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Posts Tagged ‘Super Shorts’

Super Shorts – Little Twinkles

In Fiction, Personal, Writing on March 25, 2016 at 7:59 pm

It started as just little twinkles. Quick flashes like soft, colorful fireflies in pinks, greens, and purples.  They danced on her eyelids and she yearned to be closer to them.  She reached for them, stretching her arms and straining her vision.  Their intensity grew and she knew she was near.

Vibrant blues and reds overtook the pastel hues and she could hear something.  A vibration, no – a whisper. Now a humming in the distance, getting louder and more distinct with each second.  Voices, noises…it sounded like a party.  The lights were still spinning around her and it made her feel like she was the guest of honor at a festive disco.  She imagined this was how a celebrity felt – lights flashing, blurred faces quickly in and out of focus as she passed them, all wishing to talk to her for just a moment, touch her, as she made her grand entrance into the gala being held just for her.  A face hovered in her vision longer than the others, a man likely near her age with warm hazel eyes.  A spinning disco ball threw flashes of the bright lights all over her and all around the room, the voices swelled around her, and the host illuminated her with a soft white spotlight.

She was transfixed by the light.  She gazed longingly at it, unconsciously moving towards it as if a magnet was pulling her to its source. It was warm and shimmered on her skin and she was covered in fine silver glitter. She reached out to the light, sensing that her fingers were only inches from being able to grasp its origin.  Anticipation ran through her body like static, tingling her nerves and tickling the fine hairs on her arms.  Just as she knew she was there, the crowd rushed in, surrounding her.  They were excited, frantic almost.  Their manic movement was starting to put distance between her and the source of the lovely light.  She reached farther, strained harder, closing the gap, when the crowd swelled and she was pushed forcefully backward by a hard hit to her chest.  It knocked the air out of her and she flinched.

In that instant, the soft, warm light began to pulse and quickly transformed. It became harsh, like staring at a fluorescent light while suffering a migraine.  The warmth was gone and she felt a chilled breeze brush her skin.  The voices were still present behind a low roar in her ears, but not excited and happy.  They were concerned, emotional, and she couldn’t see the faces they were coming from.  The light was so painfully bright now, she couldn’t stand to face it any longer.  She turned her head to shield her vision, and felt a sharp pain run down her neck and into back.  She winced, but it worked. She could see, and all the shimmering flecks of glitter slowly took shape as bits and pieces of glass surrounding her, reflecting flashing lights from the distance.

Slowly, she recognized that one voice was rising above the roar.  It was calm, sweet almost, saying her name.  Even slower, she was able to focus on a face slightly above her, his warm hazel eyes.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said reassuringly.  “Don’t try to move. You’ve been in an accident, but everything is going to be okay.”

Copyright © 2016

Super Shorts – To Rebuild

In Fiction, Mostly True, Writing on October 12, 2015 at 8:42 pm

She stood silently at the edge of the porch, elbows resting on the railing with camcorder in hand.  She looked at me when I stepped up next to her, only for a second before returning her eyes to the yard.  Her expression was unreadable.

I stared at the patch of cut grass, no bigger than space enough for a child’s playhouse.  The lawnmower droned on and I watched him.  The determination on his face and in his movements was unmatchable.  He grabbed hold of the handle, prepping himself, and gave a hard push with one arm.  The other arm lay on the arm rest of his chair, his hand delicately and precisely moving the small joystick to put him in motion.  Repositioning, another shove, rolling his wheelchair forward a few more inches, navigating around the swing set that sat rusting from 2 years of no use while they had been gone.

It was hard to speak, to break the silence of being mesmerized by his tedious and obviously tiring work.  But I did.  “He mowed this patch?”

She hit a button on the camcorder and set it on the railing in front of her, then nodded.  “First time he’s tried doing this since the accident.”

“Yeah…”

“He’s been out here over an hour.  He won’t let me do it.”

“Sounds about right…”

“He wanted to try.  He found a way to do it.  Halfway through that section he yelled for me to bring the camera out.  He wanted it on tape.”

I turned my gaze back to him.  A task – a chore even – that most dread.  A chore that 2 years ago took him less than an hour to fully complete.  A task that meant nothing when he walked on 2 legs, when his arms were sculpted from weight lifting and didn’t have muscle damage, when his body hadn’t been through more major surgeries than I could remember.  I wanted to cry – for her almost losing the love of her life and seeing his constant struggles, for him losing the future he imagined for himself because of one tiny second and a vehicle malfunction. But then I looked back at her and she was smiling, beaming even. 

I looked back at him.  Sweating, flushed, concentrating so hard, struggling but not giving up – and proud.  Proud, and so very happy.  I watched him – repositioning, pushing, rolling, guiding, bumping the swings, hitting the shed slightly, shaking his arm out to loosen his tired muscles, smiling, singing, waving to the porch, presenting his mowed patches to us with a sweep of his arm. Rebuilding.

Copyright © 2015

Super Shorts – Six Months

In Fiction, Writing on August 31, 2015 at 10:15 pm

I wish he’d go away.  I ignore him.  I refuse to look at him.  I don’t respond when he calls to me.  Just when I think he’s getting the hint, just when 10 minutes goes by without his voice or his face, he’s there again and my stomach drops to the floor.  He’s so needy, desperate and demanding for attention, and I just can’t bring myself to do it anymore.  Before, things were different.  I needed him, too.  I wanted to see his face – early morning, lunch time, evening, in the shadows of the dark bedroom at night.  I used to crave hearing his voice say my name, say those private things and those lovely words, say anything at all as long as it was to me.  And now all I want is for him to leave.  It wasn’t sudden.  It took a while.  I fought it at first, thinking that while it was different, it was still something I could make work.  But I can’t.  It’s gone on too long; its become much too hard for me.  I don’t know what else to do, because it’s as though he doesn’t hear me when I tell him I need him gone.  He doesn’t hear me when I tell him that I need to move on with my life, without him being a part of it.  He doesn’t hear me when I tell him it’s been six months like this with neither of us getting anywhere.  Six months since I told him good-bye.  Six months that I’ve tried to start a new life.  Six months that every single day has been stopped in its tracks when he appears again.  Six months that I’ve been trying to convince him that this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.  Six months since he was buried…

Copyright © 2015

Singing Heart

Poems by Karem Barratt

*UNBREAKABLE QUEEN'S LIFE LESSONS DIARY*

Breaking Free From The Past, In Hope For A Bigger & Brighter Future

One Day at a Time

The world is a confusing place, these are just my musings on it.

The Girl

enjoying whatever life has to offer...

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