Musical Musings 5/20/2016

Evening Musings: 

I’ve been staring out the window at night a lot, of late. The sky replete with her wondrous and vivid mysteries. Our clandestine meetings…. Playing coy with her shades, her colors,  muted, but breathtaking. Teasing. Beckoning. Speaking.  What will she tell me, tonight? 

The moon shouted my name across a cloud,  reaching me as a whisper,  saying things; haunting things; beautiful things. “What is music? “, I dared ask. It was the question on my mind. A star twinkled, and made a discernible sound- the voice of a small child’s glorious giggle, peeking around the seemingly vanished embers of the sun. 

“You tell me?” The voice searing lightly across  constellations had countered. I searched my cerebral Thesaurus. I needed intelligent, mystical verbiage for this conversation,  but nothing. “Come on! You’re smarter than this”, Crystal said to Cryss. I acquiesced, thinking, “maybe not”.  The thing I love, the thing I crave,  the thing that is…. I can’t find the words. The lexicon I’ve loved had failed me. 

A silent and melodic breeze played my vertical blinds like Brahms’ Lullaby. Lillith perched angrily by, a silenced Banshee, still stewing over the one she couldn’t get. The one covered in the Blood. 

It started in my chest.  A tickling,  as buzzing sensation. Working its way through every nerve,  every pore, every fiber; bone, cartilage,  sinew-  flowing like liquid joy.

You see, I was singing all along. We were singing a harmonious duet.  Ah, sky,  there’s your answer.  See you tomorrow night.

Vizionairee Jones-2016

Rain, With A Chance of Happy

The rain beckons me like a siren

One only I hear

Each drop a musical note

The showers a melody

Drench me in harmonies

Envelope me, blessed downpour

As I dance joyously, face toward the heavens

Soaking wet, simply happy
Vizionairee  2016

TheWriteContest.com 2017 Winner: Horror Genre

                

                                                    PEELERS 

       BY JULIET STAVELEY

 

She sat against the laundry basket in the bathroom, holding a piece of birthday cake. It was a good room, she thought – no windows, a sturdy lock on the door… the old-fashioned bolt kind. Nothing in, nothing out.

She tried to block out the unnerving gurgling sounds coming from the garden by focusing on her hands. Apart from the trembling, they felt normal. Maybe she’d got away with it? Maybe that was the gift from mama and papa: Her deformed DNA wrapped in shiny paper.

Her mind could not, or rather did not want to process the events of the last few days. Just days; that’s how quickly it had gone from Tatiana Orlova’s history lecture on Tuesday afternoon to, to this. She smiled faintly, remembering half-hearted notes about the Revolution and flirting with Leo; everything so beautifully bland and steady. And then the scream. A scream so loud it bounced off the corridor walls. They all ran out to see Erik Belinsky, recognisable only by his Gorillaz satchel, trying to… she forced the image away, down the plughole of the cracked sink. Keep it simple: cake, hands, patience. She would know soon for sure.

According to the newsfeed on her phone, special forces were continuing the shoot-on-sight policy; it was more humane than watching the ‘slow peel’. Yet the savage shadow had grown, stretching its merciless edges across the globe. Their own Ministry still didn’t have a clue. A nation of brilliant scientists, and all the remaining boffins could do was fumble about with petri dishes, failed antidotes and desperate measures. She had a theory though. And every way she looked at it, it made sense. She just needed to test it and social media the hell out of it.

But first, a better memory floated in. Her first time in hospital, fussed over, feeling special, bloodworks confirmed, epinephrine delivered, along with a Sony PSP from babushka. It was a good trade: a few minutes of swelling and deep panic for a lifetime of the Sims. Her reaction had been so severe that mama had obliterated the apartment before she came home, removed all possible suspects, scared that even one pernicious particle would set it off again. The cutting irony of that was not missed on her now.

Things settled down afterwards. Normal for the rest of the family at least, much to her brother Pavel’s delight. Mama had made two versions of everything, every day, even the birthday cake. Why had she never thanked her properly for that? For all those hours of love proved in the kitchen? Her shoulders slumped in a mix of self-disgust and sadness.

With nothing else left, she took a big bite of her cake. Strictly speaking, it was not her cake, it was the other one. Chocolate oozed around her tongue; wicked satin richness. She realised just how much she had missed the moistness of the real thing – her alternatives were similar to chewing on an old rug. She closed her eyes and savoured the dark and the dark.

