Two Stories, One Illustration ~ Part One ~ With Kiluminvti & A.J.Tawil

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    What does this title mean you may ask?  Well let me explain, this post is part of a collaboration with the artist Kiluminvti, and writer A.J.Tawil.  In this two part series two stories shall be told.  The first is featured in this post and is written by A.J.Tawil. The second story shall be told by myself, next week.  Each story is unique and separate from the other, only linked by the fact that they are both inspired by what our imaginations saw when we viewed the following illustration done by Kiluminvti. 

     Without further ado, I present to you A.J.Tawil's story:

     A dreadful story it is that I am too afraid to speak it. Thus it will be written down on black and white. Do not read aloud not even in whispers for she will hear and only misery will be upon you. Arielle she was once called a beautiful and fair lady. She was kind, and lovely. At the age of 12 her mother died of a violent fever as they all mourned her death she swore an: that never in her life will she be standing idle and useless. 

     A healer she became at the age of 16. The youngest of them but the most talented. She went from town to town, leaving her father, brothers and sisters behind. Although they were proud they were sad for a presence like hers couldn't ever be replaced. She healed and treated the rich as well as the poor. She was believed by many to be a Saint. She smiled much and her gaze was enough to cure all your heart's sorrows. 

     One day in the town of Flamant she met this boy this little kid of too few a winter to die. She spent sun and moon trying to heal him until he passed away in her arms. The eldest brother, although pained with grief, grew found of the courageous and inspiring woman and she as well. He was brave young man that would anything for his family, she thought.

     They wed a year later in Arielle's home town of Lyon many attended her wedding. High lords, Nobles, peasants and kings were all there to celebrate her wedding. She was loved by all. The newlyweds went on the road together and made a stop in Ashton. Beautiful Ashton, the moon shined, the food was excellent, and the weather perfect. 

     She strolled around walking from street to street, admiring the city with her husband until a sudden pull swept her off her feet. It was two lowlifes scums pulling her towards them by her hair. She fought back but overwhelmed by a surprise hit to the head, she fell flat on her stomach. One was holding her down by the arms with his nose sniffing her beautiful black hair.She looked up for an instant just to realize that her husband the young brave man she loved so dearly was running away from the scene without a glance back. She yelled and fought so hard that the one mounting her hit her on the back of her head. ''That's a nice ring ya' have have '' he spat he went for the wedding band, while the other held her wrist. She didn't let them take it so easily, although betrayed. The rogue drew his knife and cut of the finger that was bearing the jewel.

     The rest is history. She was raped, punched, kicked and left to die.

~~~

   Thank you for reading! 

If you would like to see more of Kiluminvti's art some of A.J. Tawil's writing simply click on the name of either artist (anywhere in this post) and it will take you to more of their work. 

Deaths Fingers

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     Death has touched my family with its greedy fingers.  No longer does it claw at my neck, but still it stays near.  It's fingers have effected each in my family in their own way. I will always wish it hadn’t come, or that it could have waited a few years.  That those fingers could have been kept at bay.  However, there is hard truth that will always be reality. Death will claim all of us in the end.  

     January 28th, 2010.  The evening before, we had all sat together joking over dinner; laughing, unaware of what would happen tomorrow.  

     In the midst of laughter, Grandpa spilled his cup of water all over the table while passing food to my brother.  

     With familiar mock anger Grandpa had exclaimed, “Thomas*, how could you spill my water?”

     My brother, understanding Grandpa's humor, laughed along.  Upon questioning Grandpa had jokingly claimed it was all my brother’s fault. Because the food was being passed to him when the glass had been tipped over, Thomas must be blamed.  Laughing along with the general merriment and Grandpa’s kindly sarcastic words, I had gotten a towel, cleaned up the water and righted the glass.

     After dinner we all separated to go to our own beds.  My Nanna and Grandpa retired to my family's rental “cottage” right behind our own house.

***  

     That night, I slept well until the sirens came.  I had awoken to see flashing red and white lights dancing on the walls of my upstairs bedroom as a car turned into our driveway.  The siren stopped just moments after waking me.

