Bottled Laughter
It has been almost seven years
since that forgotten day
in the hobby shop.
Browsing paint brushes
to blush a miniature
dragon’s scales.
Overhearing the cashier’s
gripe about the height
of his new chair,
I approached the counter.
He sat there, spectacles, rosy smile,
weighing over three hundred pounds.
When I gave him the brushes,
he said something humorous.
For the life of me,
I can’t recall what it was.
As he chuckled at his own joke,
he tilted back, and the stool gave
out from underneath him.
By some divine miracle,
I held a straight face
while saying the only thing
you can say in a situation
such as this,
Are you alright, mate?
He clambered to his feet,
cursed and scowled at the stool
with his hands on his hips.
I purchased the brushes, fled the shop,
and continued to hold in laughter.
On the way home,
I recalled the time I tripped
in the rain, slapped my chin and hands
off the road.
How I shot up like some kind
of lightning bolt in reverse.
And it is tonight,
while stargazing,
while trying to find the words,
while accepting absurdity,
that this memory
chooses to flash
my mind’s eye.
I swear, my lips almost tear
as I laugh so hard tears
roll from my eyes.
And it’s not at his misfortune,
the inelegant tumble or the wild,
goat-like cry he gave.
It is the memory
of his little black boots
punting air
as he flailed on his back
like an overturned beetle.
Steven Bruce is a poet, writer, and award-winning author. His poetry and short stories have appeared in magazines, webzines, and anthologies worldwide. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. He is the recipient of the Literary Titan Golden Book Award, the Firebird Book Award, and the Indies Today Five-star Recommendation Badge. Born in the North of England, he now lives and writes full-time out of an apartment in Barcelona.
Unsung Serenade
In realms ethereal, we ascend the stair,
Our fleeting gazes intertwined in air,
Transcendent and evanescent, this tender plight,
Yet within our hearts, an ineffable knowing takes flight.
Butterflies pirouette, seraphic and amorphous,
Whispering esoteric secrets, shrouded in a luminal chorus,
Oh, how I yearn for them to linger, their presence sublime,
In this ephemeral expanse, where fear finds no place and time.
Through the verdant meadow, our path unfurls,
A gentle zephyr carries your essence, as I behold,
Transient is the nature, whispering in the breeze,
Yet I'm aware, your soul's truth it does seize.
Palpitations, unspoken, within us stir,
An uncharted symphony, our souls concur,
In this poetic silence, a tale unfolds,
With nuances untamed, where desire molds.
Unsaid infatuation, profound and elusive,
Within this labyrinth, our bond tightly fused,
With artistry and grace, our souls serendipitously entwined,
In this unuttered sanctuary, love's testament transcends.
Yike is a 16-year-old sophomore from China with a passion for international relations, creative writing, and debating. Her work can be found in Blue Marble Review, The Trailblazer Review, The Teen Magazine, among others. She edits for multiple academic journals and literary magazines, and she genuinely loves it.
I'm still on the road,
guided by Grandma's prayers,
wandering in patched paths with images of green
pastures in mind,
worried and sad as I complete one more revolution
around the sun
still wondering when this vivid imagination would become a
reality.
from miles away
here come the dog days
of summer
days of sunshine and the
occasional thunderstorm
or tornado
i miss the days on the farm
where you could see something
rolling in from miles away
enough time for the cats
to run and panic
the birds to get that last
bit out of the feeders
enough time for me to grab
a stiff drink and settle down
on the front porch for the
show
----------------------------------------------------------------
yet another tragedy
another day
another school
shooting
yet another tragedy
we have grown
numb to
everyone knows
how this plays out
calls for gun reform
and the money goes
to make sure it never
happens
doesn't matter the
school or the race
of the victims, etc.
