I close my eyes

and in the depths of ink

behind my eyelids

I can somehow still see colour.

Bursting forth

a macrocosm of

Everything.

Every

thought

fear

hope

worry.

Simply

Ideas.

Yet exploding into

every colour

imaginable-

and further still-

the

unimaginable ones.

Somehow

these thoughts

behind my face and above my throat

are illuminated in more hues

than I could ever see

with my bare eyes

in the daylight

when I'm

cognizant.

There is an entire galaxy

inside our minds

and it is erupting in light

and radiating

Colour.

I didn’t mean it. Honest.

They say never to make decisions when you’re angry; but considering there’s not a moment in the past year where I haven’t been angry, I figured an exception could be made.

Why wouldn’t I be miffed? Three-hundred years in the service just to get canned—pension revoked, pointy shoes confiscated, jingle bells ceremonially muted. Truly it was the walk of shame.

The Big Man caught me skimming toys off the other elves’ lines and just like that I’d been handed my notice. ‘Freeloader’ they called me. Where to go. What to do. For a time I considered heading south and trying my luck at blending in, but vestiges of that Will Ferrell movie began to stir in my head and suddenly moderate (s)elf respect turned me against the idea. I could not, I would not end up like that. I’m not an object of amusement—I’m an elven being!

Why do I gotta’ pay the price? It was Bauble who asked if I’d retrieve a few nutcrackers for her. I got ’em off Tinsel’s line, then Mistletoe’s line, then Bob’s. Little did I know none of the aforementioned had given the green light for this. Bauble had been falling behind off and on all year, and she’d been threatened with the dreaded pink slip (yes they still have those in the North Pole; I know—dreams crushed, childhood ruined). She told me all these elves had consented to help her by donating a few wares to the cause. And I could give a very detailed explanation of her sins, but why do that when I could just consolidate it—she lied.

She lied and I got caught. Then she gave me the puppy eyes, so I wound up taking the full rap like the sucker I was. Yep, I’m the freeloader. Me. Employee of the Month 1859 through 1940. Not a deadline missed, and I tell you I was a legend. But that’s over, so...I’m not bitter. I’m still sugar sweet. Sweet as a candy cane. Whoops, it broke. Ignore that.

But onto my regrets. I almost forgot. Two weeks ago Christmas whirred around, as it is wont to do, so I decided to play a little trick on Santa. See, I’d heard of this...special mirror known to invert the personality of the subject and thence materialize said personality. The elves all knew of this mirror, informally nicknamed Rorrim. Nobody really knows where it came from. Legend has it that a thousand years ago a group of elves accidentally messed up building...something and their mistakes culminated in Rorrim. To which I reply, how in the South Pole do you even manage that? That takes some talent in itself. But no matter, it exists, and it’s kind of a taboo among the elves due to its inherently dark nature. Fortunately we have a system. We throw a sheet with happy snowmen faces over it to hide the evil aura seeping from its pores. Problem solved.

But I, being a genius, removed the sheet, and swapped Santa’s normal mirror with Rorrim. Banal revenge, blah, blah. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. I mean, Santa’s antithesis is already rumored to exist. Krampus anyone? But Rorrim put something of a darker spin on it. The thing that stepped out of the mirror looked like a scrawny, leathered Santa, who wore chains like a Christmas tree wears garland and whose eyes were much, much redder than my comfort zone could tolerate. He scrambled off, jacking Santa’s sleigh and leaving all the presents behind in the snow. It didn’t take long for us to realize: what’s the opposite of someone who gives?

Someone who takes.

And this wasn’t just a ‘bad kids get punished’ sort of deal. Anti-Claus was bent on punishing everyone, naughty or nice. Like Santa, he made a list and he did indeed check it twice, but this was more in the vein of...the death list from Kill Bill. You DID NOT want your name getting checked off of that list.

Beside himself, Santa rushed to check the coordinates of his sleigh. You see, there’s a tracker installed near the backup motor, in the case of something like this happening—well, not this specifically, just a sleighjacking in general. I’d...be highly concerned if it was the former. Anyways, Santa got the coordinates and it turns out Atnas (yes I just called him that) had yet to reach any houses. He was flying over a field, so Santa hit the emergency eject button and changed his course if you catch my drift. Yes there’s an emergency eject button in Santa’s office that’s synced with the sleigh. I think it’s in case terrorists hijack it—I don’t know; the man’s thought of everything.

So Atnas fell—but he didn’t die. That would’ve been too easy. No, it wasn’t two hours before a breaking news report came to our attention. A strange figure had been spotted wandering along the outskirts of a forest in Iceland.