     Within those moments of waking, and grogginess I had realized that something was wrong.  I slipped out of bed and then went into my sister’s room.  She lay in her bed, eyes open and frightened.  I had beckoned to her, wanting her to come with me, or at least to me.  She clambered out of bed and came.  I slipped my hand around hers, and together we had went into the hall and down the stairs.  

     We went through the living room, family room, and dining room as we traveled to the back of the house.  We went to the window facing the back property.  The window that locked on our Grandparent's front door. My brother had already stood, watching the car outside.  It was an ambulance.  We watched until a man opened the door to the back rental.  He held the door open as a couple of men, along with my mum, carried our Grandpa out on a stretcher.  

     That morning the ambulance left with my Grandpa.  Our parents came running over barefoot.  They came just long enough to tell us that they were taking Nanna and following the ambulance to the hospital. Before leaving they slipped on shoes, and hugged my siblings and I, and said they would send someone to be with us. We knew that they would most likely be gone until mid-afternoon. 

***

     I was left with my siblings.  We sat ourselves at the table in a sort of daze.  My sister was worried and scared, so I tried my best to comfort her.  I promised her that Grandpa would live.  I promised that everything would be all right. I knew that it was an empty promise, but it made her, and me, feel better. 

     Then we heard a knock on the door.  

     It was an older woman that we knew well from church.  We let her in.  She was the one our parents had called so that we wouldn't be alone.  I was glad and relieved.  Here was an adult.  She could make promises that would be kept; she would help my sister be comforted and calm the fear that was rising in my heart.  She would help.  

     So sure was I that she could help, because she was an adult.  

     Instead, she declared that we needed to do the dishes.  She said that service would help us feel better. She claimed it, so we did it.  As my sister and I unloaded, the dishwasher, I got more and more upset.  I wasn’t feeling better, my heart hurt with fear. I felt my Grandpa missing. So I tried to think of it more as service and not a chore.  I couldn’t force down the fear that was still rising.  Unshed tears stung my eyes and the kitchen shimmered and swam through them.  I told myself that I couldn’t cry.  I couldn't let it happen. This would help me feel better, she had said so.  My sister needed me to be strong.  I couldn’t cry. 

     The women swept and talked at the same time.  I could catch phrases like: “This will help your mom feel better,” “She won’t be as overwhelmed,” “You need to keep out of her way so you don’t annoy her,” and finally, “Your parents should have taught you about death.”  I couldn’t listen anymore.  I was done with listening to this woman’s incessant chatter of how we needed to prepare, how we needed to help our parents, and what our mother should have done.  

     “Our parents don’t hide us from the truth.”  I whispered.

     “Well, yes, but your Grandpa is going to die, and they should have prepared you.”

     I was mad; I was upset; I was scared; and this woman who was supposed to comfort us was telling me that my Grandpa would die.  I couldn’t control my tears anymore.  I let go and ran from the room.  I kept thinking: He won’t die!  He cannot die! But he might have... he might now... 

     I cried into my pillow, torn with a fear I had never known. I stayed in my bedroom until I heard the sound of a car driving up the driveway.  It was too early; it was only ten o’clock.  

     When my parents came in to the house, I was already by their side, having met them in the driveway.  I was comforted by their presence.  I kept saying "But you came home? But you're okay."  For a moment I simply needed to know they were back.  However, after that moment and when we hugged, I saw it in their eyes. I knew he was dead.  I could feel it.  They were home too early, their eyes too dim.

***

     Maybe now is an odd time to share this... Maybe Death isn't something to be mentioned around the Holidays.  But for those of us who have lost, though we may not speak of it, the holiday's bring Death closest to our remembrance.  These are the times we are sharply aware of the missing presence at the table, the missing personality, and the traditions that have changed.

*All names changed for privacy 

Something Beyond "Self"

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     Sitting, we share poetry.  Bits and pieces of our souls are spilled into the air of our local library, at an open mic event.  Sifting through lines of varying shades of "good."  We listen.  Looking at the faces of those laughing, crying, and stoic... I saw and I learned.

