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)

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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.)