She had this look on her face. I had tried for hours to convince her to open her mouth and let go of the shock that remained paled in her skin, “Allahna, what is it that you saw? What scared you in the garden?” Yet again her dark brown eyes met mine. Something was different; they glimmered now where they never had before.
A back and forth pitter-patter of trying to get her to speak, with no response, I took it upon myself to drag her back to the garden. She stood at its entrance. No hesitation; no shaking in her boots. She opened her hand and appeared to have her eyes closed. In that exact moment, a flower was plucked from the foliage grasping the trellis entrance, and was placed into her hand. No one had touched it, and she hadn’t done it; it appeared the wind had grasped it tight and laid it in her hand.
She opened her eyes when she felt the petals plop on her skin. She stared at it, in awe of its bright pink hue. Yet she still was just as pale as before. I knelt at her side, “Allahna, what scared you in the garden?” She looked back at me with once again, glimmered eyes. She clutched the flower in her hand, and finally spoke, “The placement of the flower or garden doesn’t scare me.. Its who handed me the flower that frightens me.” She gives it a will? A person of substance? Yet all I saw was a flower floating to her hand.
“Allahna, who handed you this flower?” She smiled, and then lost her train of thought and paled again. She let go of the flower, “Eden. Eden handed it to me.”
The pink petals hit the ground before her last word came out; the muddled petal colors now reflected how this instance felt. This was Edens garden.
(Would like to say that this is just a play on “The Garden of Eden”, and was not written in a religious way. But read at your own leisure)
Both staring at the table.
Now we sit across from each-other.
I keep replaying the scene in my head like an old fable.
You scratch your knuckles against the table,
And I’m just putting in love some more.
You’ve got less heart in it now,
We’ve started this conversation before.
The NPWM prompt this day was to tell a story backwards, and I have to say this has been one of my favorite prompts of this month. I like that the story fits read either backwards or forwards.
My chest is filled,
With a heavy sense of warmth.
Not with the desire of lust,
But with the passion of fire.
My chest feels light,
With a delighted sense of intrigue.
Not intrigue to learn more,
But with a wanting of the next day.
My chest feels safe,
More than just bones protecting me.
Not protecting me from danger,
But protecting me from the things that scare me.
My chest glows bright,
Finally happy to be filled with light.
Not because I did anything,
But because you are my live-wire.
She listened to the words of others,
Because she trusted them to know her mind.
She trusted people to leader her life,
Because she trusted they’d choose an easy path.
She trusted the world to provide,
Because she thought good things always come back.
She trusted the animals to be caring,
Because she believed claws weren’t meant to harm.
She couldn’t trust herself,
Because she hadn’t experienced enough.
She couldn’t trust her mind,
Because it’s never filled with her thoughts.
She couldn’t trust her heart,
Because it was as naive as her soul.
She couldn’t trust her life,
Because she lived it for the will of others.
I’ve lived most of my life in this place,
Somewhat solitude, somewhat not.
I like the bubble I’m in.
Though sometimes I will ask,
If it will burst open,
To allow me,
To breath free,
She picks up the pencil to write solemn music, but the words always flow angrily out of the lead weapon she holds. She writes to let her emotions run free, but the amount of words that want to flow onto the paper want to burst open onto the lines. She despises that this moment in time, she can’t express herself because the vow of music has set her to limit herself. In order to express herself she must have the sentences be short, they must rhyme in order, and be catchy for the people.
She doesn’t want to write for these reasons; she feels subjected to the commonness of what others want.
Music has become her ball and chain; the ball being the industry that anchors her words, and the chain being the fans that trail along to hear her shortened strained notes.
Music has turned her thoughts into catchy phrases, the jingles that drive her insane.
Music has become an entity of others reflected on her, it is no longer her music she hears.