Response to Challenge 4:

Hunger

She won't pick us. We watch her leave morning, return nights. She just passes us by. We want to tell her. We are food (though there's more to us). Take, we cry out. Rip us open, yank right now, right here. Take us. Down. Pull us. Pluck us. Go on- steal a kiss. We know she wants to. We know she would want to, being lonely and all. All her loneliness. Her lonely longing. But her eyes see only floor, weeds frustrated by with their newness, a needful speck on the ground. We whisper from up here: hold us till our flesh becomes yours. Yours ours. Don't be mistaken. We are not cheesy. We aren't sentimental. We are food. We are meant to be like this, we need this. We need her. Not yet? For now - we live for rats, in the midnight they forage. And chew without pleasure. And chew without need. Chew to fill a belly. To satiate. Just because we are food. Yet we know there is more, we hope so: awhile ago the old man talked of love; now, a wordless year. No one talks under our stalks. She should know, being smart and all, that in the far reaches of many many lands, you will find people love our kind, rounded elongated streaked with the sun's fingertips. They do not care. They know only that we are sweet. They hum as they eat, they explain as they eat, they tell long stories about where they found the last of us, when they found one of us, the perfect one of us. They speak these things with our bodies in their mouths. To get us, they climb high on haunches, over hillocks, and bends. They suffer horrible fates - stings, nicks, bared buttocks, high grocer prices, clumsy kiosk hands, but we are worth it. Because we are food. Because we make people sing. Look. Look up. Lift your eyes and see. We are here.

Jane Alberdeston

Additional Post to Challenge #4 - "A Sheet in the Wind"

“A Sheet in the Wind”

                    By:  Carlos Santaella

Laifen has dreaded this day from the moment he was a vacuole within his mother’s cellular structure.  To become a sheet, limp and torn, beaten by the elements and falling from his home like a lost Leiven in the wind.  The Festival of Flight, as it is so aptly named, is said to be a liberating and wonderful experience for some of his kind, the Leiven.  But for others, such as Laifen, it is not so.  On the blisteringly windy eve of every Autumnal Equinox, it is required that the leaves of the Great Tree within the Forest of Wordein leap from their homes, to be guided by the wind.  It is a sacred and honorable tradition that has been passed down from each generation since the Dawn of the First Sprout.  Only Laifen seemed to understand the ridiculous celebration as being a form of mass suicide.

            On the other hand, The Elder Bruaks—thin, flaky, brown denizens that were once part of the Great Tree—proclaim to all of the Great Tree that this mission is an honor. They say the Festival is a rite of passage to the Ancient Garden, where all the Leiven who’ve participated in other Festivals are said to reside on a colossal tree in perfect harmony.  But Laifen seems to be the only one who vehemently denies it.  What’s worse to him, all the other Leiven of the trees of Wordein seem to follow suit.  Though Laifen would give anything to see his parents and brothers again, there had to be another way than this.  Being a rather small broad leaf, Laifen tried to convince others to leave him behind in the festival, but no one seemed to listen to him.  Only Treivor, his best friend, and a Bruak, sympathized for him.

            On the Eve of the Festival, Treivor spoke in response to Laifen’s usual rant, “Don’t you wish to honor our Great Tree?  Think of all the others, even your family, who’ve participated in the Great Flight for us.  Wouldn’t you want to follow in their footsteps?”

            Laifen retorted, “There is no honor in flinging headfirst off of this old tree, letting the wind guide you to your death.  Most leaves never even make it past the branches of the Great Tree, among all the others who participate in it for their own trees.  Don’t you see the ridiculousness in it?”

            Treivor sighed.  He then spoke, in a melancholy voice that Laifen never heard before.  “You are right.  Please meet me at The Great Tree’s Heartring Center, by the Sapren Fountain.  There is something you need to know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Laifen did as instructed, so late into the night that every other Leiven was sound asleep, anticipating tomorrow’s Festival.  What he saw as he closed in on the fountain was the most shocking thing he had experienced, even more so than the blistering long days of Sun’s Heat.  There before him were two large Bruaks dumping Treivor’s torn, limp body into the fountain where it, oddly enough, disintegrated, leaving behind only the milky secretions that were once part of Treivor.

