This is a Red Night (Poetry)

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This is a Red Night

By J. A. Weymouth

 

This is a red night and

out of no where

two pairs of eyes meet.

 

Coffee stained glasses

and raised eyebrows

 

Applauded men

with white/left winged suits.

 

Freeways, miles,

and girls with boy-cut bobs.

 

This is a roaring night of dancing.

Key-board notes.

Old House – Poetry

Old House

By J. A. Weymouth

These nights are a high inside old buildings as their mortality weakens

they wake to a sadness, a persistent depression of red oak, soaked

in laughter.

Laughter is the memory.

What childhood lies here?

Chalk litters the corner of two rooms.  Simple.

And the hallways are riddled with hooks and screws.

Stains of an aged dust outlines particular squares on its walls while

Mother draws back the curtain.

Sunlight is emitted as the house reawakens.

Only to realise it is empty.

But nothing is empty.

Memories are pressed like flower petals in a book.

The book is still here

remembering.

Hopes and Fears – Poetry

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Hopes and Fears

By J. A. Weymouth

There was something

lost in that sigh.

A paramnesia of windows shutting and

light closing began

in the wake of ideas.

 

Too far lost those ideas tread

(and they don’t remember their true beginnings)

so far away taken, over long shores and hopes, were they.

 

Corrosive/archaic from water.

Water is the fearless patient.

 

What is this wistful feeling?

A searching/yearning/wanting of the things that have passed and have not come.

All that has taken the hand.

 

Beyond question/reasoning to believe that place is only home,

but that home has become corrosive!

 

The head, like the hand, has been taken somewhere

away – mingled by the strain of ideas and journey seeking –

living in that false reality.

 

And I believed in that fantasy.

Hope has taken my hand.

Blood Red – Poetry

Blood Red

By J. A. Weymouth

 

The murmur is red.

Drowning red.

The deep crimson of sour instinct –

Pursing those lips.

Pulsating blood in the current of life.

 

Your life is drowning.

You look at two faces and see one paler than the other.

Sweat

Heat

What is it you see?

Nothing but the basic, all naturel.

 

You pick up the cloth

it is red

made of silk

but you do not use it

because you are scared of the dirtied eye

scared to hide it behind the silk cloth.

 

Tolerant hands tremble

reaching out.

 

The blood is red.

All bodied blood.

 

There is nothing frightening behind skin.

Blue Fabric – Short Story (Part 3) END

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Blue Fabric

(Part 1) (Part 2)

By J. A. Weymouth

Everything seemed slow the moment Mary fell.  Noah’s eyes bulged trying to see her in the dark.  The red of her coat could only be seen just by the fade of moonlight through the trees, bobbing in and out of the stream.  All was silent in the presence of the violent water carrying the unconscious girl away.   Stillness took over the forest critters, frogs no longer croaked, owls silenced their callings out to the night as they waited, watching the boy run after his sister.

Noah meandered through, forcefully pushing past branches.  The dense forest could not stop him as he pulled away from rogue twigs and leaped over high, imbalanced rocks careful not to slip or lose sight of the shade of red barely seen in the moonlit water.  He was not going to lose his sister.

He thought anger.  He thought desperation.  He thought rage as he followed.  But then the adrenaline rushed in, blocking out painful feelings.

It felt like he was running ahead, that Noah had finally managed to get to a point along the river’s path where he thought he could catch his sister.

Up ahead, he saw his sister being carried towards him.  Noah had not seen her face and tried to ignore the upsetting feeling that was stirring inside him.  Stones led the way through the river and he thought the largest would be a good place to try and catch her.  Nervously, Noah took his first step onto the rock.  Second.  Third.  He made it to the middle without falling and steadied himself ready for the catch of his life.

Noah knew he had failed the moment before he caught his sister’s jacket.  It was empty.  There was no Mary.

After he threw the jacket against the shore in frustration, thinking himself stupid after another failed attempted at saving Mary, he began to move again.  But before he could take another step, he heard a moan – distinct – coming from within the water.  It had come not much further from where he was standing as it had sounded like a baby animal in distress.