     Pain is life.  For everyone it brings its own sting.  Some experience the loss of a parent, grandparent, child, or friend.  Others experience being abused by someone you should be able to trust.  For some the greatest pain is hate of oneself.  For still others being shunned by peers and experiencing bullying is apart of life.  We all hurt, and it is all different.  Even if you meet someone who has gone through the same circumstance as you, their experience is different.

     For many of us in the world we cling to a higher power, something beyond ourselves.  Not only christians do this, but Hindu, Islamic, and Buddhist religions look towards higher beings.  Even those who don't believe in a God or supreme being(s) sometimes turn to science as a a higher source of truth.  However, we sometimes forget to look beside us.  Debates arise between people, and we set up walls and barriers.  We claim our pain as ours.  Sometimes it is what makes us feel "unique."  But pain is one of the things that should really bind us.

     Yes, a mother loosing her teenage daughter to a marriage full of abuse, and loneliness is different then a mother who watches her child move from California to New York.  However, they are both mothers.  Even if they cannot empathize, they can sympathize.  We can hold each other, wipe tears, offer solace and simply... be there. We should look at each other as what we are, human.  We are connected.

     Those I shared my pain with, they didn't make a big deal, they didn't see me cry.  But they looked into my eyes, and saw me.  The walls that could have stood (my religion, gender attraction, schooling differences, dress, and appearance) were broken down between us.  Maybe not forever, but for that moment. And that moment matters.

Pushed Into Flight

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     I say tweet tweet in the wind,
     The new bird can fly
     Mama bird gives a worm to eat
     I sit and think
     Brother bird sings a poem
     Baby bird sleeps.....

     This is the first poem I ever wrote.  I have no memory of writing it.  I declare that it is my first based off of the fact that my mother remembers writing down my words, and that my Grandpa wrote it down for himself.

     When I had just turned 13 my Grandpa gave me two sheets of paper.  Both together contained a grand total of three poems.  He and I sat together on his lazy boy (myself sitting on my arm rest perch).  He read me the poems with tenderness in his voice.  I listened. When he finished I asked him where they were from. He looked into my eyes and told me that they were my very own words. He told me that when I was 3 my mother called him and read to him these poems.  Careful to get every word he typed them up on his laptop. Now he was showing them to me.  His eyes showed pride.  Pride in me and these poems from the child I had been but don't remember being.

      A couple weeks before this moment, I had been under the impression that I had written my first poem.  It was a silly one, but the rhyme was good and the meter rather fair.  Now he told me that it was actually my 4th poem.  After 10 years of keeping it on his computer he wanted me to have a copy.

     "What for?" I asked.  "Why is this important?"

     I wish I could remember his exact words... but I cannot.  However, the condensed version I retain is, "These poems have a child's emotions portrayed in a natural setting.  Feeling is portrayed.  That is where the beauty lies. In the emotion."

     Only a little bit latter he died.  It was raw emotion. It was pain. And it reminded me of what he said. That beauty lies in the emotion.  And so, I wrote. I wrote my 5th poem. One full of love, longing, pain, and missing. The emotion pushed... and my wings unfurled.  I was pushed into a flight of expression.  A flight that sheds many poems, and helps me process the things I feel.

     Scraps and fragments
     Only pieces are good
     These 200 poems
     They hold shattered, scattered lines
     Scattered lines of beauty
     Pens have wasted ink
     I hope they except apologies
     However I'll keep wasting them
     Because I need to
     I'm a slave to emotion
     Pens, I am sorry
     But you shouldn't be
     So keep working
     Until I need you no more
     Which will be when I stop feeling

A Tribute

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     Happy Birthday Grandpa! 