            The larger one spoke, “Humph.  Another Bruak trying to reveal the secret of the Festival.  It’s a good thing the Elder found out, and that this fountain can breaks us up and kill us like that, but it still makes me nervous standing next to—.” The Bruak paused, and pointed out Laifen while telling his buddy that Leiven is spying on them.  Laifen knew there was no escape, but he tried to sprint away.  Within a few seconds, the Bruaks slammed their hands into the tree, and using their Bond with the Great Tree, manipulated the wood to form a cage around Laifen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Laifen awoke groggily in the Elder Bruak’s quarters.  The Elder—an old, tall Bruak already in need of a bark cane—noticed Laifen awaken.

            He began, “Do you honestly believe we could have a Leiven know our secrets?  Or surely, you were naïve enough to assume that you and your friend Treivor could get away with it?”

            The Elder had imprisoned and began torturing the trapped Laifen, inserting sharp pieces of bark to maim and tear him inside.  Screaming and writhing in pain, Laifen cried, “I swear I don’t know anything?  Why did you kill Treivor?  Why?  What secret is worth killing over?”

            The Elder Bruak sighed lazily and continued, “It seems you are telling the truth.  Fine then, you might as well, for not much time is left for you.  Dawn approaches, and so does the Festival.”  The Elder sighed again, as if the words he was about to utter next were taboo that exhausted one in just speaking it.  “You must understand this tree is very old, and utilizes any nutrients it can acquire to survive, and that means any form of nutrients, even itself.”

            Laifen sputtered in pain, but asked, “What are you saying?”

            “The festival is a lie, my dear Leiven.  Your kind falls to the ground for it is necessary for the tree’s life.  Your community rarely travels any farther from the roots, where you become compost and necessary nutrients for the tree.  And, during Sun’s Death and its accompanying bitter cold, your littered bodies blanket the Great Tree in morbid, albeit necessary warmth.  We do this not to purposefully kill you all but to ensure the survival of the Great Tree.  You must understand.”

            Laifen was in too much shock to feel any pain.  “What?  Why?  Why would you do this?  Why not tell us?”

The Elder seemed angered.  “You ignorant Leiven!  Who in their right mind would jump out of this tree if they did not believe they were doing a noble act?  We do this not for us Bruaks but for the good of the whole tree.  It is the way it must be for us to survive.  We have watched you, my young Leiven, and understand that you are the most unruly of the crowd.  Your whole family was the same, stubborn and selfish.  Why can you not just accept fate, become one with the Tree again, acknowledge the purpose of your race which you yourself are so similarly named.  Laifen, is it?  Please understand that we are blessed to keep on living compared to others.  The wind carries its secrets to me.  Most trees are destroyed by Others.  They are eaten by parasites, distorted to create homes for others, and, if that wasn’t enough, those closer to the Monsters, these gargantuan beings, cut us down to use as materials for their own use.  Don’t you see?  Being part of the Great Tree, we must set an example for the others to live, thrive another day in the hopes that nothing befalls us in turn.”

            Laifen, back to his own audacious self, yelled, “If these Monsters use us for resources, it’s only a matter of time until they destroy this tree and all the others.  If that’s the case, why don’t you and your other Bruak friends plummet to the ground with the Leiven?  It would save you all from such a terrible f--”

            “Stop!”  The Elder screamed, “What you speak is heresy.  Enough of this, the secret uttered from me will die with you, as it is meant to be.”

            “No!”  Laifen screeched, louder than even the Elder so that the whole Tree could hopefully hear.  He was hoping for the right chance, and now, with a slight breeze through the knot entering the Elder’s chambers and exiting another, he said, “Your secret will die with us.”

            Picking the wind from behind him, Laifen folded himself to fit through the bars, leaving some parts of his body behind.  Commanded by pain, but led on with seething rage, he grabbed hold of the Elder and they both exited through the open knothole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

          And now, back to his near-death reality, Laifen finished recollecting on his past journey.  He only hoped that none of the other Leivens would follow in his suit.  However, just with that thought, the sun’s rays stretched across the treetops of Wordein, and thousands of Leiven leaped from the branches.  As Laifen closed his eyes, either from disappointment or of exhaustion being inches from death and only that much from the ground, the final sound that accompanied him was the great rustling that accompanies every Festival of Flight. 

