SamanthaSwears
I am a complete novice at writing so any construction criticism is very welcomed.
SamanthaSwears
I am a complete novice at writing so any construction criticism is very welcomed.
I am a complete novice at writing so any construction criticism is very welcomed.
I am a complete novice at writing so any construction criticism is very welcomed.
He sits on a old park bench, groaning as he lowers his aching bones. It’s cold, bitterly so, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He relaxes, allowing his weightly burden to pass from his shoulder for a instant. His expression lightens as he sits in the quiet night, relishing in stillness. He sighs, closing his eyes, appreciating the curtain of dark. His mind quiets, for a brief amazing moment there’s nothing. But soon faces appear in the fog of his mind, flashing through his head, the old, young, sick, heathy. Millions and millions, billions upon billions. He remembers them all, their expressions, their smiles and frowns, the fear, the acceptance, hope. He lets the tears fall, for the first time in many years, he grieves. He holds his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. He crys out, in anguish, in anger. He thinks a silent prayer, ghosting the words on his lips. Asking God to pick another, to burden someone else.
He soon grows quiet, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes locked upward. Towards the stars, towards heaven. He sighs in acceptance, almost sorrowfully, but a smile graces his lips. He stands up, knowing it’s time. His bones and muscles protesting as he stretches.
And with a chilly breeze, he’s gone.
The officer opens the door and gestures me inside. Files in hand I adjust my collar and walk in. The door shuts with a loud pop, the stuffy air feeling almost oppressive.
The small room is lit with overhead light, it gives off a sterile glow, washing out all the color. The man handcuffed to the metal table in the middle of the room looks up, his orange jumpsuit almost looking sickly green. He straightens up, although he can’t shake away the worry lines etched into his pale forehead.
“Mr Gable?” I ask as I pull out the opposing chair. He gives a curt nod, a quiver in his lip. “I’m James Becker, your court appointed attorney.” I place down my stack of files and open the one at the top. I skim a few lines, my fingers drum against the table. Gable shifts nervously, his cuffs clinking. “I’m gonna be honest Mr Gable, this isn’t gonna be easy,” I say as I glance back at him. “Lots of evidence, cameras, witnesses, dna…All points to you.”
His sweaty hands clench. “It was an accident-“ He starts, his voice high and breathless.
I raise my hand and stop him. “That right there is gonna get you 50 to life, Peter. Can I call you Peter? Listen, we got a good chance here. If… we play our cards right.”
“Got any history of mental illness? Voices, hallucinations?” I ask, a brow raised.
He looks down at his hands, and shakes his head. His knee bouncing up and down.
I rub my temple, a sigh escaping my lips.
“They…they said I’d get a lesser sentence if I plead guilty.” He says softly, his wide eyes raising to meet mine.”
“Jesus Christ, Peter, that’s how they get you,” I say, my voice rising with exasperation. “You might get the chance of parole after 30 years, bud.”
He looks down again, taking in a shuttering breath.
I stare at him, my fingers drumming against the table once more. “Listen bud, there’s…well maybe another option, but it’s not free.”
He looks up enthusiastically. “S-shit I’ll take anything at this point”
I smile and grab the little black book from my inner breast pocket. “It just requireds your signature, and I promise, you won’t be going to jail.”
“Just…just like that?”
“Yep, just gonna make a deal.”
………………
I close the door loudly, muffling the screaming voice of Peter and the officers attempting to sedate him. I hum as I walk down the hall and out of the holding area.
“Mr Becker?” A soft feminine voice calls from behind me. I turn, seeing an elder woman with tired eyes.
“I’m Sarah Lee, I believe you’re representing…Gable..?” Tears well up in her eyes, her voice shaking. “Ah Ms Lee, my condolences,” I say sorrowfully. “Yes I’m representing Mr Gable.”
“Please Mr Becker, if you are a decent man of any kind, please I beg you,” She chokes back a sob, she moves her hands in front of her, pleading. “Please don’t let that monster go free.” Her voice turns bitter.
I smile, my fingers thrumming against my black book. “Let’s make a deal.”
