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 

Thanksgiving Giveaway

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     I am very excited to announce that for the next week I will be hosting a Giveaway!!

    Why? Because I want to share some of the things I am thankful for, and express my appreciation for you, my readers!  Having a blog is not that big of a deal.  Anyone and everyone could potentially have one.  However, the global interaction I have had makes it feel like something to me. 

     I am amazed that people I have never met read these words.  Last week I had over 100 views from the Ukraine alone.  I know nobody from the Ukraine.  Thus, that stat alone blows me away.  It amazes me to see that not only have I had views from India, but that India comes second for amount of views.  And not just a handful of views makes it second.  But 100's do.  I am continually amazed that I get views from places like France, Germany, Australia, China, Lebanon, Ireland, Spain, and Switzerland. 

     The fact that I have followers, and that others read what I say... that is something in my mind.  

     I want to thank you for that something!  So, go to my Instagram account @gossamerlens, or my GooglePlus account +TheDamsel to participate.  

     A winner will selected at random. They will be winning a shoutout on Instagram or GooglePlus (depending on which they posted), and a package including fall-ish cards, poem print, hot coco powder, a winter read, and an original piece of art done by a local artist I know!  Unfortunately I cannot ship outside of the U.S. at this stage in life.  However, don't let that deter you my global friends!  You can still win a postcard and shoutout on the social media account of your choice, and then a second U.S. winner will be selected to win the package. 

     The official instructions for entering can be found, on the accounts mentioned, on the post connected to the photo below: 

~The Official Thanksgiving Giveaway Photo~

     P.S.  A winner has been picked, and this giveaway has been wrapped up.  @lovely.noelany.mehndi can be found on Instagram.  She has inspired me with her lovely henna art, and sweet personality.  I am so happy she won!  I hope to further give thanks to other followers in the future.  Thank you to all who participated in the giveaway. Plus a huge thanks to those who participate by reading, commenting, liking, and sharing my work! 

Peace Flutters

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Peace Flutters

An illusion of obtainability

Just out of reach

Sometimes brushing my finger

But only in that fateful moment

Before something falls

I drown inside of myself 

Tears run

Wishing for something 

For peace

Poem 190 ~ 12/29/2013

     My soul reaches out to those in pain.  Those who have lost family, friends, or acquaintances.  Every turn of the earth clocks pain.  Humans forget to have humanity.   Pleasure is gained from hurt.  Hatred is confused with religious zealousness.  Fear of difference fuels violence. To those in France, I extend my heart to you.  I mourn with you.  To all the world, I cry for peace. 

     People can do such beautiful things.  How strange it sometimes feels to see the other side of the coin. 

     Why can we not have peace? Why can we not learn to respect differences and not hurt others because of them? When will we learn to treat others as ourselves?  How can me learn to all love? 

     No matter how much we wish... peace is an idea.  It is never a true and global reality.  The fact that so many strive for it is folly and beauty in itself.  We reach out hoping fingers to those in pain, to those who hurt others, to those who love, and those who hate.  We hope for the change that cannot be.  Yet, by doing so we make our own reality that much better.  We help those who we can touch.  Peace and love, no matter how delusional it may seem, is something worth reaching for.  For even though it may never rest upon the world all at once, we can create something worthwhile. 

     I drown in myself, for I mourn with those who mourn.  

     Let us mourn, hope and reach for peace... together. 

Making a Difference ~ Guest Post

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How do you want to make a difference?

Here is what _CarvedWords_ believes you should be working on to make a difference: 

     One way or another, we all wish that we're able to make a difference in this world even by a bit if it is possible to us. There are loads of everyday things I'd like to change if it were possible for me. 

     Education has limited itself to textbooks and syllabus. Students are only taught to solve the equations and write answers as they are expected in the examinations. Students can be seen getting good marks with grades higher then expected. They can answer all the questions which relate to the textbook. But what about what's outside? What's actually going on in the real world? The more they indulge themselves into the textbooks, the more their creativity gets limited. 

     Education is meant to make learners. Not to destroy the artist within them. We can spot students conquering heights of success, but with that seems to come a low creativity. At the end of the day, a person won't be proud of the position he has in a multinational company. All he would need is creativity to fill his life with enthusiasm and joy. Education should bring out an artist in a student, because every student has got one talent or another. Teachers should encourage the talent within them. Students should be taught to be passionate towards their goals. 