          Yet, perhaps that is the way, to become a sheet, limp and torn, beaten by the elements, and falling from their home like lost Leivens in the wind.  This is the way it has been and always will be.

Response to Challenge 4 - "Is it Me?"

I just don’t understand.  The world is full of so much darkness and so much pain.  Surely someone out there understands and is willing to give a helping hand, right?  I never knew my father, and my mother abandoned me as a wasted cause at a young age.  I barely made off with the scraps I could find.  But surely there is someone out there who could help me, right?  Someone with a kind heart, anyone who is willing to help, someone who can feel love and compassion that could have the chance to show the whole world that they can be merciful and strong, and treat me better than the world may have unfortunately treated them…right?

Perhaps I am thinking too much right now.  I should only be focusing on the necessities.  The day is unbearably hot, coarse and dry enough to make the most well-fed of mouths crackle like sandpaper.  Many have warned me that I shouldn't, but I still take this chance to go to inside.  The entrance has 2 thin wooden pillars at the entrance and a glass displays all throughout the two diverging hallways of the entrance.  I shivered with delight in the crisp, cold air, basking in its comfortable, tender embrace.  I shrugged silently into a corner, looked around twice to make sure no eyes were on me, and when I was sure, I slumped into a deep sleep.  My stomach with its usual cramps and gurgles stirred me awake, and when I stirred, a pleasant, cheesy aroma wafted near my nostrils.  I open my eyes slowly and saw a pretty girl with a bag of chips, calling me to come toward her.  My instincts got the better of me, and I presumed to heed her call.  She comforted me and fed me with her hands.  Thrilled to have made a new friend, I followed her when she beckoned me outside.  Perhaps she would have more food, or offer a solution for me, a home.  But as soon as I was a fair distance from the library, she left a few cheesy bites and bolted in the other direction.

Betrayal was a feeling I was used to, but it still hurt nevertheless.  I knew I couldn't seek comfort with her again, so I sobbed a little as I braved the harsh elements outside, intent on returning later.  Perhaps she believed I was too ignorant, too afraid to return, but I nonetheless retraced the steps we had gone through together.  Upon trying to enter again, I dared walk deeper into the bowels of the edifice, intent on finding a secure location where I would be a burden to no one.  But they must’ve been warned of my presence (I hope it wasn't the previous girl).  A colossal, husky man hissed me away with a glare dark enough to create small craters in my body.  As usual, I ran in the opposite direction, away from the imposing man.  But I still can’t help but wonder every time that the humans shoo me away:  Why could I not live alongside them?  I don’t take up much room, I stay out of everyone’s way, and I can smell that other humans handle and most likely own some of my kind.  Why does no one wish to help?  Could it be me? 

A NEW CHALLENGE: #4 - Perspective

          Hey, everybody.  I just decided on posting this challenge, since I felt particularly inspired to do an assignment based on it.  It can be a poem or a short story with no particular restraint or length.  If it seems interesting to you, feel free to complete the challenge.

          Here is the prompt:  Write about an inspiring daily event, but from ANOTHER point of view.  However--as to stray from the inanimate “Shoe” challenge--it has to be living object, either another person, animal, or even a plant.  This will truly make us think about life from another’s eyes, or in another's shoes (no pun intended).

10-Minute, Workshop Assigned Short Stories - Carlos Santaella

A. 1^st:  Death and an Afterlife Event

“Limbo”

            A hazy fog:  dense and heavy.  Hours may have passed, but the vision never became any clearer.  Upon regaining control of a corporeal form, previous limp body, he wandered.  Blind, as one feels in a darkened form, feeling around for walls, a guide, security.  But none was granted to him.

            The only thought that managed to cling to his mind was of a precaution, to rush for time was short.  But, what was the hurry? He pondered.  He wouldn’t getting anywhere fast.  And that’s when it hit him.  The fog cleared as his mind knew, that common cliché rattling his weak control of worldly memory.  He had to find her.

            Though the fog dissipated, no destination immediately presented itself.  Where was he supposed to go?  How would he even find her?  A powerful surge suddenly boomed throughout the dark world.  It became a translucent grey, light shining from aboce.  He was too late.  Just as he sobbed, accepting defeat, there she was.  Slumped, on the floor, shredded clothing enwrapping her tender body. 