He knew it was frivolous to stand and think to confirm whether it was his sister making the noise, so he moved in the sound’s direction – and hoped.

Pale lips pursed through the surface of the water, now opening to suck in the air – desperately.  Mary had survived only to be carried away into a small enclosure from the side of the river bank; a separate stream dragged her into a dead end.

Noah became too far to stop her but he thought there was a chance to save her as he watched on miserably.

Water tickled Noah’s toes as he stood upon muddy ground. The water levels had risen, the river was flooded and now the urgency of his endeavour was becoming more and more desperate.  When he finally made it to the small enclosure, he could see that it was in fact a cave against the cliff side before the rising of a hill. Noah thought it lucky he had made it to this side of the river earlier on, as now it seemed impossible to cross the river with the force of the current in his way.  The only obstacle in his path now was his ability to maneuver himself into a steady position to reach his sister as there was only enough room for his footing to shimmy against the cliff side.  One slip and he could fall into the river and drown.

With steady feet and keen focus, Noah made it to the side of the cave and looked in.  The cave was a lot deeper than he expected and Mary stood there at the bottom, waist-deep in water and conscious.  Besides the blood and swelling near her left eye she appeared to be well enough despite her fall in the water.  She yelled out in glee when she saw her brother.  Her hand stretched out.  He grasped it tightly and pulled.

Her sister was such a small light thing.  Noah knew this well.  Small for her age he always found it easy to carry her on his back during their games of piggy-back rides.  But there was something terribly wrong when he could not lift her from the cave.

‘My leg is stuck,’ she whispered painfully but Noah ignored this and pulled her as hard as he could but all of a sudden he heard a terrible snap like the sound of a delicate twig breaking.  She screamed this time and cried out to him to stop.  ‘Stop Noah! My leg! I think it’s broken.’

Noah’s mind was racing.  With the water growing more and more ferocious as it rushed in to fill the cave, he needed to think of something quickly because Mary was now shoulder-deep in water.

Noah would have dived into the water with Mary to see the damage to her foot for himself but the cave was too narrow and he would not have been able to fit.  He tried to dip his hands in the water to see if he could reach the bottom but it was no good either, the cave was just too deep.

Soft water droplets fell onto Noah’s face.  Rain was beginning to fall.  Cold shrouded him with a light coat of mist.

This was not happening.  How could this happen?  Only hours ago were they playing on top of the hill in the wind with their kite flying pleasantly above them.  They were having fun.  It was a good afternoon.  By now, they would be at home with their mother, having dinner by the wood heater.

So how could this have happened?

Slowly, the realisation came to Noah that he could do nothing for his sister but watch.  Watch as the water slowly rose above her.  Watch the water slowly drown her.  And all he could do was hold her hand and watch.

Something happened.  The mist that had surrounding him became still in the air.  The water froze in place.  Everything quieted into silence and stilled.

Noah looked eerily into the distance and saw that everything that surrounding them had frozen into place.  He looked at his sister, as the water had become motionless before it completely engulfed her, and looked into her petrified eyes.  It seemed Mary too was solid, still and unmoving.  Everything around him was frozen.  Completely still in this one moment of time.

Then everything sped up around him as quickly as he realised it.  And he was standing over his sister.  Somehow they had made it out of the water – to the bank of the river.  But Mary was lying still by his feet with her eyes now closed.

‘Mary…’ Noah nudged his sister.  ‘M-Mary,’ his voice became broken with the realisation that something wasn’t quite right.