     I don't blame the system as a whole, neither do I have any offense with the knowledge and the quality of it the education is providing students. I just wanna say that even after these efforts there still remains a huge gap gap between education and creativity. We as a society have our responsibility towards making the change that is needed. We've got to do something to reduce this gap, we gotta build a strong bridge between both education and creativity. 

     If I could make a difference, I would like people to change their mindset towards education, making it free from all the chains it has been tied to. Creating a strong bond between education and creativity. Giving this world creative minds rather than those with high IQ's. Making this world colorful, making it a better place. 

~~~

This is how Words_In_Air thinks you can make a difference: 

     The language of love. Make wide spaces in your heart. Life gets so chocked up, kindness so lost, love slips by unseen. Smile at a stranger, help an old lady carry her shopping, offer to cook a meal for someone who's sick. Volunteer at your local church, hospice, old age home, or orphanage. Read to someone who's disabled. It's good to donate something to a worthy cause, but what people crave is human interaction. Look into their eyes, listen with attention to their stories. Take an interest in their personal lives. That smelly beggar down the road? He just wants kindness from you. Ask him his name, give him a compliment, bless him with a pair of shoes, or something to eat and drink. You don't have to strike a conversation with everyone you meet, but the next time you are waiting in line, greet someone and smile. Buy a small chocolate for the checkout girl and bless her. 
It's the little things! 

     If you bless others, you yourself will be blessed. 

Yellowing Pages

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Sitting here writing

Wisps of image

Shrouded shadow

Of Imagined future

Passed before me

Danced like film

Across my vision

The cold

It touched my shoulder

The sounds

They faded away

Like yellowing pages

And I saw your face

As it could be

Your arm over

Around my shoulders

The whisper 

Of those words

The ones I love

To hear you say

Then it crumpled 

Like falling dough

The bread collapsed

And I was chewing 

On nothing

Poem 105 ~ 4/10/2013

     Memories, feelings, and thoughts diminish over time.  What once was often changes.  Sometimes, looking over older poems the emotions I wrote feel like a lie.  As the writer, I know what each poem was born through.  However, just because the adoration, pain, or perspective has passed as I've grown... that doesn't negate the validity of writing.  Every poem has helped me realize, handle, and come to grips with what I have felt.  At the moment of creation, each poem has filled it's purpose.  

     I have grown, I have changed.  I continue to feel, and I must accept the moving on that is life.  You cannot cling on to who you have been, or who you were.  Later it may feel like you chewed on nothing.  But at the time, that "nothing" felt like something.  Poetry is a way to express my now, and reflect on the past.  

     "I am a slave to emotion... Pens... Keep working... Until I need you no more... which will be when I stop feeling" 

                    Poem 106 ~ 4/11/13

To Feel My Love

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You say

My cheeks

Are beautiful

These ones

I contour

And hate

Trace my jawline

With your kisses

Hold my hips

Breathe my air

Hold me

Like poetry

Love me

Like warmth

You are the first

I can see forever

Despite the chasm

Of unknown

I'm afraid of falling

But it almost

Looks appealing

And my heart is breaking

But my breath is leaving

Oh Gosh

These feels

Poem 234

What it is to be...

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Sinking in misery

I curl around her

Arm around waist

Holding hands

Feet warming the other's 

We eat the silence

Embracing essence.

Crying in silence

Loving her 

Wishing for better

For less heartbreak

Greater kindness

For her. 

Breathing in hair

The hair

Smelling like mine

Our colors blending

The eyes matching

Noses just alike. 

Hearts different

Yet seeing

Just knowing 

I don't wish 

Her heart

To understand

The pain of mine.

She and I 

Trusting. 

Her so sweet

Already begging 

To understand

Pain.

Pain shouldn't be 

I don't want tears

For they shatter

They speak of things

She is to beautiful 

To see

To feel

To crack from 

To mend up.

Chin on shoulder

Knees tangled

Listening to breath

Feeling her breath

We inhale together

And I know 

What it is 

To be "sister"

Poem 224 ~ 4/5/2015

Heart in Hand

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Talking with a friend, we found ourselves discussing the state of his relationship with his girlfriend.  As we spoke he stated, "I just feel like I just keep giving my heart, but it isn't being accepted. Obviously it is, since she and I are dating... But it's like I am giving my everything, and they aren't appreciating it."  The response I gave him was one that I have found all too often to be true.  With friends and people I truly trust I have encountered the following.