     

     Kindness, gentleness, and love.  Stories of the Wickenberg Triangle, camping trips, when you were dating Nanna, and your children.  Memories of sitting on your arm-rest, choosing homemade ice cream flavors, getting Swedish fish, being carried to your bed when sick, our pizza outings, and the times you'd take me to write all day with you.  There are so many things to thank you for.  I love the memory of you taking the time to try and prepare a 10 year old me for the stupidity, adoration, and hurt called boys.  I remember discussing the vastness of space and how you would explain things until I truly understood them.  I hope you are among those stars now, exploring the cosmos you so loved.

     

     Gosh I miss you.

     "Now I miss you more then I can take

      and I will surely break."

     "There's nothing more to it, 

       I just get through it."

Missing Him

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     Recently while talking to someone about Christmas in correlation with death I said, "It still hurts to know that somebody's missing, but it gets easier to handle."  This seems true for me even if it is not universal.  The pain changes, yet it still hurts.  At first, when it finally hit me, the pain of losing my Grandpa was sharp.  It tore at the fabric of my life.  It made things feel 'off.'

     Now the pain is a dull throb that every once-in-a-while becomes something more.  Its a subtle ache that doesn't always necessarily hurt, but always makes me remember him.  Sometimes though the pain becomes sharp again.  Something scratches at the scar caused by my Grandpa's passing.  I had one of those moments last night.

     My grandpa and I, forever ago, started to watch the one season show named Firefly. (Click HERE to see previous post about that.)  Last night I finally watched the last episode.  It was... hard.  The show is simply delightful and thus I really did want to watch it.  However, it hurt because I just missed him, the one who got me started on it.

     The show was lovely.  It was very worthwhile.  I really did love it.  What I loved most though is that afterwords I was able to feel at peace. The whole thing made me ache for my Grandpa, but at the end I was able to be happy that my Grandpa was able to introduce me to some of my favorite TV-show characters ever.  Sure I sobbed for a minute there in between finishing and feeling peace but I was able to feel happy afterwords.

     I miss him.  I hurt sometimes because I wish this life still had him in it.  However, I am so grateful I was able to know him like I did.  I am grateful for the time we were able to have, and the fact that I loved him because I knew him, not just because he's family.  Like one of my friends quoted to me: "Say not in grief 'he is no more,' but live in thankfulness that he was."

     I am grateful I had him.  I am so grateful for those I know and have in my life now.  I will still feel grief over not having my Grandpa to write and laugh with.  However I believe I shall see him again; until then, I am glad that I knew him.

Writing a Legacy

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     My first memories are of reading with my parents.  My favorites then included Peter Pan and anything by Doctor Suess.  I would follow my parents fingers as they pointed to what they read.  My mom did reading lessons with me.  It began a love of reading and the English language that would, and will last me throughout my entire life.
  

     I was enchanted with reading, not writing.  I would sometimes make up my own stories and on very rare occasions write a poem.  However, essays and reports always frustrated me.  I loved the feeling of completion, yet the beginning always discouraged me.

     When I was 11, my grandpa had a heart attack.  It made me realize my mortality.  I felt fragile and suddenly vulnerable.  This, coupled with the fact that I was moving at the same time, made the world, as I knew it, seem gloomier.  In short, my image of the world was shattered.

     However, right after my grandpa’s heart attack he and my nanna decided to move into the rental house that was on our new piece of property.  I was overjoyed!  They would be living in my backyard.  Soon after they moved, I realized that my grandpa wrote constantly.  In fact, he wrote almost as much as I read.  Then he wrote a book just for me.  I loved it so much that I talked him into writing a sequel.  He started the book, and quickly I was pulled into being his partner-in-writing.  I began to love the writing process.  We wrote an outline for a third book in the series.  Then (promising that we would write that third book later) we started a new series.

     We were on a roll. 

     In early January, about two years ago, my grandpa showed me a file that he had saved on his computer.  It was only one page long and contained only three poems.  My grandpa could tell from my confused eyes that I needed an explanation.  He told me that when I was three, my mom had called him and read these same poems for him, I had written them.  He had saved them in this file so that I could read them when I was older.  He was proud of me, and had tears in his eyes.  Only one week later my Grandpa died.  His heart had simply stopped at the age of 61.  