As soon as he gazed upon her, his legs began to sink through the grey floor as it became muddy and adhesive.  The grey walls, now steadily growing brighter, giving a chrome reflection, closed in on the pair.  She was so close his waist already under the fabricated surface, his legs feeling the crisp world on the other side.  Her hand was inches from his.  Why couldn’t she just reach?  Just then, abruptly, her face appeared from under the shawls, harsh eyes stabbing at his feeble being and declared, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”  He didn’t want to believe that question was directed to him, and perhaps it wasn’t, for he knew this dark dimension could play the nastiest of tricks.  Nevertheless, his spirit was broken, heavy and sunk.  And now, accepting bitter defeat, he let himself completely sink through the barrier, the strong white glare pounding his weak eyes in one last, cruel taunt.  Tears of liquid silver were left behind.

~Fin~

 

B. 2^nd:  Thieves took everything but one Important Item

“Thieves in the Darkest Night”

            Finished with my exhausting day, I dragged my body through the entrance, cursing under my breath as I fumbled with the glitchy lock.  Becoming more and more frustrate, I began to curse under my breath when, about that time, I angrily pulled the door onto my big toe.  Yelping and limping and hopping throughout the entrance, I hobbled blindly—in the dark since I forgot to turn on the light switch—to the armchair I expected to be there to catch me.  It wasn’t

Man, of all the things that could go wrong, am I right?!  Even though I’m not as tired anymore, I am crancky, my big toe is throbbing, and my underside is numb.  Why, why, why is this happening to me?  Where is Chester, to comfort me and lift my spirits as only a New England Terrier could?  That’s when it hit me, not like the door on my cuticle, but I mean it HIT me:  WHERE THE HELL WAS MY STUFF?!?  I’ve been robbed!

            The couches, the counters, the countertops, the wallpapers, the sink…the list of vacancy just goes on and on.  Even the resident mouse, Bartholomew, and his stereotypical mouse hole was brutally pried out of the wall.  Panic swelled within me as I ran around the house, ignoring   my previous accident and my now-bleeding toe.  Then I remembered Chester again.  Even Chester was taken away from me.  Those sick bastards!  Why, how could they do this to me?  I looked everywhere, in every corner, for a sign, some sort of clue if any was present.  Surely enough, there it was, smack-dab in the center of the living room.  I would’ve gotten a tape measure to check its perfect bisecting point of the spaciously empty living room, but they broke into the tool shed, too.  My hand, cell phone already posed to call the cops, lowered slightly in defeat.  These men…I remember them now.  Some supernatural freaks I recorded committing an act of murder with only their minds.  A conspiracy theory, a stupid hoax, many taunted.  But there it was as proof.  Hovering centimeters from the ground, twirling slightly and freely suspended in a haunting reminder of their previous presence, was the tell-tale object.  No one would believe me, and the cops wouldn’t understand.  A burnt photograph, all I had left of the old home, with everything, even my remaining family members hollowed out.  These sickos planned to take everything away from me, a perfect revenge scheme without a trace.  And how could I stop them?

~Fin~

My Humorous Rendition of Challenge 3

“How to Alienate Someone from Life WITHOUT Getting Caught:  In 15 EASY Steps”

(They are not really 15 lines, but I hope you will bear with me)

Ø  Step 1:  Prior to even beginning with the dangerous task about to unfold, establish a firm—albeit selfish—motive:  Who do you not like?  Why do you want them gone?.

Ø  Step 2:  Look for all the power tools, chemicals, mysterious knick-knacks—especially those labeled in foreign languages—and other items that are useless to your endeavor but just cool-looking.

Ø  Step 3:  Utilizing the items from the step above, decorate a secret alcove that will be dubbed your “Secret, Evil Lair,” where you shall plot all your devious deeds in secret, with the dark elements to inspire your devious ways.

Ø  Step 4:  In a preferably shabby and unsuspecting notebook, write down all your darkest secrets of hatred of that person, which you can write in it anywhere you want to, so long as no one peaks into it (those unfortunate to do so must be eliminated).

Ø  Step 5:  With the mindset even more harnessed with the above procedure and its notes meticulously kept in the lair, begin by cornering your victim in an unsuspecting place, but one where he/she feels comfortable in, preferably with people.