    You extend your hands, offering up your heart, and the other person looks at it.  They see it, and they say they like "that part" and "this part."  You offer them the whole of your heart, and they simply like or love parts.  So, they accept the whole thing.  But they are truly only accepting certain parts and pieces of you.  It hurts because you want them to take it... but really you want them to look at your offering and for them to look up into your eyes and say "I love it. I love all of it. Thank you!"

    At the time I wasn't dating anyone, so I felt this conversation was more for my friend’s benefit.  However, as I thought more about it I realized... I am both the offerer and the person who says, "I like this part."  I offer my heart to myself, and my whole life I have never looked into my eyes.  I have looked at the heart and told myself that I only like pieces.  I like when I produce a good poem.  I love when I manage to make someone smile.  But, I have never looked over my whole heart, looked into myself, and said, "I realize your humanity, and that you are weak like all others are at times. Yet, I love you.  I will love the whole of you."

    I am my own hurt.  Everyday I cannot help but have my heart in sight of my own judgment.  And every day I judge.  I don't think I am the worst of people, but I sometimes say things to myself that I would never tell anyone else.  Why?  I can look at others and give them the benefit of the doubt.  But I know myself, and thus I don't give myself that benefit.

    Maybe the key, however, is to look at the whole of my heart and realize, I am trying.  My hands offer up.  I wish to accept.  I want to love myself.  For to love is to respect, trust, and be comfortable with.  To feel at peace is a part of loving yourself.

     I offer myself my heart.  In my hands it has lain for years.  The faults and the strengths wishing to be equally understood and seen.  And I see them.  I see it, and I love it.  I love all of it.  I wish to help myself to become stronger.  But, I will lead kindly and I will learn to love more fully.  For peace in my own head and skin... that is the beginning of all I want.

Lost Love

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Shadows move
Like misery
Through fragrant winds

Light shimmers
Passing mists
Of time and memory

Lightening struck
Flashed like beauty
But for a moment

My ears
They ring
With echoes of thunder

Still images dance
To syncopated time
And fate that pens can't change

Poem 75 ~ 2/18/2013

Inspiration

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Oh joy of joys! 

Elation that I feel

In my bosom burn

Why were you

So long in coming

To this mistress of yours?

I wanted to write

For the world

For you

And now my joy! 

I can write any and all

But why all this time?

I may be a child

But I am old in heart

A fine polish emerging 

You look at my face

You see youth

But eyes deceive like fools

You touch my heart

And you will find

The age of time

So why did you wait?

Why so long in coming

When I longed for you?

But at last my joy 

You are mine... 

Though not for long

My wisdom knows; 

Tomorrow I will yearn 

For the something I still lack

Yet, there is peace in my soul 

And joy fills my heart

For now at least, 

In this precious moment.

Poem 43 ~ 9/11/2012

A Mother

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She drinks in the sobs
Of her child.
She comforts and consoles.
She brushes away the tears,
From a plump little face.
She kisses away the hurt,
And the sorrows of a second.
She firmly tells the child, "No."
Then she distracts with a toy.
She softly sings her darling to sleep,
On those fearsome nights
When only a mother's voice
Can comfort her child.
She cleans a child's muddy clothes
Without a word of thanks.

~

And as her child grows
She consoles the hurt of minutes -
The whiplash of a careless comment;
The sting of not being able to go;
The laughing faces of her child's peers.
She leads her child to safer waters,
Steering by example.
And when her child is hurt,
Truly hurt,
She hurts as well;
And her heart aches
For the wants of her growing child.

~

And when her child leaves
She gets the front row seat;
To watch the play unfold.
And if the play shows danger,
For her grown up child,
She simply slips back stage
And helps her child iron
The kinks out of their play.

~

And why does she do all this?
She does it because she loves
Her little child
With the tenderness of a butterfly
With the strength of an elephant
And with the heart of a lion.
What a wonderful love
Is the love of a mother!

 Poem 7 ~ 2011

Shout Out to 1D Fans:

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     I almost wouldn't write this.  I happen to really like just writing... thoughts.  I think voicing is better then preaching.  Thus, that is what I try to do.  But in the past few days I have seen pain, frustration, and hurt that honestly scares me.

     Over Google+ and, I have noticed, a large amount of social media an influx of Zayn, and One Direction, related negative emotion is pouring in. People are hurting.