we are slaves to
whatever the rich
can get away with
no matter how much
we believe we can or
will change things
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
more useful advice
had the joy of sharing
a bottle of liquor with
a homeless man back
in my early twenties
he gave me more useful
advice than my fucking
father ever did
i remember that conversation
behind the old arby's like
it was yesterday
easily worth the price of
a bottle of jack daniels
and two packs of cigarettes
never had to think twice
about old hookers or ever
being worried about any
dark alleys
------------------------------------------------------------------------
a bunch of old people
the haze from
the wild fires
is back for
round two
living around
a bunch of old
people
i'm waiting
for them to
start dropping
like flies if it
doesn't rain
or clear out
soon
not exactly
the kind of
entertainment
i'm hoping
for looking
out my front
window
----------------------------------------------------------------------
racing down your bad back
three in the morning
hot water racing down
your bad back
nothing legal touches
the pain anymore
there aren't many
options left, at least
in this state so far
you doubt there is
a THC level that
eases this
you're not sure how
many organs you
would need to sell
for a morphine drip
and no one is just
casually giving when
it comes to heroin or
cocaine for relieving
the pain
and there are the
moments where
it gets bleak
you still have no
clue what keeps
you going
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Cleanth Brookes pointed out in the Paradox of Language that the poem is the well-wrought urn itself and will not suffer in comparison with the prince’s half-acre tomb…the pretty sonnets will not merely hold the ashes of the phoenix in a decently earthly memorial. But their legend, their story will give them canonization and approve them as love’s saints; other lovers will invoke them…..The urn to which we are summoned, the urn which hold the ashes of the phoenix is like the well-wrought urn of Donne’s Canonization, which contains the Phoenix lovers’ ashes. One is reminded of yet another urn——–Keats’ Grecian urn which contain Beauty and Truth as Shakespeare’s Urn embodied Beauty, Truth and Rarity. But there is a sense in which all such urns contain the ashes of the Phoenix.
Background Context:
Catholics were persecuted with treason and felony by Protestant Elizabethans. John Donne did not receive his degree from either Oxford or Cambridge because he refused to the path of allegiance, which would have compromised his Catholic faith.
The poem’s liberty to have been written in the wake of criticism that he received for secretly marrying Anne More, an act that led to his brief imprisonment and expulsion from his courtly circles.
The colloquial opening of the clause sharply contrasts to the poem’s title Donne’s use of a blasphemous curse undermines the expectations created by a title that seems to focus on profound piety. /”For God’s sake hold your tongue and let me love.”/
The poetic voices frustrations and angel is implicit in the shocking opening clause. The alliterative of I used when speaking of love presents the contrasts to the gentle emotion of love and the harshness of the poet’s anger.
Donne presents himself as physically infirm and poor. He suggests that the addressee should criticize these aspects of himself rather than anything regarding his love. /”Or chide my palsy, or my gout,/ /My five grey hairs, or ruined fortune flout,”/ Here the alliteration of the forceful fricative maintains the sense of the infuriating image in the poetic diction.
/”With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,”/
/”Take a course, get you a place,”/
/”Observe his honour, or his grace,”/
/”Or the king’s real or his stamped face,”/
/”Contemplate; what you will approve,”/
/”So you will let me love!”/
A mocking tone is created by the suggestion of observing the kin himself. This my seem like a valuable instruction except for the juxtaposed alternative. /”Or his stamped face.”/ This reference to a coin, stamped with the face of James-I, implies that there is much worth in the observation of either.
/”Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?”/
/”Add one more to the plaguy bill?”/
Hyperbolic Donne’s sardonic approach is evident in the rhetorical questions. Being embittered and exiled from the society as a result of his marriage to Anne More so scathingly slurs the conventional Petrarchan imagery of profound emotion having an effect upon the world. Her sights have not drowned ships nor his tears caused floors. /”And merchant’s ships have my sights drowned?”/
Butterflies and moths are small and insignificant symbols of love imageries to Elizabethans.
/”Call her one, me another fly,”/ /”We’re tapers too, and at our own cost die.”/
A moth is attracted to a candle, so Donne epitomizes Moth in his imagery. Elizabethan euphemism die alludes to gratification of the orgasm reduced to life expectancy.
/”And in us we find the eagle and the dove.”/
Eagle symbolizes masculinity and power imageries while dove symbolizes femininity and peace imageries conjoined together.
