Awww Yeah, Pt. 2

So, I'm not really sure what I think of this part. It's a little repetitive, I know, but it's hard to convey exactly how long this walk was for Donovan without being repetitive. As in, it was not a long walk in terms of distance, but for him it is a really long walk. This is probably the worst of the three parts of the story right now, so you have been warned. Also, thanks for the comments guys. Apparently I have a huge problem with the passive voice, aka I can't actually ever use anything else. Should probably fix that before I am murdered via English teacher. Also, there is some confusing switching of tenses going on in this story. The first part is in present tense, even though it's describing his past, and the rest is in past tense, even though that is what is happening in the story. It's intentional, but let me know if it's bullshit.

Donovan rose slowly from the rocking chair, and made his way over to the mantel. He observed his spoons, and noted a small spot on one of them. Picking up a square gray cloth, he polished the spoon until the spot was gone, and then placed it carefully back onto the mantel. He slowly limped over to the door, stopping to pull on thick yellow socks, the color of mustard. In the dim light of his home, he can barely find his shoes in the closet, but finally pulled out a clunking pair of leathers, and eased his feet into them. Pulling open the door, he stepped outside, hearing the brittle cracking of frost under his feet, and inhaling the bitter air.

He was going back to the pub, though he had been twice in that day already. Thinking of Ellen always made him thirst for cheap ale, or perhaps some whiskey to feel the burning in the back of his throat. The sun was just behind a passing cloud, and he could look directly at a faint orange sphere as it was setting, casting blood rays over his home. He scarcely glanced at it, walking on as firmly as he could, leaning towards one side slightly. The road to the pub was slippery, and he was at a disadvantage with his legs, and no cane. He brought his hand to his mouth, gnawing on raw cuticles with his chipped and yellowing teeth. If he slipped and fell, he knew it would mean many days at home, and he couldn’t do without his daily ale. He stepped carefully over small chunks of ice, cast aside in snowball fights, and a grimace pulled at his cheeks as he remembered his sons flinging bits of snow and rock at each other, and his wife, with her cheeks red and puffed, holding the boys apart from each other, her voice raising octaves in seconds.

--Ah, Ellen, if you could see me now, he muttered to himself, you would look in disdain at my very being, feeble and helpless as I am, the very embodiment of everything you scorned.

The pub was not far, but the streets were beginning to empty of people as they went to their homes for hot suppers. Donovan much preferred an empty street to a full one, and so he walked on, considerably faster and more cheerfully at the thought of being so close to his drink. So quickly, in fact, that he hardly noticed his foot as it landed only a sliver away from a hand that was resting on the icy ground. He only glanced down when the hand raised towards him, and the man to whom it belonged whispered coarsely, but fiercely--A penny sir, for a helpless man like me. Donovan felt the rage begin to rise up into his stomach, the bile in his throat. It was the word helpless--perhaps if the man had used a different word, a penny would have fallen into his hand, but Donovan looked at the man whose beard almost covered his face, whose squinting eyes blinked quickly and looked at him hopefully, and scornfully turned away and walked still more quickly to the pub.

Comments and criticism welcome and encouraged (I'm on my hands and knees). Part 3, the final part of this saga, will be posted soon. Also, if you haven't recognized it yet, this is based on one of our beloved English teacher's own life stories.

Aww Yeah...

So, we are writing essays for Modernism right now. One of the possible prompts is to write a short story. This prompt made my cry and jump for joy at the same time, for two reasons--one reason for each reaction. I jumped for joy because I enjoy writing fiction much more than writing analytical essays, and we have already written a shorter essay about James Joyce. Oh yeah, did I mention this was all about James Joyce? I cried because I am really bad at writing fiction. Ah well, I said to myself, screw it all, I'll just write a short story anyway. And so I did. Because the short story is fairly long for something I write, I am going to post it in parts. Also, this way I can get feedback on smaller sections before submitting the actual thing (aren't I cruel?). In case you didn't notice/infer by the way, this story is supposed to be imitating the style of James Joyce. Story is so far untitled, open to suggestions.

Part 1:

He is an embittered man, one who bides his time staring at his mantel, which holds a collection of silver spoons, and rocking back and forth in his chair. One of his legs is shorter than the other, and he has never bothered to buy a cane, nor could he afford it. Pennies of pension are spent in the local pub, where he drinks cold beer, sipping at the despised white foam that has formed, and clenching his throat against the tides of guilt that beat against the back of his mouth.

Donovan’s face was once cherubic, but his apple cheeks have hollowed and sagged into pouches with yellowed spots of skin and a windburnt complexion. His stiff white mustache seems to constantly be bristling with anger, or quivering with sorrow. He wonders sometimes if it would have been better to simply die alongside his wife, young and full of life, but here he is, unbeautiful and defeated, polishing his silver spoons and thirsting his days away.

He has two sons. They have moved away now, but he thinks of them every day with a passionate rage, working himself into vexations by thinking of how they have abandoned him in his rocking chair, vicariously living through them, without ever knowing what they are truly doing. Perhaps they are married now, and he contemplates their families that he has established in his mind. One of them works as a printer down the road, this much he knows, and the other is a tavern brat who associates with the basest of men. He is embarrassed by this, and he clearly sees in his mind his son—no, himself—coming home at late hours of the night, having successfully wasted away what little money he had made that day, his bristling mustache dripping with stale drink and fury. He remembers dropping into his rocking chair, the same one, and putting his feet rudely and defiantly up onto the table, waiting and shouting for his wife to put something in his belly to nullify the sour pitcher of drink resting there.

