Creative Writing: Listening

Recently it has occurred to me, that I am finally free from the shackles of fear and its hold on me, that this might be the end of the trail. Nonetheless, the sense that suffering is chasing me weighs down any notions of comfort or relief, frankly because my valley was once no different than the peak, just as safe and appealing. And so I moved in life, the trail never ended. The same pebbles remained unmoved, the same voices and sounds, everything was the same. Remarkably, the further I climbed, the more my perspective changed drastically, shifting my perception of moments and bonds that I developed with others into everlasting memories. Wounds seem to have healed. Gradually the valley below began resembling a gem with undeniable beauty contradicted

One day, cutting through the swamp, David comes across the remains of old Indian souls and discovers a skull with jewelry still buried on the bodies. As David kicks at the skull, he hears a voice and looks up to see a black man seated on a stump just looking. The man, wearing a black sash around his body, has a soot-stained face, which makes it appear as if he works in some fiery place. David soon recognizes the stranger as the devil, the black man. Twenty years later we had a family reunion with all my relatives and they started talking about the fire.

The day was dark. I could feel a storm approaching. The gentle sunlight glistening through the clouds, now covered by a heavy mist. Drop. Drop. Drop. The coldness of the water tinged my face. And the earth shook, as a large boom erupted from the sky followed by a light crackle. By now, I was soaked, like that night. I continued walking through the deserted streets when a large flash erupted from the sky. Oh, great lightning, today was getting better and better. A woman and her young child was running towards their car to seek shelter. The walk was a long and dreadful one, I found myself looking at the place I left 15 years ago. The house was still dark and foreboding as ever, the shutters hanging off its hinges and the roof in a state of disrepair.

The drive home was difficult; his vision swam and his muscles felt stiff and achy. Too bright city lights glared at him, pierced his eyes. His head throbbed, beat, beat, beat, in rhythm with his racing heart. Nausea rocked in his stomach and every noise seemed amplified. Why were these damn people driving so slowly? He needed to get home; he was already late as it was, and his father wouldn't be pleased. Leaving the glowing city behind him, Aiden found slight relief in the peaceful country roads and sharp peppermint smelling pines that surrounded his home, if you could call it that.

Sunshine was pouring out from in between the buildings, casting shadows all around Ponyboy and the gang as they walked to Pony’s school. They were taking their time walking down the streets and for the first time they all were really seeing what was all around them. Memories were surfacing in their minds showing them what it all meant to them. With every step they took on the sidewalk they remembered a different memory as if they were walking down memory lane. Ponyboy didn’t think it was possible for him to be walking down this street for the last time as a high school student, but he had gone through the years with great grades that earned him many scholarships.

"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.

The driver, Cecilia Blair, of vehicle 1 was traveling north through the intersection of N. State St. and Flint St. when she had a collision with vehicle 2. The driver, Jacqueline Muir, of vehicle 2 was heading west on Flint St. when she was struck by vehicle 1.

As the wind brushed the back of my dress, I turned around to overlook the waves of golden ocean, pouring into the small town I called home. But, my eyes became fixed on the sun. It was so wonderful, so beautiful as it rose out of its slumber in the mountains. I always felt the sun’s warmth on my cloudy white dress, and I loved how it always felt like my father’s hugs.

Allison felt lost. As lost as when she learned that she’d never know her biological family. You’ve got to get over this girl. You just met him, and you know better than anyone that there’s no such thing as love at first sight. She sighed and stared out across the living room towards the divided french doors. Fog from the lake had risen and crept across the lawn. It held an eerie tranquility that increased her bleak mood.

Though she is weak, she struggles. I whisper soothing words to her as I carry her through the woods; if only she could understand that no harm will come to her by my hand. When she goes still, my heart twists in my chest. She has not left this world, I realize, but is staring at me with an intensity that makes the heat of fire seem dull. This is the first day that I have ever held a life in my arms, and it shakes me. Her soul is laid bare before my eyes, and I wish to shelter it from the snowfall. She does not see this, and though my words may be futile, they carry weight.

I hear a clap of thunder and slam my book shut. My Mom jumps, I tell her to stay here. I go to the kitchen, she’s screaming at me, I don’t care. I walk out the front door and I feel the first drop of rain hit my head. I pause and look up toward the sky: the sky doesn’t care about what I am or what I do. I run to his house and twist the worn knob of his door, I’m not stopped. I open the door to find him in the kitchen, a look of surprise on his face he goes to yell but is stopped by the cold stainless steel piercing his abdomen. I take in the stale stench of his room and the vision of his helpless large body hit the cold concreted floor. I walk to the door, lock it and close it. I hit an icy wall or rain and let the pure water trickle down me. I hear the cries of my mother but I cannot help but smile. One less set of unrelenting predators eyes to stare into, one less rumbling mouth for our eardrums to beat

It was a typical day in the Tatafu household, with my sister and I participating in a match of our amateur version of basketball, my mother passionately gardening and the rest of the house basically lounging around. I remember distinctly that the day was the 2nd of February, also known as the aggravating first day of school. For odd some reason, I had sensed an unsettling feeling that blended in with our borderline ‘couldn’t-be-bothered’ behavior as we foregathered in for dinner. The silence that usually accompanied our dinners had transitioned into a newfound awkward hush, and I knew immediately that something just wasn’t right. I had heard the gossip slipping through the occasional conversations within the disorderly family meetings, however I just assumed they were rumours. They had to be. “She lost the baby.” I introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, the day my world disintegrated.

And I was there, too, hoping to find you and say to you, Come back, come back, there's only one street, one door, we didn't mean it, we didn't know, whatever was wrong will be different. Several times I decided you were dead, even wished you were dead, but then another postcard would come, with another message to ponder. And I've always read them, even when my husband said not to, even if they've driven me to tears or rage or a blankness when I've no longer cared if you were dead or anyone were dead, including myself. I've been faithful, too, you see. I've always looked up where you were in the atlas, and put your postcards in the box. Sixtythree postcards, four hundred—odd lines of scrawl: our life together. Why are you standing there like that? my daughter asks me. I must have been away somewhere, I say. But I'm back. Yes. You see, Mother, I always come back. That's the distance that separates us. But on summer evenings, when the windows are open to the dusk, I sometimes smell cities … wheat fields … oceans—strange smells from far away—all the places you've been to that I never will. I smell them as if they weren't pictures on a postcard, but real, as close as my outstretched hand. And sometimes in the middle of the night, I'll sit bolt upright, my husband instantly awake and frightened, asking, What is it? What is it?

As I turn in a slow circle, I'm confronted by Patsy, grinning like the Cheshire cat! John, however, wears a dignified smile.

My day begins again with a drone of the same ringtone of the alarm. Getting up to open the window forgetting about the same old raven bird that stares at me with its whole black eyes sending you into a black spiral. The sense of nostalgia hits, rain leaves its own scent like the scent of an ex-lover’s. After all eternity doesn’t wait for the past to catch up, you just keep on going with your life as I have. Making my way to the kitchen I avoid all the papers on the floor scattered like a tornado threw up and shredded its life. My hands twitches to grab the phone eager to check for the ghost messages and calls. Putting down my arm as soons as it raises “don’t do it”. I turn in circles to find someone but in its leave was nothing. “ I know” I whispered to no one. The hallway was filled with darkness except for one room whose light was slowly dimming. Darting past the shadowed hands reaching for me I went into the room. Searching for that dark grey raincoat that was hung up on a hanger in the half empty closet.