Furthermore tombs and hearths are conventional methods of commemorating the dead, although they are insufficient for commemorating love of such a magnitude unless verses immortalized being chronicled through sonnets.
Examine Anandamath as a political work of Hindu myth and Hindu revivalism that establishes conceptuality with gender and history.
Or
Explain and elucidate Anandamath in references to the Birth of a Goddess, Vande Mataram and Hindu Nationhood.
Or
Discuss the relevance of the song Vande Mataram in the novel Anandamath in the context of gender and history.
In Bankim Chatterjee’s Anandamath the lyrics of patriotic and nationalist homily Vande Mataram glorifies the spirit of nationalism and nationhood as encompassed in the gender terrains—the allegory of the metaphorical motherland through the portrayals of stalwarts feminists such as Kalyani and Shanti and anthropomorphic femininity as depicted by Mother Goddess. Fakir Sanyasi Rebellion and the Sepoy Mutiny of the famine ravenous Bengal inflicted by the calamitous and disastrous plight of mass starvation and disillusioning poverty. In terms of historicity the novel fictionalises the struggle for freedom by the peasants movement and the ascetic pilgrims guerilla warfare united fronts of these patriotic rebels executing their civilian militaristic operations against imperialistic British colonial domain. Spectral phantoms of cadaverous and cannibalistic intruders rampaging the denizens of the suburban locales from mob lynching to mayhem and bedlam forfeiting to usurp their wealth and fortune. Mahendra the wealthy aristocratic landed gentry deserts his ancestral legacy in wonder of rectitude and salvation from starvation and eventually encounters the pilgrims freedom fighters.
Bankim was experimenting with the awakening spirit of Hindu revivalism a kind of idealistic romantic regeneration of the Hindu ethos. Miscreants of colonial resistance carried a Bhagavad Gita along with weaponries such as revolvers. The Vande Mataram should not be chanted to insult or oppress the religious sentiments of the Muslims pointed out by Mahatma Gandhi…/”It should not be a cry against religion”/ /”It should be a cry against politics”/ … Satyananda’s chauvinistic prejudices of communalism and Islamophobia are explicated in the speech, /”We do not want power for ourselves. We want to exterminate all the Muslims on this land as they are the enemies of God.”/ /“Where else have you seen a land where your wealth is not safe in the attic chest, the sacred idol is not safe in the shrine, the foetus is not safe in the mother’s womb…all our faith is ruined, our honour and creed gone…even now our lives are in danger…unless we drive out these drunken Muslim wretches, how can we save the religion of the Hindus?”/ Nationalists Muslims found it difficult to chant Vande Mataram, since the song personified the motherland as the Goddess, thereby alienating Christians and Muslims, whose faith could not acknowledge personified deity embodied in Hinduism. AM Muzzaffar Ahmad, founder of Bengali communism described the novel in the language, “full of communal hatred from beginning till end.” Shanti and Jibananda repressed their sexual eroticism and the romantic relationship; they renounced sexuality alike Mahendra and Kalyani; whom pledged to the devotionalism of celibacy. Death, sacrifice, renunciations and abandonment created to fulfil the novelistic space with heroism. Jaggadhattri, the goddess of agriculture cleared the forests to tame wild beasts. Kali, the goddess denoted the lapse from production and civilization; she marked the time of reversion to the jungles. Demon slayer Durga, the goddess encompasses, might and glory, learning and wealth, who triumphs over the demons as the imperialistic figure trampling over her adversarial foes. Shameless and ravenous Kali wearing human skull and trampling the prostrate body of her divine consort symbolically resembles the peasant turned into robbers. The villagers are the spectral flames of phantom figures in ghastly terror and gothic horror; emerged as the ghostly shadows, cadaverous and naked to devour human flesh, to tear each other apart. Heroism, valour, bravery, splendor and glory were the cultural heritage of Bengal that reflected story telling dealing with fantasy, magic, chivalry and adventure. Shanti implores resurrected Jibanananda to renounce the garbs of a Sanyasi since they have achieved victory in the battle and this is reminiscent of the Pandavas in abandoning their kingdom. She heroically accompanies her divine consort life partner on a great departure (Mahaprasthan). While Drupadi was merely following her five husbands, Bankim’s heroine was marching abreast with the fellow traveler husband in joint quest for the welfare of the motherland. Bakim delinks womanhood from the enclosed space of domesticity and subverts the canon of femininity through delineation of Shanti.