Ø  Step 6:  Create a mindless distraction, perhaps throwing confetti into the air.

Ø  Step 7:  Whilst everyone is distracted by your spectacular display, knock out your target with your fists or a blunt object.

Ø  Step 8:  Drag your target to a secluded area.  The risky part is that everyone must still remain distracted with your distraction, so something with fireworks could prove much more useful.

Ø  Step 9:  Once in the secluded area, ask a professional to perform a partial lobotomy to brainwash your subject.

Ø  Step 10:  Soon after, bludgeon the professional or—as the fates of irony would hold—even lobotomize him to forget ever helping you.  It is INTEGRAL that you do NOT kill the professional.  It would be too risky.

Ø  Step 11:  Dress up your now-brainwashed subject in appropriate attire, perhaps as a hippie or an illegal immigrant, but the better the disguise, the more committed the subject will be when he stirs.

Ø  Step 12:  Unceremoniously dump your subject in the preferred destination depending on the subject’s disguise.

Ø  Step1 3:  Punch/kick the subject below the belt in their “no-no square” for good measure.

Ø  Step 14:  Burn your “Secret Evil Lair” with all the evidence to the ground, engulfing your house with it in an unnecessary, dramatic fashion.

Ø  Step 15:  If you were careful not to get caught, sit back and let the mayhem unfold.  Lather, rinse, and repeat as necessary.

Challenge 2-revisted

The Tale of my Three Ancestors

 (with apologies to JK Rowling’s “The Tale of the Three Brothers”) by Carlos Santaella re-told by elf

Once there were three brothers who lived on a parched vineyard in Andalucía.   When war erupted between their home country and the Freedom Land to the west, they enrolled in the army and traveled to a small island close to the enemy’s land.  They fought bravely for their country; however, when the war was over, and their country defeated, the three brothers attracted by the lush green vegetation and the women of copper skin and flowing raven tresses, stayed behind.

Intent on making it on the foreign yet familiar land, they set out to work the fields and offer their limited skills to the nearest plantation owner.  On their way, they encountered a hooded figure.  Goosebumps covered their arms and one brother still recalls how his nape felt as if a fork had been digging into it. Hesitantly, they paused to greet him when they realized it was none other than Death.  Death in a voice that reminded them of vacuous pipes and streaming water confessed he had been out searching for them. Their ability to remain alive was troubling him for their names had long been recorded in The Book of Fates.  According to the book, their demise had been set for a week ago. Cunning as Death can be, he feigned admiration for their feat and their ability to outsmart him, and offered each a reward of their own choosing.

The men, hesitantly at first, gathered around the hooded figure to name their prize. The oldest brother, Baldomero—a bold man given to enjoying the good life-- thought hard about his choice.  He needed something that he would enjoy and at the same time allow him a life of comfort and ease. He had once long ago worked at a cigar factory.  He remembered with nostalgia the pink smoke invading his nostrils and lingering on his clothes, his hair, his memory. Shrewdly convinced that vice sells, and often carries wealth, he asked that he be given a factory to produce his own line of cigars.  Death nodded and granted him his wish.

The second brother, Ramiro—a savvy, and ambitious man—decided that only through knowledge of science and medicine could he defeat Death so he asked for wisdom for him and his descendants.  “I want to be a medicine man, and all my sons and their sons will inherit my vocation for healing.  I choose to be a doctor.”  From then on, Ramiro was called Dr. Santaella.

Finally, Death summoned the third brother, who had remained at a safe distance, observing and pondering his own choice. “What will it take to change your fate?” asked  Death.  Nicolás did not trust Death. He knew that all material things are paid for dearly.  He asked only that he be allowed to live his life without the interference or help of the dark deceiver.  Death was taken aback. “Everybody wants something” he insisted. But, Nicolas only shook his head.

 “Allow me to go on my way that I may make my own riches on my own time.” Death had to concede and with a swift swing of its hand allowed the youngest brother to go on his way.

After this encounter with the King of Darkness, each brother went his separate way, a hint of a smile on Baldomero’s face, a grin of satisfaction on Ramiro’s; only Nicolás went on with a frown on his face, and a growing crease on his forehead.  

