foot but a sole
You are alone on this path
Through the underbrush
Through the pine thickets and burrs
Through the wildflower dotted fields
But you never feel alone
Unforgotten Memories by Catherine Jaishankar
Why do we forget? There is no proven scientific reason for why we forget.1 Our brain has the ability to store the equivalent of 2.5 million gigabytes 2 of digital memory whereas my M1 Mac has only 250 GB. Why is our brain designed to delete memories when it has so much space? The ability to recall a memory is often associated with how well it’s stored and it always differs from one person to another. My childhood memories are compartmentalized in two ways. First, is according to the two different schools I studied in, St. Joseph’s Convent till my fifth standard and Montfort School till my tenth standard. Second, is my house. Pre-renovation and post. Before narrating any of my leftover childhood memories, I have to do some mental calculations to figure out the exact age I was in by identifying how I looked (I had different physical phases in different schools) and the setting. If the parking space at my home was spacious and bright, if the staircase was part of the veranda, if the backyard still existed, then the memory is most likely to be pre-renovation. Once the memory is successfully identified, then my brain starts counting the age. I know I was five in my first standard. That being my focal point I work my age to the memory. This is the mental prep that I have to do before beginning to narrate a memory as ‘I was five/seven/eight.’