Comment on the novel as the reflection of society with special significance to the Aspects of the Novel.
Novel as a narrative in prose perfectly mirrors the embodiments of the society in the modern era encompassing fictional narrative, literary prose and experience of intimacy. E.M. Forster characterizes novel as a fiction in prose of a certain extent exempted from historicization and chronicles of spatiotemporal regions. In Aspects of the Novel the writer explores the varieties of genres and insightfully sheds lights on its functionary in capturing and portraying the intricacies and complexities of the world we live in.
The novelist highlights the storylines and plot structures as the narrative techniques where authors engross in indulgence of the social and psychological terrains of the human society limelighting the human experiences with profundities. Novels possess the magical charm and spell to fantasize and romanticize the allegorical significance and satirical symbolism with magnificence and radiance.
Novels critique societies in the explication and implications of injustices, inequalities, prejudices, discrimination, disparities and tyrannical hegemonies and other vicious evils. Often the Dickensian narratives of Victorian literature portray flat characters as villains or antiheroes and this character can be defined as two dimensional in the sense that they are relatively uncomplicated and they do not change throughout the narrative. By contrast round characters are complex and three-dimension in the sense that they change throughout the narrative; they undergo development sometimes sufficiently to surprise the readers with clichés and cliff-hangers as suspenseful literary tropes. For instance, James Steerforth is a stock character in the 1850 novel David Copperfield by Charles Dickens—–a handsome young man noted for his wit and romantic charm. Though he is liked by his friends, he proves himself to be condescending and lacking in consideration for others. Nonetheless, unlike James Steerforth, David Copperfield is a round character—–the bildungsroman protagonist. Furthermore, novels reflect prevailing background, culture, heritage, lifestyle, traditions, customs, philosophies and heresies in the midst of the intricacies of those dispositions, motivations, emotions and relationships. Inevitably Forster emphasizes the essence of storytelling in order to provide illustrative understanding and narrative analyses of the societies. “Birth, food, love, sleep and death” are the main facets of the storyline in depicting the human nature, social issues and human condition.
Furthermore, the narrative of events arranged in their time sequence becomes feeble at the end through resolution or anti-climax. As mirror of society novels have the proclivity to endorse fantasy and prophecy consisted of mythical allusions. Parodies and adaptations were elements of fantasy in the viewpoint of E.M. Forster as depicted in the novel of Ulysses by James Joyce based on the Greek myth Odysseus. Forster describes the aspects of prophecies in a novel as the mimesis of the universal voice of the author ;ie the subject-matter might be anything but universal——–that mimics “humility” and “the suspension of the sense of humour” Thus this discussion can be concluded that readers have the privilege of exploring diversified perspectives and historical contexts, and thereby enriching their understanding of the world; and this results from the aftermath of immersing in the lives and experiences of fictional characters, novels cultivate humanity, comradeship, solidarity and fraternity.
ElaborateEthics and Values of Reading Indian Fiction.
Swadeshi and Swadhinata are facsimiles of nationalist and patriotic temperaments disposed by the glorious revolutionaries during the Post Pallesy Bengali rebellions of tribes and peasants as depicted by the stalwart fiction writers such as Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, Rabindranath Tagore and Sharatchandra Chatterjee notably in their portrayals of Jibanananda, Gora and Sabyasacchi Mallick in their love of religion, patriotism and service to one’s own country and people against the antihumanitarian colonial subjugation, tyrannical exploitation and inhumane persecution.