The first brother traveled to Santurce, and, upon settling there opened his cigar factory.  He called it El Cigarro in remembrance of his youth.  The business employed half a dozen workers, who inspired by Baldomero’s story worked steadily and proud. The oldest brother was soon awash in riches.  When the company celebrated its tenth anniversary, the brother discovered that he had cancer.  The long years of smoking and inhaling the toxic perfume had taken a toll on his health.  As his physical condition deteriorated, so did his spirit.  He shunned friends and family.  When his son suggested he retire to take care of his decaying body, he disowned him.  A few years later, breathing barely, and artificially, he would stare out a foggy window in a stark hospital room, and remember his encounter with Death many years ago.

The second brother journeyed to Ponce where he married a good woman with whom he fathered many children.  He was a well-known and respected doctor.  But the long hours of work soon brought unhappiness at home. One day, after a long day at the clinic, which he opened to facilitate his work and bring in more income, he found an empty house and a hastily scribbled note from his wife.  After months of loneliness for his children all grown and busy had little time for him, at age 53, he scrawled a brief message to his children on a prescription pad, and bade Death to meet him on the 9^th at 9pm.

And so Death eagerly took the second brother for his own.

The third brother in the meantime made a living for his family and himself by toiling the land.  After years of hard labor and sweat, he built a shabby home, and raised three scruffy children.  All boys.  He often looked at them and remembered his life with his brothers. He also thought long about his choice, and compared his meager existence with the wealth Death had procured his brothers.  However, he had few regrets.  When he celebrated his minetieth birthday, Nicolás returned to the site in which he and his brothers, had encountered death.  The road was overgrown with brush, and the road was barely visible. From a distance, he once again saw the hooded figure slowly gliding forward to meet him. 

“Are you ready?” it said.  Nicholas nodded.  “You took your time.”  The frail man smiled enigmatically.  “How did you survive the others?” In a low raspy voice the old man said, “The quality of a life is not determined by the sufferings and misfortunes you may receive or the wealth and blessings for that matter. It is measured by what you make of the good or bad you receive in life.  I was never a wealthy man, but I meted out much love and much was given to me. I looked at life straight in the face, never longing for what I did not or could not have.  I woke every morning knowing that my life was only mine in the making. At the end of my life I see that life was good to me; my children will shed many a tear for me and my wife will light a candle for the rest of her days to light my journey to the nether land; I meet you now with no pain, no sadness and no regrets.”

Death who holds no grudges and keeps all promises stretched out its bony hand and touched the tattered but wise man’s own, and they, as equals, departed from this life.

The End

My Response to Challenge 3: Succumb

Succumb

Swallow
let it all in, let it
grip your breath, keep it still, keep it in, let it surround
you like mushroom dirt, sweet and wrong, like chloroform masks,
or the physics of a mob, or salmon creeping cold veins. Swallow, again,
let it all in, boxed in larynx, caged in ribs, lungs in the work of succumb,
abuterol hope dissipating, the noise of living -a rasp and choke on the way down. Wait. Slam shut like a refrigerator door. Gulp,till you forget your own name,the reasons for your birth, what they call you as you leave a room,what they all have
you believe about love, your elastic skin,vagabond tongue, epiglottis drunk and full of nonsense. What you thought you knew about breath in a line. Give way,lean,succumb.

Jane Alberdeston

Challenge: Instructions Poem

Challenge #3:

Okay - here goes: Write a 15-line list of instructions on how to love, hate, alienate, admire, exhaust, exacerbate, embarrass, ignite, enamor or seduce, rebel, or reject. Feel free to come up with your own abstraction. It can be 15 lines or less.

My Father's Shoes

     As I head into my father's room looking for him, I see his old rugged shoes on the floor.  I sit on his bed and stare in awe for I wonder when would I ever fit into his shoes?  When I was a little girl, I couldn't resit the temptation of putting my feet inside his warm shoes.  I guess I was looking for comfort and the reassurance that he was there for me.  At that time, my feet were so much smaller than his that I could barely walk in my father's shoes.  I stumbled and fell many times just to be picked up by him.  Now my father is 81, and his shoes are the only witness of his struggles, love for live and family, perseverance, patience, intelligence and many more amazing qualities that have characterized the incredible human being he is today.  I try his shoes on only to find out that I still don't fit into my father's shoes.  I cry wondering, would I ever fit into his shoes?  Probably not, but what comforts me is tho know that I am part of an amazing man who fits into those old rugged shoes.