Dawn woke to the sight of a young boy crying as he lay beside his dead sister.  Frogs began to croak in the distance as the gentle, warm light stirred the forest awake.

~~~

END

I would like to thank everyone for your support and enthusiasm in the duration of this story. Thank you so much for your kind words and feedback.  It is what helps motivate me in the creation of these stories.

The Hand – Poetry

ImageThe Hand

By J. A. Weymouth

 

Faded/split into two.

Other side is conscious and knowing while one waits silently at the door.

 

Curious as ever,

Its eyes move rigid, pressed against untamed littlies.

Watchful, hateful, noiseless.

 

Finger tips encircle a crown as golden entrails seep outwards.

 

A word is rested,

sentimental even –

with festering purpose.

 

Circles ins and outs:

reflections of an ill-mannered past like pictures reminiscing velvet lies.

 

And I shudder.

 

Still shivering like a child who holds on.

Never alike to the become and the then before.

 

Always a child,

and never more.

Blue Fabric (Part 2) – Short Story

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Blue Fabric

By J. A. Weymouth

(Part 1)

It was midday but it felt like evening.  Grey clouds overtook the brightness of the sky, but nothing could dampen their spirits.  To them, it was the brightest of days.  Their father had just made them a brand new kite – cobalt blue – brighter than the sky and he was taking them out for their first test run.

            The winds were high.  A perfect day for kite flying.  Noah took charge.

            ‘Me first!’ Noah demanded as he eagerly clung to his father with the kite in his eyes.  But his father turned to Mary – his four year old sister – and gave her the kite.

            Mary accepted the handle with a nervous hand as Noah looked at her in contempt.  He pouted and waited for their father to explain.  Why did dad ignore me? Noah wondered hurt from the neglect. It was supposed to be his turn first, it had been his right since he and their father had worked on that kite together.  He had helped weave the tail tying the bows together.  Mary had done nothing but watched.

            ‘Why does she get to go first?’ Noah demanded but their father continued to ignore him as he gave Mary instruction on how to fly the kite, the timing, the speed, the pull of the string.  But as their father gave instruction Mary looked at Noah.  Grey eyes looked at him, steadily gazing with curiosity.  It was but a moment that she watched him and he in return saw her.  There was a glimmer in those strikingly clear, grey eyes.  They were the eyes of innocence.  And as he began to recognise that innocence and understand why his father chose his little sister over himself, a gust of wind suddenly picked up.  Mary’s auburn hair flicked upwards against the gale hiding her eyes.  The moment was lost and then they both turned away.

            ‘Okay Mary, now’s your chance!’ their father called out to her encouraging her to run with the kite in response to the quickening wind.  It seemed like such an enormous effort for a little girl, but determination was in her run.  Instructions continually flashed in her mind by concentration.  She pulled in the prime moment and so the kite obeyed, spreading out in full glory, out and free.

            While Mary ran with the kite their father, still in sight of Mary had walked over to Noah.     

            ‘Son,’ he said as he kneeled, ‘I want you to understand something very important.’  He put a hand on Noah’s shoulder.  It was a kind hand.  A hand that never rose in violence or threat but instead, with firm discipline, it had guided over growing children.  It was a hand that lectured, that advised and cautioned.  It was the peace bringer between childish tantrums but had always nurtured in pride. To Noah, his father’s hand would always comfort him, calming him so he would take any advisory word seriously.  Even, in regard to his little sister (maybe even especially).

            ‘You’re my son,’ his father said affectionately, the knot in Noah’s throat growing tighter with his words.  ‘You are my first born,’ Noah thought he could hear the faint catch of breath as he spoke, ‘and as an older brother you have a responsibility to uphold and that is to watch over your little sister even if it means that you might have to sacrifice your turn first every once and a while,’ he continued with a smile.  He was like a lion, the freed sun now glowing behind him like a proud, golden main had somehow magnified his smile. ‘I would hope that you would always watch over her, to look out for each other because maybe one day,’ his father paused the smile now somewhat obscured by the troubled – yet somewhat forced – expression on his face, ‘I won’t be around.’

Starting to feel angry at himself for losing his sister, for failing to be the protective brother their father had brought him up to be, Noah looked up again and in a flash of light he thought he saw the blue fabric of the kite.  It was there and then it was gone but hope reignited.