Spirits of camaraderie and affinity of fraternity in the unison of brotherhood unites these charismatic revolutionaries and heroic idealogues to be apostles of brethrenship in case of freedom struggle, emancipation, advancements of revivalist movement towards bettering society transitioning to progressivism and libertinism. Swadeshi era’s historical fiction have romanticized these maxims and aphorisms of sanctimonious unity in accomplishing moral endeavours or sainted missions. In the aftermath of the 1857 mercantile classes and burgeoning Bengali townsfolk comradeship could be contrasted scathingly with the obscurantist and antimodern proclivities in the minds of these alienated Bengali gentry arouse stirring controversy in the satirical allegories of these literati. Nationalists religious prejudices of the masses arousing and bringing them into the struggle against colonialism is nonetheless breach of the peaceful solidarity in exacerbating the Hindu-Muslim communalism. Muslim separatism was the residue of political, cultural, social and economic conditions peculiar to India from the late 18th to the emerging 19th centuries. Religious vehemence was limiting constraint of the advancing national movement on a multiclass and multi communal basis it ceases development and becomes its fretters. However, Nikhil, the aristocratic gentry of Bengali landlords was exceptionally the humanitarian advocate of the Muslim traders, harassed into giving to the demands of the public to burn their stocks of British goods in a highly spectacularised and ritualistic fashion. Tagore’s Ghore Bhaire (The Home and The World, 1916) depicted Nikhil’s dissent reactionary to the illegitimate behavior against traders living in his estate; he is labelled unpatriotic and regressive.
Collapse of the basic human ties and affection, of devotion and filial bonds are illustrative in ethical degradation and values extinction by the upheavals of the Quit India Movement of 1942, the devastating Bengal Famine of 1942-43; Emergence of Communism and Marxist Politics in Colonial Bengal. The job-seeking educated unemployed youth as well as the large number of famine stricken peasantry faced a large scale of indignation and suffering from hunger and starvation as exemplified and exhibited in the novels of the Bandyapadhays. Anti-fascist and pacific platonisms would be salvaging wrecks within the colonial and post-colonial epochs. Non-violence of the massive upsurge and imprisoning of the struggling patriots; the Japanese bombings in the city of Calcutta and different parts of Bengal were to be furthered explored in the ethics and values of narratives.
I was heading back to Tucson after I had made a Drug Run of eighty kilos of Cocaine to Sacramento. It was originally meant to be delivered to San Francisco but an earthquake of devastating proportion caused the destination to be changed.
I finally boarded my flight to Phoenix after my stopover in Los Angeles.
Whenever traveling alone it seems I always get seated next to someone with some kind of annoying trait or disgusting habit. The incessant talkers that go on even after you express disinterest There’s the drunks with an unpleasant attitude . Or those with body odor or with an excessive amount of cologne or perfume which is just as displeasing. Close talkers with bad breath. Others who pick their nose or clean out ear wax. Then they offer to shake hands with the one they just used to pick their nose. You get the idea. I do wonder if the person that gets seated next to me may find me annoying. I’m occasionally drunk, seldom stinky, borderline attractive, depending on the border and my demeanor couldn’t be classified as unpleasant. I am an absolute pleasure , how could anyone not enjoy an encounter with me? This time fate does me a solid and my traveling companion in Seat 12 B , the window seat on this flight to Phoenix, is not a beautiful woman but instead a scholarly looking fellow. His face is wrinkled, weathered and pocked, a testament to his many bouts with the challenges that life has thrown at him. As I sit down he uncaringly stuffs his jacket under the seat. He strokes his scraggly beard then pushes the call assistance light to summon the Flight Attendant. Then stares at me with a blank expression not showing any emotion. It seems as though he’s sizing me up.
I notice the Flight Attendant coming toward us. She’s working her way up the aisle through the passengers still boarding, stashing their items in the overhead storage and searching for their seats.
“Good morning sir. How can I be of assistance?” She greets us in a melodic voice while reaching to turn off the call light.
” Well let me tell you that as soon as possible, I need three of those baby bottle sized Whiskeys you sell. No need for a glass, water or ice. Just the Whiskey and I don’t care what brand. And how about you there Pancho you want something? I’m buying.” The scholarly fellow asks.
“Sure , thanks. I’ll have a Whiskey as well in the baby bottle. It doesn’t matter which brand. ” I responded.
“I’m unable to serve you gentlemen before we depart but I will get your order as soon as we reach our cruising altitude and the pilot turns off the fasten seat belt sign.” She says.