     After only 13 years of life, I knew the pain of death.  I then remembered the words my grandpa uttered at a nameless date and time.  He had said, “We can write together right now, but one day we won’t be able to. You will, someday, have to write on your own or not at all.” 

     The day after his death, I wrote a poem.  Since then I have written poetry, short stories, essays, and reports, and have even published a few pieces of my work.  I have learned from my grandpa, the love of writing.  It is a magical process.  I now know what it is to create your own paintings with words.  I now look at a blank page and imagine what it can become, what I can make of it.  Eventually through hard work, practice, and learning I will become the writer I know I can become.  

     This is how I found my love of writing.

Short Story: Shadows Passing

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     Sometimes I just want people to read what I write.  Mostly I want my wonderful family to read what my mind makes up.  But other times I just wish that it could float out there, for people to read sometime, when boredom sets in and they have nothing better to do.  So here is one of those stories, that I wrote sometime ago and wish to let float.  So if you have time and want to read this, or are simply really bored, here it is.  Read it, if you want to, and hopefully you enjoy it too.

          Shadows Passing

     This event is happening as I write; and I will share with you what I see.  Two rivers run through a wood, that we would call paradise, almost exactly perpendicular to each other.   It is a place where no humans have ever been, at least nothing that was truly and fully human.  In the wood is a clearing, one of many, that rests on the side of a river.  The river bubbles and foams, however, it only adds to the beauty of the place and leaves the place quiet and peaceful.  

     The sun begins to brush the tree tops in the west, and the animals that live there are preparing their beds and nests for the night.  The sun’s rays still light the clearing and it is alive with color; however, the brightest thing in the clearing is the silver glow of the harp which stands upright atop a grey-brown stone which lays on the rivers bank.

     A dark shape moves through the woods that lay on the opposite side of the river.  It travels towards the clearing; and as it comes closer, it looks less and less formidable.  Suddenly it emerges from the woods.  It stands still on the edge of the rivers opposite bank. The figure stands for only a moment and then leaps from the edge to a rock only a couple feet away from it.  It leaps stone to stone across the river.  And when it reaches the side where the clearing is it stops.  The figure holds its head high but the large hood of the cloak keeps the figure’s face in shadow.  

     The person glides over to the harp and slips its arms outside of the cloak and unclasps it.  The figure slides the cloak off and the dark black fabric of the cloak billows to the ground and settles around the personage's feet.  The now-revealed figure is a girl.  Her straight, black hair hangs down to her slim waist; and she wears a form-fitting white dress which brushes her ankles and has long sleeves.  She bends and spreads the black cloak over the rock in front of the harp.  She then sits on the ground by the harp.  She lifts her hands to the strings and begins to play.

     The music is eerie and yet beautiful.  After a few minutes wisps of smoke start to come off of the strings.  She playes until the sun goes down and the sky darkens, and she continues.  The whips of smoke float away from the strings and lengthen into the shadowy representations of people.  Hundreds of shadowy figures surround the girl in the clearing by the river, and she plays on and on.  The moon comes out and still shadow people are forming in the woods that directly surrounds the clearing.  The stars come out and the music slows and then stops.  The wisps of smoke vanish.  Yet, the shadowy figures remain.  

     The girl stands and steps away from the harp.  Her dress stands out, bright against the dark night and the shadows of people.  She takes the hand of a little shadow girl who stands next to her and then whispers something to her.  The little girl nods and then the white clothed girl lets go of the little girls shadowy, smokey hand.  The little girl then walks through the harp’s frame and the strings seem to slice her as she enters the next life and her soul, which is like a shadow, leaves earth.  The rest of the shadowy souls seem to understand that they too must enter the next world through the harp.  Slowly, one by one, each of them walk through the harp into the next world.

     When all the souls are gone, the girl picks her cloak off of the ground and drops it onto her shoulders, closes the clasps, and lifts the hood.  She, Death, seems to glide away, her beautiful figure covered by the cloak and her head held high.  Death then slips into the woods, out of the clearing, and into pure, unmarred darkness.  Her work is done for the time being.