I’d like to pretend I acted all cool......but honestly I had a practical aneurysm over the prospect of this thing actually killing someone because, yeah, it would kind of totally be my fault. We needed a way to subdue him. But how?

How did we resolve this giant pickle, you might ask. Well, I could tell you that we dispatched a whole elven militia complete with Glock 17s and full drone warfare to perform reconnaissance and terminate Atnas. But honestly Clumsy Klaus just snagged his toe on the mirror and it tipped over and broke. Apparently that’s all you needed to do to kill a Rorrim creation.

That’s it?

WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?!?!?!

Maybe I deserve to be fired.

So yeah. Moral of the story. Stay away from anything that seeps evil aura: even if it’s covered with a pleasantly inviting snowman sheet.

-------------------------------------------

Notes: And yes Rorrim has been done before, I think multiple places but I could be wrong. When I was younger I saw the “My Babysitter’s a Vampire” take (having looked it up--a tad different; I think it was just a vengeful spirit in the mirror that possessed people and made everyone it possessed bad regardless; I don’t think it turned you opposite or materialized anything) and I and my friend(s?) consequently paired a similar take with Santa Claus...for some reason. I once did a picture of Santa looking into a mirror and seeing his evil reflection. I...don’t know what became of this drawing, but it was pretty cool.

#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome

Yes coffee can help you to wake up in the morning,

It’s great for catch up with friends.

Yes coffee shops help you unwind a little,

and it’s cool to keep up with trends.

but when life gets real,

whether in shock or grieving,

you want to show you care,

or you need some comforting,

in times of real need,

I think we can all agree,

nothing sounds better than:

″how about a cup of tea?”

We were children playing in the rubble.

The bleak reality escaped our minds.

Our lenses gave it color,

washed it in a second life.

We lived beyond common perception,

building kingdoms in our heads.

But we couldn’t lay them out in time

and now the dream is dead.

And our lungs fill up with night,

as evening’s breath corrodes the light.

And I sing a lullaby-

dirge for the youth you left behind.

Oh, all the songs unsung that

died upon the tongue...

Because I died inside,

and now my heart is forever young.

Because I died inside,

and now my heart is forever young.

I play with my dolls while

you play with your guns.

Saint-Rémy de Provence, taste the night

beyond your bars.

The voices got me sinking;

I’m blind and seeing stars.

Ecstasy ignites, rides on

wings too clipped for flight.

And the ghosts in my head

sing “Come away”.

With guilt, pain and your toy

soldiers

I still play.

It hurts to stay.

So I stay.

Lipstick stains and golden chains,

dark dreams swimming in my veins.

Simplicity coddles the mind

and I decay alive.

Normalcy, this ache sublime.

I can hardly see your face

through

the washes of time.

The 405 pulses, ribbons of light

streaking past.

New time, new place,

but the thrills they never last.

And I’m stuck counting my

sanity like change.

Coz baby, it never stays the same.

Saint-Rémy de Provence, taste the night

beyond your bars.

The voices got me sinking;

I’m blind and seeing stars.

Ecstasy ignites, rides on

wings too clipped for flight.

And the ghosts in my head

sing “Come away”.

With guilt, pain and your toy

soldiers

I still play.

And my mind carries me softly

to that day...

It hurts to stay.

So I stay.

When the moonlight beckons,

I tie one hand to the bed

so that I don’t float away

or wake up dead.

And when starlight

freckles the face of night

I turn my eyes toward the ground

and pray my shoes are still

heavy enough to hold me down.

Saint-Rémy de Provence, taste the night

beyond your bars.

The voices got me sinking;

I’m blind and seeing stars.

Ecstasy ignites, rides on

wings too clipped for flight.

And the ghosts inside my mind

sing “Come away”.

With guilt, pain and your

toy

soldiers

I still play.

And my mind drags me softly

to that place...

It hurts to stay.

So I stay.

But I pray we’ll meet again

someday.

#fiction, #song, #poetry

Explanation: The sadness and guilt and madness a woman feels for her soldier husband who was killed. Or...interpretational. I suppose this is kinda’ inspired by Lana Del Rey, among other content creators. Some of it’s a callback to my older work that no longer exists on here.

I was lying on my back in the wet grass trying to connect the multitude of dots in the night sky, so that I could then paint between their lines. My hope was that a picture of God might emerge from out of the chaos, but then the breaking dawn either completed the painting for me, or erased all of my work. I wish I knew which.

She sat two seats away. Her legs were curled up under her, hands positioned delicately on top of her knees. Her long toes poked out beneath her long legs; her baggy jeans gave her away: she was too thin.