She was a wonderful woman, his poor late Ellen. She hadn’t a lovely face, for otherwise she shouldn’t have married a man like himself, but she was sweet, with her blue eyes and wispy hair, and a slightly upturned nose. She had raised his two sons with a firm hand, and he used to quite enjoy watching her shout at them when she was in a most foul temper. They would cower in fear and he would feel such pride at having found himself a woman who could instill such cowardice in two young boys.

End of part 1. Comments and criticism welcome and begged for, hopefully before I post part 2, which will be in a few days or so.

Chirality

I curse these possibilities
Of wandering from this side of the line
To the other
And all to find an answer
Within myself

Blessed is the man who may
Be a fool for all his life
Never questioned
Never burned
Never believed
Never spurned

The catastrophes have befallen us today
In that chemical reaction
That added acid to acid
That turned water to wine

Your falsities have changed me
Your chirality belying only the slightest possibility
Of a truth
I envy you, your ability to so quickly spin these tales
I envy you, your ability to release them into the air
Not holding, not grasping, not reaching for redemption
Just smiling and waving, smiling and braving

A/N: So, I think this one's meaning is a bit more obvious than some of my other recent works...and it was inspired by chemistry, of all things. And my love for the word "chirality", for no apparent reason. Unsure about the quality...there are parts I like, and parts I want to remove, but I never change my poetry, which is a really bad habit.

Tin Soldiers

There is a time when the others come out to play
Silvery eyeshadow over long lashes, sprinkling into
Rouge-red cheeks, and lips in various shades of orange.

They dance under nights of no moons, new moons, their moons. They dance as they own the world for that brief period of time, in which they can pop blackberries into their mouths and wonder.

There is a night when the others come out to dance
They never cease their imitations of the greats,
Moonwalking their way all the way up to the orb itself,
in a beam of light that comes to receive them.
That is all they could want in that moment, all they could need,
In a descending staircase of spiraling shadowlight.

Some legends suggest that the others are those of blue blood, who never minded a few stares, a few glances, a few gaping mouths in their direction, because they were only maniacs that didn’t belong in this world, and they never needed to.

There are other legends,
With the excessive explanations that most lies have,
When colors of stories aren’t enough to tell them,
When rusty red romances cannot satisfy anymore,
When beauty is seen only in the embracing of brazen cowards
Who can twirl the night away, only to realize that
They never observed the sun.

---

A/N: This was inspired by the story "Blackberry Nights", which is actually on Fictionpress, if you would like to look it up. I'm not sure what I think of it yet, I can't decide if it's edging towards a topic that is too cliche, or if it is incoherent enough to be different. Anyways, a (slightly belated) birthday present from me to you...

Blessing in Disguise

On a night like this
I can’t stay inside, so I run outdoors for
Hours at a time. Did you see the sunset last night?
In a haze of golden-orange-lovely glow, there is some meaning
In my words, as I whisper this loving message into your ear
And you turn to me and I see your blank eyes.
In that moment you are dead to me.

I saw a lily blossom, with rusty powder-dust falling from its petals, staining my fingers, and I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore.

There is a twinkling in the sky, but it is not the stars.
I look up, and I see your smiling face and mischievous eyes sparkling at me.
Where I saw only darkness before.
Where have you gone?

There is a beating, a tapping sound that is produced by melancholy faces staring, teeth chattering, they are looking at my face through hollowed cheeks and empty eyes.

For a moment I hear the whistle of the band leader
The twirl of the flag-twirlers
In the next moment I can only hear your scream.

---

A/N: Wow, I'm definitely on a roll here. As you can probably tell, I'm trying out a different style of writing here, and I think I really enjoy it. It pretty much ends up being wordblurt, but that's okay, because believe it or not, this poem does have some other meaning. Guess what it is! Also, if you thought this, you are correct, there is, in fact, a reference to a certain teacher in this poem...

Bye.

Flights of Fancy

Look at me when he is speaking to you
Masquerading as the follies of three dozen men
Lies you.

Where did you go last night? Were you on the pillow
Of another milkman, you shouldn’t listen to them
When they say
Run away with me.

I collect cards, and build fragile houses that you can
Blow over when you whistle
I could never whistle, didn’t you know?
Ace of diamonds is my favorite card
Perfectly symmetrical in the way that
Synchronized swimmers are.

I quote, unquote, famous men have said better things
Famous women have said worse things.
I sing, melodies enchanted, chirping crickets as accompaniment
I always liked them better than
Cockroaches anyways.

I had a dream once that there were a million cockroaches scurrying
Across my floor, and I couldn’t get out of bed.
I opened my eyes, and got up for some water.
There was a brittle crunch underneath my feet.

Beautiful fingers dance pirouettes across black and white
There are some people who are born without hands.
Perhaps they have very capable feet.

I spin sugar castles in the air by day, and eat them in the night
There are people hiding in the dark, with whom I share
These flights of fancy that mean so much.

A/N: Experimentation with a different style. Don't know what it means. Does it matter what it means?

Outrage of the Silent

Finally, a new poem:

There is a silence in the thickness of the air
It surrounds me, it envelopes me, it compresses me into
My very own puddle of, wait, where am I?
I can’t breathe.
Breathe.

(pause)
(rest)

There is a silence in the thickness of the sound
That surrounds
That pounds
That drowns

(pause)
(beat)

There is a silence in the clouds
Clouds of dragonflies that flutter and connect
To each other and to me
Unfurl my wings, their wings, your wings/there is silence again.

There is a sound.
There is an echo.
There is a shot.
There is a crack.
There is a break.

There is a silence in my heart
My soul
My arms
My legs
You are the silence in my chest
You are the silence in my stomach
My feet
My breast.

(pause)
(end)

A/N: This poem...I guess I kind of like it. When I read it again though, it seems like I am beating the reader over the head with its meaning. It's like...oh man, it's SO OBVIOUS. But it was also kind of experimental, so we'll see how it goes...