For Jane

Included is a poem a wrote a few years ago. Your music-inclusive poetry in the workshop reminded me that I had written this and I wanted to share it with you.


 Sentada en un salón, música full blast echoing in the surrounding space...like being stoned, humos salientes de la cocina ardiente. El fénix rises from the ashes...musica alternative crea una dimensión desconocida hacia los años 90.  Tengo 15 años nuevamente y me encuentro en mi prime... en mi Nirvana...atrapada en la viscocidad del pearl jam...like being stoned, espero por los Foo Fighters que luchen por mi salvación mientras los Stone Temple Pilots me transportan a mi Soul Asylum de hace 10 años.  Y se acaba todo, se acaba la música. ... es otra decada... como George Michaels deseo FREEDOM! Suena a freedom mientras en realidad es el calor ardiente como un Red Hot Chili Pepper que enciende mis entrañas y me pide sweeeet, sweeeet surrender..... take me to the other side, give it away give it away, give it away now baby. SET ME FREE!

Workshop # 1: Heaven's Plight

Heaven's Plight

I ring the bell here every night. I pull kid's toes, fill them with fright.

I feel I was taken for a fool. I'm not an angel, i'm just a ghoul that's stuck in this place and I wonder Why? I'm stuck with plain tourists, the same dead type.

I was first received here by a guy named Peter, a hippie looking fella. He was the greeter. 

I wondered where in this Heaven there could be a God, but I guess He/ She was hiding between all this fog. 

This being dead business is another routine. I'm just not as famous in the trade as that dude, Guillotine.

At least now I finally get to know my answers...  Like.. Did Santa really have a reindeer named Prancer? 

No, but seriously, I feel like I am torn. Heaven is as sadomasochistic as amateur porn. When I was alive It had a certain allure, now I'm also in training for giving Celestial tours. 

I'm hoping that I will finally get out of the pod, to ask that All Knowing Deity the ultimate though, to please answer my questions when it was my turn.. now that my Earthly remains are stored in an urn. 

"Yes. Anything." He spoke with a nod. "Go on."

I just thought before speaking "Just give me a chance". He sat there. Almighty. He gave me a glance.

Then all just went dark.. and I though.. hold on .. I opened my eyes.. had I just been pushed... on?

WHaaaaaaah! I said and he grinned... 

Whaaaaaahhh! .. no wait a second .. Thats not what I mean. 

Whaaaaaah! I tried again ... No no wait , Hold on..  

He laughed , and he nodded..  he said "Yes my Son?"

To what I replied: What on Earth do you mean!?

he responded: The answer to life is closer than what it seem. 

"Is this just a joke, or is this just a pun? Oh wait NOW I get .No fair! I'm REBORN??!!"

Workshop #1: The Forking Torch

The Forking Torch

So, I walk into the living room of my house, dark, hoping for familiarity. I had just had the worst day. And when I walked in everything was gone… GONE!

Can you believe it ?? Empty, spaciously dusty… un-bleached shadow spots on the carpet and all to accentuate the lack of furniture and decorations. It was ALL  gone.

They took the chairs, the tables... the swing… the dog, the bowls, even the  moldy birthday cake candles from Nana’s 87^th  birthday cake, ten years ago… and the sowing box.. and the pins!

 They took everything except a fork. 

 It stood alone, stuck to the floorboards…  mocking me, in the middle of the porch. I wondered what message they tried to convey… Why couldn’t they take the mortgage I had to pay…or a few bills at least??

That’s it! I’ve had it .. Im sick of this town . Everything is going downhill and I will soon drown , of stress, and my family of the dog and my job..  wait no , the dog is gone too.  Oh! my beloved Bob.  Now to top it all off I come home and got robbed??  Geez!

I have decided... I will make this fork my torch. I will carry it with pride ... well at least, put it away from the porch.  It will be my symbol of anger filled incongruous attitude. Because, you know, they freaking left me stuck in dusty solitude.

You filthy thief… you inglorious bastard... I will hide you in a wall and neatly cover it with plaster for, that’s all you are you stinking thief. Someone who likes to steal dirty jock straps, and in return give back grief!

