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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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death

When the Night Warrants Death

I have just spent a night among the trees, out in the cradle of the mountains. I thought I’d carry the memories of that fun night a little longer. I thought I could look at the moon with a smile. But not tonight.

Tonight, anger simmers in me at a constant roil. I want to wail and rail against the world. This heart feels as if it might break through my ribcage from an intense revolt. For the first time, I hated the night. Not because of an American post-apocalyptic horror film but because of something vile and real. They come in uniform with their hands of steel. Filling the night with a staccato of gunfire, leaving men half blown off, fatal wounds in the head or face. I hated the night for they come in it. And they warrant death.

This quiet is piercing. The night is orphaned from the sound of crickets. I wonder if they knew. I wonder if they are mourning too. I wonder if the crickets offer this brief silence to the stolen lives of the dead just as I do.

The night cries justice
A long pause from the crickets—
Can somebody hear?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: The Sounds of Koorogi hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. This piece might be a bit digressing from the topic but I hope it counts.

Currently, my mind is in rigor from reading about the death of seven men from Antique. They were rebels, members of our local red fighters. The AFP came in the middle of the night to serve “arrest” warrant to two men but it ended with death instead. What really happened, only the crickets know. This shouldn’t be a shock, they say, for the body bags have been pilling up. But it still makes me sad and mad. Especially when I found that one of them goes by the pen name of Maya Daniel. I came across this poet last 2017. He writes poignant and painful poems, each is a cry for freedom, liberation and resistance from oppression. His death marks another voice silenced, another pen deprived of ink.

Head over here to join the fun!

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Snippet: (Non)sensical ruminations

always, beautiful, beauty, boy, couple, forever, girl, hug, love, lovely, night, sky, stars, together

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this.

Last night, I carved a path out of this carnal flesh
Wanting to leave the world behind—
Thoughts, feelings
Images, emotions
Flickering like jeers from far-off constellations

Death, this world has too many body bags
And the irony that prison has become a safer place is a shame

Between us, I was the lesser WHY-person
And you were the one with the bigger questions
Transcending physics to the realm of extraordinary things
While I was lost in poetry and daydreams

Detached from the physical body
Passing through astral planes and realities
Talking about death and life
A skeptic and a believer at the same time—
This is how we’ll make love

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this, love.
MS

 

Arms

banksy

in a perfect world
arms are safe haven—
body parts
wrapped around your waist

they are not pieces of steel
sending you to hell
or to heaven
at point-blank range

in a perfect world…

arms bring bodies closer
not bodies enclosed in boxes
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #62: Thinkin’ Inside the Box  hosted by De Jackson.

For some reason, today’s prompt reminded me of the rampant killings in my country and the world as a whole. 😦 The image above, Soldier Flower Gun Boy, is another guerilla graffitti from Banksy that has stirred the minds of many with its irony and juxtaposition. The image speaks for itself.

Head over here to join the prompt!

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Unceasing

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Unceasing
A Realistic Fiction

A piano sits in the empty room where Amy used to play with her heart poured in every key, her fingers tapping to the tune of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, and Debussy. But one accident and, in the blink of an eye, those days were gone.

“Do you know the first thing I did after I find out I have ALS?” A voice came from behind and she turned to find her mother’s weak smile. “I started swimming. I lived my life doing the thing I love the most. I swum rivers, beaches, and pools until this disease finally took away my strength. That morning, I felt like I died a thousand times and all those years of fight were pointless.””

Her mother paused, catching her breath. “But there are things that even death cannot take.” She walked slowly towards Amy, with eyes brimming with tears. “Love. My love for water never ceased… And so should your love for music, my child.”

Word Count: 162


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. This week’s photo prompt was taken from a hidden paradise near our place. It was not until last year that the locals discovered how beautiful this river was.

P.S. My deepest condolences to PJ and her family. You have my prayers and love. Please take care and stay strong PJ. ❤

Enjoy more stories here:

Have we had enough?

 

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Have we had enough?

eyes fixed on his war-torn home—
a triptych of death, despair and doom
he breathed the air
tasted blood on his lips;
dread clawed out of his throat
and tears seared his skin

Have we had enough?