“You need to know I am an alcoholic and must have my medication otherwise I can’t be held responsible for my actions. And Pancho here appears as though he may possibly suffer from the same affliction. How is it that I noticed when I first entered there were people enjoying cocktails up front there. What gives?” The self proclaimed dipsomaniac asks.
“Sir, that’s the First Class you’re in Coach. Those passengers pay extra for that privilege and service.” The waitress in the sky explained.
“So let me understand. I’m just second class and it all comes down to money? Another example of the inequality of Capitalism and it smells of bullshit! Do I appeal to the head of the Airline to protest this bourgeoisie oppression or would this be something you could possibly remedy? ” He says.
I am unable to hide my reaction from the humorous exchange and I begin to laugh. The attendant leaves hastily shaking her head in disgust although still with her smile. She returns moments later with six baby bottles of Scotch.
“A gift from the Airline. My pleasure. And I know who you are, mister. So mind your manners. ” She warns.
” Thank you ever so much.You shall be generously rewarded by the Gods my dear. Ya see Pancho sometimes ya just have to kick the rules in the balls .”
I wasn’t offended or insulted with what some might consider a racist comment with the Pancho reference. There was no malice intent in his expression describing my heritage. Although I’ve always been under the impression that my appearance was more Italian than Mexican. The ball kicker hands me two bottles of scotch and keeps four for himself. One extra for him as commission for his effort he explains.
” So what’s your story Pancho? Everybody’s got a story, some just not as interesting as others. So what do you do? You a drug dealer or a crop picker on vacation? Are you in this country legally or are you one of those border jumpers?” He inquires.
“I don’t want to disappoint you but I am a Priest from Nogales ,Arizona. I just delivered donations of food and clothing to the earthquake victims in San Francisco. I’m headed back gotta work Bingo at the church tonight.” I told him.
“Son of a bitch! Are you fucking feeding me a line of bullshit? I would have never guessed that even if I was clairvoyant. You should be wearing your Collar so you don’t catch people off guard. It’s not fair going undercover. So how’s that God fellow doin? Ya think he ever feels guilty about destroying people’s lives by his ruthless ungodly actions?
I think of his assholiness as quite a prick. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t exist anyway. Don’t want to offend you or your beliefs so I won’t give you my take on him or religion. Gonna have to wait until I’m drunk. Then ya can give me a Peso for my thoughts. Here’s to your Jesus and the rest of the fictitious characters in that Bible. And to all the religious fanatics as well . What a fairy tale ,a book of fables written by religious fanatics, numerous authors , interpreted by an unknown number of editors. Written hundreds of years ago without any factual data. And with events stolen directly from other religions. I’d rather worship the spirit in these tiny bottles. At least I know it exists and it tells the truth.” He says raising his bottle in a toast that excludes me. So that was an example of him sparing my feelings by not expressing his opinion? I found it curious that he was concerned with possibly insulting my religious ideals but had no problem referring to me as Pancho. I truly liked this character. There was realism in his demeanor and a fire of wisdom burning in his eyes . His views no matter how socially or politically incorrect were sung and voiced without derogatory intent.
“So what do you have to say for yourself Mr. Dipsomaniac? You do anything else other than drink and give people a hard time? Are you a mean drunk? And what experience was so traumatic in your life that it resulted in you becoming an alcoholic as you refer to yourself? Another question, the Flight Attendant said she knew who you were. What did she mean? And…” He interrupts me.
“Hold on there Padre! I’m not one of your misguided flock that you can flog with your rosary and threaten omnipotent retribution for indiscretions. Just thought we would share philosophies on the complexity of women or maybe discuss a favorite or worst book you’ve read. I’m not much for sports or political issues. But you want to pick at my psyche, get personal, have me bare my naked soul and we haven’t even gotten off the ground. Not gonna happen Padre.” He speaks without taking a breath.
The airplane begins to make its way down the runway. We are thrusted into the cloudless sky as the ground below shrinks into minute images.
“It’s only the take offs and landings that rattle my nerves.” He says.