The gurgling outside was replaced by a howl, far too soprano, like a wolf caught in a snare trap. Not long now until the sinew stage. Oh God. Tears splashed down onto the willow green tiles between toes and crumbs. She prayed it would be quick for Pavel. Prayed he would find papa’s rifle in the shed and still have the strength to use it. Or a chain saw, hammer, even a large rock.

The tears kept coming – vast waves of shock and grief crashing around her, filling in the gaps in the grouting, trickling down the shower walls. She cried for her family, for the two, soon to be four victims in her home, for the fact she hadn’t had sex with Leo, or with anyone, for all the things she would never do or be, for all the people she would never see again, for the twisted piles of glutinous, pulsing waste that used to be friends and strangers. She felt sick but she knew she had to finish. One bite at a time, between irregular, sobbing breaths.

The itching came quicker than she expected. Perhaps her disease speeded things up. She hoped that was the case. Deep down itching. Hot, red, impossibly tempting. It felt so good to scratch until the skin split. She knew she didn’t have long before the pain arrived, pain so intense she would rip at her eyes, pull the muscles off her face, peel her entire body with blunted nails to make it stop. She forced her now-bloody fingers to tap on the Twitter icon and typed quickly as her mind began to smudge. She was halfway through a Facebook post when the spasms hit.

In a different room, in a different country, a keyword alert gave a chirpy beep and flashed on screen. Another one had worked it out then. Not many but still, no point leaving it there in case there was ever any comeback. One of the chosen accessed the mainframe and brought the Tweet up, deleting it as he read:

THE EVIL IS IN THE GRAIN


©2017

Author Juliet Staveley has enjoyed a career as a print Journalist, in various magazines and newspapers. She has also conducted several Workshops for potential, and new Authors.

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STAY. JUST STAY!

Image

Peace

“As wind carries our prayers for earth and all life,

may respect and love light our way.

May our hearts be filled with compassion

for others and for ourselves.

May peace increase on Earth.

May it begin with me…”

~ Tibetan prayer

Farewell, Obama 

​So, it’s taken me months to figure what I should say, concerning the end of the Obama Presidency. Nothing in my head. Go figure, a Writer with no words. So, I went to my lover- MUSIC. 

“CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON

THERE’LL BE PEACE, WHEN YOU ARE DONE

LAY YOUR WEARY HEAD TO REST

DON’T-CHA CRY NO MORE…..”
CARRY ON, YOU WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER, CARRY ON

NOTHING EQUALS THIS MADNESS

NOW, YOUR LIFE’S NO LONGER EMPTY

SURELY HEAVEN WAITS FOR YOU…”

Thank you, Barack Hussein Obama, and family. I remember openly weeping, on the day of your inauguration, and having someone ask me why. Why? Because I saw Jessie Jackson weeping, and knew he was remembering standing two/three feet away, as a bullet ripped through the face and head of Dr. King. I wept because I NEVER thought I’d see it, in my lifetime.  Because, Michelle Obama is not just your wife, mother of your children, and awesome FLOTUS, but A LADY. Our girls need to see those examples. Because of Dr. King, John Lewis, Rev. Ralph Abernathy, Andrew Young, Jessie Jackson, Freedom Fighters, Abolitionists, Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, Thurgood Marshall…. Because of each and every person, who’s name never made the paper, or the news, or the history books. Because we may never see the likes again. 

Because my Mommiekins lived to see it. A Woman who used to have to enter establishments through back doors, if she were allowed in, at all.

I’ve always understood citizenship, intellectually. I’ve cried because of things said, and done to me, because of the color of my skin. Sometimes, it was so subtle, I wasn’t even aware. 

Make no mistake, I’m scrappy, like my Mommiekins. Injustice does not sit well with me, AT ALL. A pen and some paper in my hands….

Back then, my Mommiekins went TO the fight. She began the dialogue. She knew every local government phone number that began with 396 (lol). Mostly alone, she called wrote and didn’t let up until she’d affected change. I often stayed at home wondering why she would risk her health like that. She made me go with her many times, ignoring my ire. Freezing cold, at Annapolis. Downtown, Uptown. Talking to Councilmen and Women. Still didn’t GET IT. She said we elected them, now they have to do their jobs.

I GET IT, MOMMIEKINS. Thank you. It is now, in my heart, and will always manifest itself in my actions. 

That’s why I cried then, that’s why I cry now.

Barack Obama, Carry on, Sir.

“Carry On Wayward Son” – Kansas

Peace

​”As wind carries our prayers for earth and all life,

may respect and love light our way.

May our hearts be filled with compassion

for others and for ourselves.

May peace increase on Earth.

May it begin with me…”

~ Tibetan prayer