Some more Fiction

Here are two very short stories I worked on for my class.

__________

champagne.

A sea of green helmets rolls over the landscape like a wave of destruction. Pulsing, pulling everything down as it goes by. This single entity of men is consumed with fighting, flowing, living, dying as one. Listen closely; you can hear their heartbeats. He hurts. He fears. He loves. He starts. He stops. This pounding echoes in their heads because wet heavy boots sink deep into the mud. With the glint of guns, is this garrison just a game? The pounding echoes.
Look there- a man breaks from group breaking the rhythm. A single smile spreads across his cracked dirty face. Anonymous, supposedly. The lone figure runs away from it all to the safe sanctuary of home. He’s broken away from the all-consuming monster of authority. That’s when the bullet hits him, plummeting deep into the flesh of his lower back. He is falling like rag doll to the hard ground. The ground is no man’s friend. Tides of consciousness and pain wash over his mind, balancing him on the brink. The smile strains to stay as the free blood pools out, seeping into the mud, staining it with hard earned liberty. The uniform is now matted with dark blood while he lies dying, life leaking from his core. His eyes can no longer focus on the gray morning. Another shot is fired into the mud man, the sound resonating in the cold atmosphere. Waves of human machines march on, forgetting the smiling, dying man.
His eyes are like champagne, they sparkle, bubble over, and in the morning all that’s left is a hollow, splitting headache. Rain


________

What I am about to tell you is a lie.
I don’t love her anymore. I’ve been staring at my blank computer screen for 38 minutes. My soy latte has grown cold. The thought of her face no longer lingers in my mind. The sound of her laugh no longer plays on repeat. She isn’t a part of my life. I am happily heartbroken.
Was it yesterday? A year ago? This year has been caught in still frames and pictures in my mind. Images of rekindled love, broken hearts, injuries, smiles, and second chances spin through my head. I don’t care. It’s a pleasant sort of pain.
Seated here at the gratitude café, it all feels so slow.
I was eleven when I first told her I loved her. All she said was “I know, silly boy”. Even then she was a beautiful disaster. She was the only girl who wasn’t afraid to dance in the pouring rain. She makes me feel alive, or she did.
But none of this is true. This is not reality.
Across the café a couple shares a mug of hot chocolate. I see a chance, a dance, a romance. Endless opportunities reflected in his dark rimmed glasses. I used to be him. The girl doesn’t believe in love, I can tell from her lopsided smile. He doesn’t know that yet, he is far too mesmerized by the little green flakes in those big eyes. And she just likes those dark curls. I just know.
I’d write love stories if there was a girl worth writing for. I’d write my story for her. Childhood best friends, in love with her for 15 years, she left. Dropping me to shatter on the floor as she fled. Doesn’t seem so romantic now. Good thing this never happened. Now she’s gone, I don’t want to write. Now love stories seem ridiculous. Silly games from when I was a boy. My soft skinned inspiration left me to grow dusty on the shelf next to old Josh Ritter CDs.
The whole time I just kept sipping her sweet lemonade laced with love and lies.
The couple across the café finished their hot chocolate. Now they sing the tune of goodbye, dance the rhythm of farewell. I laugh at them, gleefully grieving. It’s all marvelously masochistic.
My soy latte is now icy because I don’t love her anymore.
Truth be told, I’m not a very good liar.

Bonfire

Last night was one the best nights I have had here at AC.
Some friends and I went down to a place called The Valley to build a bonfire. Thanks to my girl scout skills (log cabin anyone?) I knew how to build the fire. Once we got the bonfire going, some more students came down with a guitar. They played and sang around the fire, under the stars. To make things even better, we had brought along marshmellows to roast and popcorn in a pan. I felt like I was camping. Things calmed down after a while, and there only three of us left aroudn the smoldering fire, and so I told stories. It's hard to descibe exactly how wonderful the whole atmosphere was. Needless to sat, it was an amazing night, and best part of all... when I woke up this morning my hair still smelling of bonfire.

Fiction

This is a short story I wrote for my writing fiction class. The poem at the end was written by my cousin Francis. Enjoy:


Prompt: Two people meet in a park and sit down on a bench. After a brief conversation one of them discovers a dead bird.

I feel numb. At this point I don’t know if it’s the cold outside or inside that’s slowly breaking me down. The numbness is spreading from frozen fingertips deep into my chest. I ache. The waves rush onto the beach and my mind is flooded with memories. The way the light caught his hair, golden, framing his face. I try to forget the pain. The way his carefree laugh would escape those lips. I can’t let go. I can’t let the tides of time sweep him away.
A bitter sun rises, illuminating the park on the seaside. It’s all too familiar, except for the lone silhouette sitting on the bench. I had hoped to be by myself this morning. I can feel the water soaking into my worn tennis shoes as I continue down towards the bench. I’ve never been here alone before. The figure on the bench doesn’t seem to notice me. I dare a glace at the face. He’s old, with sad eyes, and weathered wrinkles. He sees me staring and slowly lifts a bony hand, beckoning me to join him on the bench. I can feel the pounding of my heart against my rib cage and my feet are suddenly stuck to the ground. Next thing I know I find myself seated alongside the leather-faced man. I have nothing to lose now.
The water is rhythmic and seems to stomp rather than dance when it greets the rocky shore. Shivers trickle down my spine as I feel an icy stare. I turn to face the forgotten man. Even his eyes are cold, bluer than the swaying sea, brimming with countless stories. His piercing blue gaze robs me of my secrets, so exposed in my broken eyes. He must know somehow. Discomfort lodges itself in my throat and I quickly look away. The cold is creeping up my legs, chilling me more than before. I remember that everything is real.
Waves of relief wash over me as the man hobbles up from the bench. I venture another peek. He is stooping over something very small. I notice that he is all skin and bones as he turns back towards me, catching my stare. He has something cradled between his fingers. The man stretches out his arms and opens up his palms. I feel pain. A dead bird is nestled between his hands. It could have been sleeping if it wasn’t for the broken wing. I should be repulsed, but it’s beautiful. The morning light catches a feather. It’s the same golden color of the hair I once knew so well. Neither of them were ready to leave this world.
The weathered man smiles at me with his leather lips and sad sea eyes as he turns to the waters edge. Loss is wrenched between my lungs. It makes it hard to breathe.
My eyes remain locked on the strange man with the dead bird. I catch my breath and I forget the cold for a second as he lifts his aged hands to the cloudy sky and opens them wide. Life rushes back into the broken body and, in flurry of feathers, flies away. Disbelieving, I blink my salty eyes and look again. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. The old man must have gone off into the fog and the tiny bird is nowhere to be seen.
I’ve heard that grief can do this to people. Play mind games with them. Make them see things that aren’t real. I think it’s cruel. I trace my way back home as the disillusioned sun rises in the sky. My thoughts mix with the damp air, torturing me with the memory of loss.
When I get home, there is a small folded piece of paper on my doorstep. My numbed fingers unfold it to find a golden brown feather and small cramped writing that reads:

Light gone from eyes
That lovingly held the world
Shining now elsewhere

Beautiful bird has
Flown to heights unimagined
I hold this feather.