The fourth miniature bottle of Scotch meets with his lips and is emptied in one loud gulp. The aircraft levels off at the pilot’s designated altitude and the ding sounds indicating the fasten seat belt light has been turned off. Immediately after, he reaches once again for the Assistance Button and pushes at it with force.
“Gotta find our Angel of Mercy to stoke the fire. Ya ready for another there Padre?” My new best friend askes.
“No, I am just fine at the moment. I’ll wait it out till Phoenix , have a connecting flight to Tucson. They say if ya die in Tucson your soul will have to catch a connecting flight to heaven.” I mentioned.
“Cute, not funny, just cute. And you can spare me your Reader’s Digest witticisms. Save them for the Bingo crowd. Have you always been a servant to your imaginary deity or was there a time when you cut loose? Understand what I’m getting at?” He asks
“Yes I understand and absolutely, I had an abundant supply of paint when I was younger with which I generously painted many a town red. However the time came around when I wrestled with the ” Better to serve in hell than Reign in heaven” quote. I concluded that I could become more useful as a Priest than as a party animal” I replied
“Familiar with Milton I see”
“Yes and with Voltaire Candide, Moliere, Rousseau and the entire pack of howling Philosophers.” I state.
“Quite impressed there Padre Pancho. But I am starting to develop a severe case of doubt concerning you being a man of the cloth. In fact I don’t believe you are a Priest at all or for that matter a Catholic or even a Christian. Where the hell is the Attendant? I am drying out .” He says while looking down the aisle front and back.
“Would you like me to fetch her for you?” I offer
“I see her in back there readying the drink wagon now. Guess I’ll have to ride out the drought.”
“Here take my other bottle, you need it more than I .” I offer.
He accepts my gift displaying a huge grin.
” I don’t care who the hell you are Padre, you’re okay in my book.”
I’m trying to figure out who this guy could be. He didn’t seem familiar to me at all. I was sure he wasn’t an actor or a famous musician. He couldn’t be a politician like a Senator or Representative. I was leaning toward the Arts, maybe a famous Painter or Film Director. Then it all became obvious to me who this character was and what he did. He was a writer, a famous Author. I was an avid reader of his work since being a fan of Transgressive Fiction. This guy had written a great number of books and was an acclaimed poet as well.
“Let me introduce myself. I’m Father Santiago. I’m enjoying our time together on this flight. You’re quite the character.” I said.
” Still going with the Father act huh? Well I’m not buying what you’re selling. So is it alright if I just call you Santiago?”
Pain,
A four-letter word, yet so profound,
A silent emotion that cannot be expressed,
It reaches deep within, touching the heart’s core,
Unleashing vulnerability, leaving one in sorrow’s embrace.
Oh, the word called pain,
A burning sensation surpassing hellfire’s heat,
Bitterer than any medicine or food known,
Leaving one exposed in an unjust world,
Crushing the spirit to its very core, bringing one to their knees.
As I sit on the beach, feeling the caress of the breeze,
My life unfolds like a fleeting vision,
Rejection’s sting envelops me, casting darkness,
Rendering me unwanted, causing discomfort to prevail.
A feeling so agonizing, it beckons the embrace of death,
It hurts, beyond words can convey,
Why must I endure this torment?
Feeling undesired in this vast world, I question my existence.
Pain, oh pain!
The agony it inflicts is unbearable,
Devouring and destroying with an insatiable hunger.
Pain, a deadly word that pierces the human heart,
Too fearsome to utter, it sends shivers down the spine,
It resurrects haunting memories, cutting deep,
Oh, pain, how I yearn to banish you from existence.
If only I possessed the power to create a painless world,
Where suffering finds no place to dwell,
But would such a world still be called “world”?
For pain, in its absence, defines our human experience.
I wish I could mend the wounds of all who suffer,
Erasing their tears that disguise the pain within.
Let us aspire to find solace amidst the anguish,
To heal and be healed, to replace pain with love,
For in this journey, we discover our strength,
And may our smiles reflect triumph over pain.
Bella Angel Douglas participated in the Write Liberia poem competition in 2021 and came in third place.