     I consoled a friend who was falling to pieces over Zayn... And I just... It was so sad. Yes, I enjoyed Zayn. He is cool. And it's sad when a band member leaves. But it's just awful when you realize somebody who meant to give such joy through music... Is now being punished by his fans. He wanted to make his and 1D's fans happy.  Instead some are cutting and and flirting with, and acting on suicidal thoughts. Can you imagine how awful that must be for Zayn? He didn't want to give a lie by remaining in the band when he wasn't happy there. But now fans are disgracing the past 5 years he gave them, by hurting yourselves and wishing to inflict self harm. 

     Please, go to the old albums, cry over him all you want. I get band dedication. I am sympathetic. But don't give so much pain to a man who spent 5 years trying to make you smile! Put down the knives, stop looking for the rope. Remember, he loves you. He gave you as much as he could, and that's all an artist can ever give.

     To feel is to be human. To hurt yourself because of it, is to need help.

Illogical Running

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     Running turns to walking 

     When faced with ice

     So loving should turn to nothing

     When ones treated as a vice

     Yet the heart warms

     Though it may shiver

     So all to often

     The heart slowly withers 

     For it doesn't retreat 

     It simply stays

     When it should 

     have relinquished 

     It's prey

Poem 215 ~ 3/19/2015

Shield and Sword

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     With my arms

     I have tried to protect you

     I told you

     Of my joys

     So my wounds

     You couldn't share

     I petitioned to God 

     For him to give you wonder

     My prayers were themed 

     Asking for you to be free

     If I was in pain

     My heart would soar

     Thinking that you hurt not

     That you were innocent

     In my dreams 

     They take you

     And it is I who comes

     When they prepare their knives

  

     I come to you

     And they watch me 

     Hungrily they watch

     And I give myself for you

     I take your pain

     They torture, eat, hold me

     And my only joy

     Is knowing they cannot touch you

     In life I would do it

     I would take pain

     The pain meant for you

     

     It wasn't until now that I saw

     The greatest pain

     My arms can't deflect 

     Is me

     And that eventually I must leave

     My arms cannot shield 

     For they are the pain

     I sacrifice myself 

     But my sacrifice hurts you

     Last night I dreamt 

     They I gave myself to

     And the greatest pain

     Was feeling your eyes watch

     There was no joy

     And your eyes

     They hurt the most

 Poem 89 ~ 3/14/2013

Christianity is?

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     Christianity.  It is something simple. Christianity is to have a belief in Christ. It is a belief in the words of the New Testament.

     So then, why would it ever need be asked, "What is Christianity?"

     In the world their are LDS believers, "Mormons" if you will. They live and worship around the globe. The official name of their religion is "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints."  I am among this group of people. We all believe in Christ. We read the bible, and those with true faith turn to our Savior as our Reedemer and Salvation.  In every sense of the term, we believe in Christ. 

     When I was around 8 I was informed, by a friend of mine, that I didn't believe in Christ. My young friend informed that my soul was in peril. I refuted her words saying, "I'm mormon. I believe in Christ. We all do." She looked at me and simply stated, "Well your not Christian... So my mom says your going to hell." 

     At age 8 I was confused. Believeing in Christ and his purpose is the definition of Christianity. Thus, I was a Christian.

     As I have grown I have become more able to say with certainty that I am a Christian. Yet, increasingly I have found that my non-mormon friends do not agree with me. Many times I have asked why, and increasingly I have found that... People don't know. They don't know why they consider Mormons "non-Christian." They just know they do. Many parroting, as my friend did, "My parents say!" Or, "My pastor told us." 

     I have learned to accept that Mormons aren't considered to be Christian, among many main stream christian sects. Leaving one fundamental thing to bug me. And that is, I am. I feel and know for myself that Christ is my Savior and Redeemer. Because of this faith, I wish to glorify him. I wish my actions to reflect his love, mercy, and example. I wish to lead others to Christ, and I wish my life to be a reflection of his. How though can others be led to Christ if they do not see me as a Christian? 

     Well... They can, if I have faith. I can live to glorify him, and pray that my works can reflect my Savior's glory. For it is through him, and him alone, that mankind may be saved. I can live hoping that my actions will speak louder then others learned notions. For if Christ is with me, his Spirit will testify.

     No matter what teachings may cloud the human mind, the Holy Spirit can always point to truth, and to Christ.