…words echoed as he waits for dawn

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Photo Credit: UNICEF IRAQ/DUHOK/2015/SCHERMBRUCKER via newswire.ca


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: Dawn hosted by Bjorn.

In light of the unending chaos in the Middle East and madness in the US. Let there be peace.

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Buried Wealth

garden-of-death

In the middle of the night, like a thief,
fear came with a bending sickle

and so here lie
the untold stories,
unwritten poems,
unsung songs,
unfulfilled dreams , and
unrealized greatness

an immeasurable wealth buried six feet beneath.

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to Shapeshifting 13 #75 KICKOFF: GHOUL FESTIVAL! and Poets United Midweek Motif: Wealth

Visual Prompt: “Garden of Death” by Hugo Simberg; 1896; Watercolor and gouache

Audio Prompt: “Piano Sonata No 2 in B Flat Minor, Movement 3 (The Funeral March)” by Frederic Chopin

Cheating Death

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Cheating Death

“Will you take it, child?” The old woman held out a crystal, her eyes shifted from shades of the blue sky into a deep sea.

Does she really want this? Is she really willing to give up her youth, her beauty, her future and half of her life for good? Beads of sweat trickled down Lisa’s forehead as her fingers touched the stone. Her eyes closed and images of the past swirled in her mind. She remembered his dark eyes, his laughter and his voice and the way he say her name. His touch.

Eyes flew open and she was filled with panic, fear and resolve. She wanted him back—alive and breathing by her side.

A while ago, it was her blood that dripped on a clear crystal and stained it pink. A while ago, her skin was beautifully fair. A while ago, the love of her life was dead.

But not anymore.

“It is done.” The old woman said and the last thing she saw was her malevolent smile.

Word Count: 170

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. This week’s photo prompt is provided by my awesome friend, Jade. Thanks PJ for hosting another fun prompt. 😀

Enjoy more stories here:

Memories and Smoke

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Adam settled into his favorite bench, took out his pipe and lit it, and then filled the afternoon with recollection of memories and stories, of smiles and tears.

Autumn has come around and the world is bathed into a crisp ocher and golden brown again. She had always loved this season, he thought. His mind wandered back to the time when he came home to find Eve nestled in the heap of tawny leaves like a bird curled at the core of its nest; her lips arched into a smile. He kissed her the way a prince would have kissed sleeping beauty—only that she never woke up. Eve lay cold and lifeless as he broke into tears and disbelief.

He’d never seen autumn that dreadful. Since then, part of him died each day when the leaves fell from the trees. Lost in memories and smoke, he waited for winter.

Word Count: 150

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. This week’s photo prompt is provided by Phylor. Thanks PJ for hosting another fun prompt.

Enjoy more stories here:

 

The Sky is Blue, Always Is

sky

I read hundreds were dead today. Another airstrike was launched; another bomb exploded. Another life on death row; another AIDS victim. Tears were shed as blood smeared the earth yet the sky is blue. Even with the hovering depression, frustration and obliteration, it remains blue. No matter how many times it witnessed death and conflict, heard cries of anguish and utter distress, the horizon is a never-ending blue. It never faded into gray. Why is that? I looked at the cerulean sky and found the glorious sun smiling at me. The sun shined brightly as if saying that all these were just passing clouds—they come and they go. On most days clouds peppered the sky, on some days they filled it. But it never lasted, none of the clouds did. And in the curtain call, as the day faded into night, I succumbed to gloom. I looked up, anticipating the darkness that mirrored this world, only to find a star speckled night sky. The moon winked and said, “Have a little faith, child.”

Weary— my eyes closed
I woke up to a blue sky
Smiling, faith revived

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to dVerse’s Tuesday Poetics: Breathing in Blue

Tending the bar for Poet’s Pub today is De who’s back fresh from Lake Tahoe. Check out her gorgeous piece, A thousand shards of cobalt glass.😉

P.S. I guess I’m on a haibun rampage this week for dVerse. Will try to flex  my fingers for some lines and rhymes next time. 😉

Head over here to join the fun:

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