Her brown bun, resting daintily on top of her poised head, her light green sweater, her wistful gaze out the window: her faint smile, one of calm, effortless certainty.

Her gaze suggested she was promising herself something she had been hoping for.

Her eyes were averted, but they must have been whimsical.

As American Airlines pushed off the tarmac, she didn’t so much as even slightly change position, avert her gaze. She was dreaming, hoping, wishing. But for what?

A year later, someone published a picture online of that same girl, on that same plane, on that same flight. Same position: feet up, long toes curled under. That green sweater. Her faint, graceful look. That aura.

The American Airlines girl.

One million likes. A sensation.

That certainty.

Dear Great Great Great Grandmother,

Did I ever cross your mind? Did you ever think about the legacy you’d create when you were alive? I’m sure you worked hard to ensure you’re family had a future. I am your future, yet I know so little about you. Is it bad that the thought of you hadn’t crossed my mind until today? I’m sorry I had to make you wait. Now, I find myself daydreaming about your history. I’d ask my father to tell me something, but I don’t want to just yet. After all, he wouldn’t tell me what I want to know. Were you happy? I know your marriage was probably arranged and you probably worked at home, but maybe it fulfilled you. I like to imagine you were a good mother, one who was fiercely protective of her kids. I feel the same way sometimes, even though I’m not a mother yet. Maybe I get that fire from you? Were you crafty and good with your hands? I’m not, but my younger sister is and I’m sure you’d like her. I can’t find your history like others find theirs. Ancestry.com does not reveal the life of India as much as I would like it to.

I know your story is not limited to your land or last name. I wonder if one of my great great great grandchildren will think of me and look for the writings I’ve left behind. What would they think? Would I feel foreign to them, or would they relate to me? I hope one of them would. Maybe you were a writer too Nani. Of course, I would not be able to read whatever you’ve left for me. You see, I have strayed far from where you’d hoped I’d be. I cannot read Telugu or Sanskrit or Hindi. Words from the former may occasionally find their way onto my tounge, but they are bent when I speak them aloud. If I went back in time I wouldn’t even be able to talk to you. How silly is that? Still, I hope my words written here carry a spirit of their own and you’ll understand their meaning wherever you are.

Nanamma, maybe you were exactly like me, feeling displaced from the rest of you’re family. I wish I could seek your guidance on it because I don’t know what to do. After 17 years of avoiding my culture and history, I find myself longing to know more about it, more about you. I know it must have been a while since you’ve had mourners, but as I write this letter I can’t help but grieve. Even though I’ve never met you, even though I don’t know your name, you gave up so much to give me a future. Nanamma are you proud of me? No one has ever been proud of me before. Are you looking over me? I am sure you have much more interesting descendants to watch over, but at this moment could you spare a glance, please? I’m sorry Nani for not thinking of you sooner. I know more likely than not you’re disappointed. Don’t worry, your grandchildren are too. I know I am not India’s favorite daughter, but I’d like to think your different. I’d like to think you’re frowning at your grandchildren right now and telling them ‘don’t be so hard on Vee’. I Imagine your spirit coming down and me taking comfort in its embrace. I miss you, Nani, even though before today I didn’t know what you were to me.

Your Great Great Great Granddaughter,

Vee

Where dust and ash drink heaven’s rain

And spill the sands of sorrow’s cache

If tears tell time, then time heals pain

Salt preserves, though mem’ries wane,

Death, branded on the heart and flesh

Where dust and ash drink heaven’s rain

Fingers trace chilled window panes

The glass-of-hours-before, I sketch

If tears tell time, then time heals pain

Crystal faced with stainless veins

Diamond dew mists emerald grass

Where dust and ash drink heaven’s rain

Ours lost, yet, future gains

That which will, hold all that’s past

If tears tell time, then time heals pain

My pocket watch, your golden chain

One lightning strike, eternal, etched:

“Where dust and ash

drink heaven’s rain,

if tears tell time,

then time heals pain”

1

Roses are flowers of red

Violets are flowers of blue,

I can’t think of any more lines,

I’m too busy thinking of you!

2

Roses are red

Violets are blue

You may not be much

But always be you!

3

Rose’s are red

Violet’s are blue

But I love them both

And I like flowers, too!

i went to the.

i saw him, for the first time in. he’s grown a beard.

he looks strange. different. new.

revived.

i guess we both needed a.

after last summer, when. i remember crying until i was sure

my body had turned into a prune.

you came back from the grocery store with prunes that one time.

i never knew you liked prunes.

i guess there’s a lot of things

i didn’t know.