The wind blows my hair, I’m standing on the edge again. The bitter cold whips against my frame, my toes dig into the black rock underneath my feet. Far below me the ocean rages, her high white waves crash into the cliff and rocks. I feel the rumble through the ground, the crash of sea against earth, so very slowly eroding away at slate and rock. I breathe in, the crisp air almost burning my lungs. I breathe out, and fall.
The wind lashes at my bare skin like ice as I plummet, it nips and bites as I outstretch my arms. The ocean roars louder and louder. I close my eyes.
And unfold my wings. Russet feathers reach out and slow my drop, I feel the frigid splash of water against my cheek as my wings catch the air and pull me up. I soar past the high engulfing waves, foamy water rising as if to catch me. But I’m faster. My wings beat against the raging wind, strong and powerful. I make it past the jagged rocks and black beaches, past the torrential coastal waters and out to calmer open sea.
I sail through the sky, riding the current of wind and water, towards home once more.
A penny tossed, a pinky promised, hand against my heart and fingers crossed.
A deal struck, in spit, blood and favors. A sworn oath, head bent and hands outstretched.
But you didn’t tell me about last afternoon, when you split that man’s head open like a crazed loon. Fair folk such as I, don’t do deals with cheats, liars and butchers. So take back this dirty deal, you scourge and scoundrel.
To the dogs take those who walk through this earth, breaking deals upon deals like the broken necks they deal in.
A promise fractured, a line crossed, a deal breaker, and deal broken.
(I tried🫠)
Like blood, like biting steel, bitter and sweet, crawling down my throat like honey. My knees hit the ground and I taste it in my mouth, violent victory, blood runs down my chin. My shaking hands grab the red soaked dirt, oh iron and grit, I squeeze it between my fingers. It mixes with the smell of rot, sweet and sickening, molasses with a putrid taint. Metallic on my tongue.
I lift my head, my hair crusted to my scalp like a rusty iron crown, I pray for rain, to wash and cleanse. But only a war torn sky stares back at me, I with a head adorned with crimson. I with trembling hands, fingers that pulled the trigger. I with the taste of victory in my frothing mouth. Like iron, and grit. Like blood, and oh so sweet.
Little heart shaped pine wood box, blue velvet all lined and brass hinge and lock.
Her little nimble fingers pop open the pine wood box, her hands are small and quick and clever, as she places in a small loose tooth.
A little tear rolls down her face, and falls upon the velvet box, she hopes and hopes that soon one day.
Her children will wake to her with them, and all the teeth she’d taken from under their pillows and sheets, they’ll smile and laugh and cry and be merry, as she takes them all home finally.
She stood stoic, straight edge and still. A stern expression a constant on her sharp face. None of her peers approached her, and the few green bloods who had didn’t get much from her. A firm countenance and a simple question of “Spar?” And whether she won or lost she’d shake their hand and move on.
She was rigorous, exceeding at whatever task was given to her. Her superiors aways offering praise and compliments. Her peers would call her aloof and passionless, a prickly try hard.
Except for one day out of the year. In mid May the officers put on a formal party. A slight bit of normalcy for the men, a short sweet escape from their war torn territory.
And oh how she would bloom. A peachy sunrise layered dress and slightly pink cheeks was all she needed to break away from her stern persona. A faint simper passed her lips and a joyous laugh would ring whenever someone asked her to dance. She’d flow through the room, her layers of dress like petals fluttering after her. She leave a sweet fragrance of cactus blossoms in her wake and the men would swear they’d marry her when the war was over.
And then the night would end, and so would her blossoming. She’d close back up, packing her daybreak dress away and hiding her glowing smile away behind her stoic guise.
And she’d stand tall and straight once more, impactful, forbearing and placid. Waiting patiently for next year.
The desert never seemed to end. The far off horizon was flat, no mountain nor hill broke it’s straight line. No building or anything that could remotely be considered a structure seemed to exist out in the wastes. The only thing that broke up the monogamous red hue of the earth was a road. A road so old and unmaintained that the lane dividers had disappeared, leaving only a wide and long stretch of sun bleached asphalt. But Hana trudged on, though each step was slow on the old burning road she continued. Hana was a small woman, thin as a stick and short as a stump. Her wiry hair clung to her sweaty red face and the back of her neck. A disheveled looking duffel bag was heaved over her shoulder, bowling her down a little.