If I ever find you I will burn you with fire… I will unleash upon you my wrath with.. with draconian desire and this will be true. THIS WILL BE TRUE! From the bottom of my heart , I will stick my torch/fork in your  left eye .. and yell FORRRRK YOUUUUUU!

Challenge 2 (Word Limit) - The Tale of my Three Ancestors

The Tale of my Three Ancestors

 (with apologies to JK Rowling’s “The Tale of the Three Brothers”)

There were once three brothers, who were traveling along a hilly Spanish vineyard at twilight.  In their time, a war erupted from their home country and the Freedom Land in the west, so, being learned in strategies of battle from stories past, they inscribed themselves in the war and traveled to a rural island close to the enemy’s land, only to be left behind by their country after its defeat.

A hooded figure approached the brothers and spoke to them.  The illusive figure identified himself as Death.  He felt angry for being cheated of the only three remaining members of a family meant to be wiped out in the unfortunate byproduct of the war.  But Death was cunning.  He feigned congratulations for the three brothers’ wit and promised a prize for each of them.

So the oldest brother, Baldomero—a bold, drug-abusing man—asked for a factory to produce his own line of cigars.  So Death gave him as he wished.

Then the second brother, Ramiro—a savvy and greedy human—decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for wisdom for him and his descendants to become doctors.  So Death gave him as he wished.

And finally Death asked the third and youngest brother, Nicolás, what he would like. The youngest brother, a humble man, did not trust Death. So he asked nothing of Death but to live a life uninterrupted by any of the dark deceiver’s insidious ploys.  So Death, most unwillingly, swore his first and only Promise of Life to a mere mortal.

After having spoken to all three brothers, Death stood aside and allowed them to continue on their way.  In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination. The first brother traveled to Santurce, and, upon settling down, he opened his cigar factory and bathed in its riches.  But in time, the brother’s body and spirit rotted, becoming so distant from the real world that he disregarded his deteriorating health and shrugged off his family, including his son, Antonio, who opened a cigar factory in the enemy land

            His memories of the War isolated him further from his son’s open-mindedness, and thus he died alone in a hospital with severe pain from his substance abuse.

And so Death eagerly took the first brother for his own.

Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to Ponce where he found a wife and fathered many children.  However, in likeness to the second brother’s greed, his wife divorced him for a richer man, and the children became lawyers and doctors of their own and abandoned him, continuing the miserly domino effect.

Finally the second brother, driven mad with loneliness and despair, killed himself to end the bountiful emptiness of wealth he once ignorantly craved in his youth.

And so Death eagerly took the second brother for his own.

But as Death watched the third brother from afar, as promised, he never understood how such a pathetically poor man could enjoy happiness and love in life for his family.  It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally greeted Death, reflecting on his so-called accomplishments.  The frail man explained to him as he patiently had done for his own family, “life is not made of the sufferings and turmoil you may unfortunately receive, but what you made of those sufferings that define one’s life.”  And so Death, finally realizing the young man’s purpose, stretched out his bony hand in likeness to the hand of the wrinkled wise man, and they, as equals, departed from this life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is the story of my great-great-grandfather, Nicolás Santaella.

 

A short story by:  Carlos Santaella

Word Count:  596, (not counting supplementary notes below)

____________________

Notes:

http://www.20000-names.com/male_spanish_names.htm

1.      NICOLÁS: Spanish form of Latin Nicolaus, meaning "victor of the people."

2.      BALDOMERO*: Spanish name composed of the Germanic elements bald "bold, brave" and meri "famous," hence "bold and famous."

·        http://wtca.philrules.com/home-2/history - his son, Antonio, continued his legacy in Tampa, Florida

                                                              i.      ANTONIO: Italian and Spanish form of Latin Antonius, possibly meaning "invaluable.”  Looked him up, too, and his name fits!

3.       RAMIRO*: Spanish form of Latin Ramirus, meaning "wise and famous."

*(The only confirmed names are Nicolás and Antonio Santaella, the former from a story my father told me and the latter because of my research and that link.  The other two are just speculative fabrications of mine, symbolic representations of the fame and riches the two other brothers so desperately craved in the story.  Their professions and legacies are real, but their personalities are also fabrications of mine.  This story is in no way meant to disrespect them, but meant to teach a moral.)