Now that Noah had an idea where Mary might be, he took a turn as he ran into the direction of where he saw the kite.  The rain continued to fall, fast and hard.  It was cold but as uncomfortable as he was, the weather did nothing to Noah’s determination, he moved fast, unaffected.

A flash of blue fabric stood out as a warning.

Rain continued to fall.  The sound of rushing water came from a distance behind a gathering of overbearing trees.  A blue ribbon flicked and waved in a clutter of dying twigs trapped between two trees.  Noah caught it when it freed itself from the entangled grasp.  As Noah came closer to where he found the ribbon, the sound of water grew louder and more ferocious.

He thought the sound was familiar when he arrived at the bank of a river.  What little he could see, he could just make out the outline of the kite.  He forced his eyes to adjust to the dark, darting about to find his sister.  Nothing but the faint reflection of light against water and the flicker of a nervous kite could be seen.

A gasp.

A whimper.

It happened that Mary tried to cross the river in an attempt to reach the kite.  Finally having been caught by a rogue log against the other side of the river the kite appeared battered and lethargic in the dying wind, but Mary had not made it.  Instead, Noah thought that she must have slipped in her desperate effort to save the kite because now she was clinging onto a low branch, shoulder deep in water.

‘Mary!’ Noah yelled, upset and angry at Mary for getting herself into danger but soon his frustration turned into worry as he came to realise her present situation.  Her head rested above the water by an inch as she breathed and gasped for air, exhausted.  With her hands still clasped around the branch and her grip fragile but sturdy, she called out for help.

Noah saw that Mary had her eyes shut tightly, concentrating on her severe resilience to fight against the force of water and be swept away.

Realising she could not see him Noah called out for her again.  When she heard him she cried out his name and then lunged herself forward for a better grip and cried out again, eyes wide open and searching.

It was pitch black.  The river steadily grew more ferocious as the rain increased.  Mary still could not see him but her situation became more difficult with the rising water level.  Noah managed to find himself wrapped around the low branch (the same branch in which Mary still clung to) in an attempt to rescue Mary.  She cried out when the branch dipped in adjusting itself to Noah’s weight.

He scuffled forward and when he got close to Mary he leaned over and opened his hand out for his sister.  Noah could see the whites of her knuckles as she clung to the branch in an effort to hold on.  The strong grip was desperate.  Noah realised that she was too scared to let go and hold his hand so he was forced to move closer.  He would need to catch her wrist and pull her up instead.

Sliding down towards her, Noah stretched out but he was still too far from her to hold her steady.  He would need to reassure her, give her courage to let go and thrust herself into his arms to be free.

There was only one way now as they were running out of time.  Even Noah began to shiver at the vile cold, its iciness licking his skin, soaking him in cold even through layers of his thick coat but whatever cold he felt then could not be anywhere near as unbearable as the cold Mary was feeling now.  The thought worried him, because surely she would be losing feeling in her hands, making it even more difficult for her to hold on.  Noah saw his sister struggling and despite her sheer grit to hold on – as only a seven year old could – her strong grip was weakening and would not last for much longer.

‘Mary,’ Noah called, in a desperate attempt to encourage her, ‘you’re going to have to let go and grab my hand! It’s the only way!’

Mary seemed unsure.  Despite his hand only being inches away from her, she saw it as something of an obstacle.  It meant that she would have to let go of the safety of the log and with the dark shrouding her surroundings she would have to take a leap of faith into Noah’s hands.  As Mary thought about it more, he appeared further and further away.  Anxiously, she began to plan her attempt concentrating on her left hand (the hand closest to his).  She told herself to do it, over and over again. Finally, Mary took a chance.

Mary caught his hand and as the feeling that she could do it began to occur to her Noah struggled to hold onto her.  His hand had been wet from rain water and she could not feel her hand for the cold had numbed it.  She could not grip.  She was slipping.

The imbalance of the loss of grip made Mary lose her hold over the branch.  A sudden wave of fresh rain water took her and she became overwhelmed under water.  The force of the impact pushed her to the bottom of the river, where sharp rocks and twigs lay rested but because she lost control over herself Mary could not protect her head from hitting the corner of a rock.

There was pain and then the darkness swept her away with the water, flowing onwards to an unknown path.

Looking out in despair as the water raged like a tyrant sweeping away the earth – Noah cried out.

***

Part 3 will be up Saturday 🙂