She finally stopped, huffing as she let the bag fall to the ground. She grabbed for a canteen she wore around her neck and arm, jiggling it around to feel for how much was left. She scowled at it but took a long swig anyways. The warm liquid didn’t do much for her, only making her thirster.
She bent over, hands on her knees. “What I’m I doing..?” She breathed out, almost laughing at her own stupidity. She had left her safe haven, her basement tucked away in a rare part of the rubbled city that had missed the bombs. Her little garden, her handmade water distillery, her books. She had left that all for this desert, this desert that will surely be the death of her. Tears started to well up in her eyes and she kneeled down on the pavement, not caring that it started to burn her knees.
“Stupid! Stupid!” She wailed at herself, head In her hands now. She was lonely, deathly lonely. If you had asked her three years ago if she could of spent the rest of her life in solitude she would of agreed wholeheartedly. But now, at the end of mankind, at the end of the world. She was all alone, and it was eating at her brain. When she had found a handmade poster nailed to a half fallen telephone pole, her heart had soared. In big red letters read “Survivors welcome.” And an arrow pointing to a little town off in the desert. She knew she had to take that chance.
She looked up, scanning the horizon desperately through tears, hoping beyond hope that she’d spot something that that would make this whole trip worth it. A building, a car, a person, a tree, a speck. A speck, there was a speck in the distance. Hana rubbed her eyes before looking back at it. There was something, far far off but something. A wide grin covered her face and tears started to fall again. “Oh thank you thank you thank you!” She yelled at the sky. She grabbed up her bag and set it on her shoulder, magically it didn’t feel so heavy anymore. And with one final whoop she set off at a steady pace for the “something”.
- - - - - - - - -
Hana’s feet hurt, she could feel the blisters rubbing against her boots. Her legs ached and her mouth was dry. It was dark and getting chillier by the minute. But now she could see that the speck was definitely something, it wasn’t a mirage, it was an object. And the closer she got the more she was sure it was a building and there were multiple of them. And now that the sun had set she swore some of them glowed.
There were two multi story buildings side by side, and a few scattered intact houses around those. The rest surrounding them were half blown up houses and debris heaps. There were lights all throughout them and a couple of spotlights on the roofs and on a wall and gate appearing to have been build out of rubble. Hana beamed having reached the first of the destroyed houses, it was only about a fifth-teen minute walk now and that was nothing compared to what she had just done.
As she neared a spotlight landed on her, she raised her hand to block it from blinding her. Shouts could be heard from over the wall and finally one called to her.
“Are you armed!?” A male’s voice yelled down.
“No! I’m not!” She responded, in fact it hadn’t even crossed her mind, she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any living person or animal in years so she hadn’t even thought of bringing one.
“Let her in!” She heard the same voice yell again, and the gates slowly opened.
She walked in with a spring in her step, clutching her bag with clammy hands. She moved past the light finally able to see the inside. The beaming grin on her face faltered and she slowed to a stop.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The man from before spoke, jumping down from the walkway on the wall. “Not what you were expecting?”
No it was not. Instead of a little oasis like she was hoping there were cages full of people, mouths gagged and hands tied. There were no friendly faces, no warm smiles, only grimaces and smirks. Dirty men and women walked around with guns on their backs and knifes on their hips.
Oh she was so stupid. The gate behind her shut. So stupid! She mentally yelled at herself while she remand frozen to the spot.
A hand gripped her shoulder, pushing her forward. “If you’re lucky and you’re useful we might not sell you.” The man said with a leer as he pushed her towards the cages.
God she was stupid.
Memory breathes,
Down roots and limbs, Through leaf and stem, Under soil and mud, Like branches soaking in the sun and sticky fruits falling, A tree it breathes, underneath and above, It’s memory carved into every ring, It’s seeds shall fall and from them shall spring up, A brand new familial tree.