the angel of death

First of the Creative Writing works inspired by the most disjointed first paragraph I have ever half-read in She will build him a city by Raj Kamal Jha (someone please get me a copy.)

je présente…


The trees offered no respite. A mother, rocking the child, blameless, possibly lifeless, scalding waters in torrents under her feet, which, not the child knew, would be the resting place, scorned, strong, limp, breathing still. When the pools of her green hue, sometimes blue, mostly sage, lathered favourably on every bite, waxens, whitens, disappears, like the colour of the moon, the howl of a distant predator, begone, begone, did the trees finally ask the question, may I cover thee, an outcry of the once-child comforted by a once-mother, no more then, remembered now. Breathing. The child. And breathing still.

Beneath her feet (or was it another’s?) was a long thin string of once the colour of soot, now covered in red that followed the trail of bodies amidst the mass. She fingers the material.
Strong, sharp.

It cuts her finger and she bleeds. And it flows in a trickle, like the colour of the boy who once upon a time lived next door, not crying, never crying, but the one cradling him, like a torrent, a deluge, of blood, blood, blood.

With a mind focused, the wound closes as fast as it opened. She takes the soft gauze from her back-pocket and she pinches, in authority, the arms away from the bleeding boy. Let go. You must let go.
Or he will die, she tells herself but not out loud. You must never frighten the trapped prey. Or they will flee, and take the carrion with them.
And her purpose is no more.

The deep greens, like a forest under the mountains, so green, so full of life, sees another life, this one, much older than the boy, stronger, sitting up, scratching, she falters. She is herself. The little girl. A leg gone, two, three fingers, caressing her mother’s bandaged head while she itches. Itches to help another.

Stop, she wanted to scream. Get away from this place. Get away!
But she must never frighten the trapped bird. No. She must nurse them upon her breast. And they will take flight, finding a branch for the ark of another’s life.
Like her, once dead, now living for the dead.

Her apron is covered in a hundred men’s blood. Her fingers, sanitised, cleaned, still smelled of foul decay of young eyes going still, of maternal hands limping as hers tighten stronger. She is an angel. She is mine. I see her in white. Glorious, healing in touch.
I will take away your pain, but you must trust me. You must.

And some are frightened. Old men grasping, choking, heaving, hands pumping, I want to live! Live!
She takes their hands and offers them life. Then let me help you. And she takes out another roll of soft gauze from her back pocket. And she lays it over their eyes.

And it waxes, whitens, disappears, like the colour of the moon, of gauze of white, and darkness.

She chooses them, whosoever has chosen to live. Not many, all children, some men, their crosses are no refuge.
An angel, once a child, where the trees were too late to offer respite.
Of death, now saviour. Of life, now dead.

A challenge to myself

When I first started this blog, I had no choice. Locks and chains and quicksand (quick, go on your back!), I had to word-vomit induced thoughts from countless readings and philosophies to pretty much pass the semester. And I’m an academic-nut. I may be a procrastinator, but I get things done. Except perhaps, actually starting and finishing a blog.

So this November (after I’ve stuffed some chocolate in my face), I have decided to stamp out the fires of Mount Doom and venture on to the unknowns of blogging, blogging and blogging some more. Nerdy? Ehh.

I’ve decided to categorise my thoughts and actions as technically as I can. Here’s the tragic rundown to those who may be interested:

Screen Shot 2014-11-01 at 10.45.51 pmWho – well here’s a place where you can find out as little as possible about me in the vague-est way possible. I’m contemplating on introducing my Twitter somewhere here, but that’ll take some tête-à-tête with myself…soon.

Quips – the ‘uncategorised’ so whatever I feel like posting. It’s probably unnecessary youtube clips, glass-case-of-emotions gifs, dear diary thoughts of the day, journal-like entries and the personal but not so personal. Moving along…

Weekly Reviews – this will probably be both the favourite and the biggest challenge. I shall attempt to review whatever it is that fancies my I-G-G-Yes every week. From the let’s-smash-a-plate feels of my current TV favourites, did-it-make-me-swoon musical interests (and they’re ballooning to something great) and maybe what I felt about my cup of tea that day. I’ll mostly try to make this entertainment-friendly. I love a good movie/tv review. (Note: Every Monday’s the dealy-o.)

Musical Whatnots – a bamboozle of musical interests that gets me twerk, er, working , during the day, night and the in-betweens. Mostly a concoction of Jazzy splurges; New Orleans or the classic femme fatale soundtrack, Angus and Julia YES, lyrical, soulful, flapper dances; rockin’ to the indie beats, hitting up my 80’s love and anything recommended by wi-fi connected radio stations.

Technical Thoughts – mostly concerned with interpreting the nuances of what I’ve read or currently reading. This one will be a blast of a category and I apologise in advance if it seems misleading. Like the Networked Media category (explanation below), things found here will be a mix of philosophies and lots of thinking about the world in general.

Networked Media – it’s a bit of a collaborative effort between my pretentious uni-abiding self and the nocturnal call to pass the semester. But feel free to swallow the insights, inputs, reflections and brain-matter splattered in these posts. I’ve put in quite an effort for most of these and I hope they make even just a pinch of sense.

I’ll be adding in the Creative Writing category soon as I love to flesh out the artistic moi. But for now, these categories shall, from here onwards, be my guiding light as I practice my creative and professional writing.

Fingers crossed this doesn’t drive me half-mad.

FF – “I prefer a medieval knight, thanks.”

I looked at my sister as if she sprouted horns.

“You’re joking, right,” eyeing her golden brown hair waltzing with this awful humidity. Her blue eyes blinked once or twice, scrunching her perfectly-formed eyebrows I envied.

“I’m not arguing about what I look like, Luce,” she glared, looking my way. “I just don’t want them to believe I’m ready for this sort of commitment or anything. I’m only seventeen.”

“And turning eighteen in a couple of months and most girls these days marry at fourteen.”

She looked horrified and I bit back a smile. “What? It’s true!”

“I don’t care if it’s true,” she spat, pinching my arm. “I’m here to figure out how we ended up in Ancient History when I was hoping for a grand welcome in Toscana with a hot Italian man to sweep me off my feet.”

I laughed at her honesty. So that’s what she’s bugged about. She didn’t want these pompous, Roman aristocrats with their fattened gold and their hummingbird delicacies that looked more like jewellery than something you want to put in your mouth. She wanted a medieval knight like the ones our great Betarrini grandmothers married back whence.

I pinched her cheek as if she was a little child, laughing at her fierce, but total fail, of a slap. “Looks like we’re gonna have to go and visit our Etruscan friends, then.” I smiled at her, taking her hand in mine. “To the tombs, it is!”

Author’s Note:
This is a work of fan-fiction from the River of Time Series. A little twist of the crazy happenings of this beloved series. Highly recommended, check it out and don’t miss the original story of their great Betarrini grandmothers, Gabriella and Evangelia!

The River of Time Series – Lisa Tawn Bergren

The River of Time Series – Lisa Tawn Bergren.

From a scale of 1 to Carrie Underwood announcing her pregnancy during America’s Labour Day, nothing can give you contractions from your very soul than this book series. A current read, just finished and still being harpooned on all sides with emotional trauma.

But it is a very good trauma. Something you want to re-live over and over again just because it is so. dang. beautiful. *cries a behemoth*

Bows and arrows, blood and guts and hanging, and favourite people dying.
(I could almost write a song about it.)
Gorgeous Italian young women for the men, GORGEOUS Italian men for the ladies. Ooh, lots of time-travelling and kickin’ Fiorentini butt.

I see nowhere than that-a-where. It’s historical, medieval fiction at its finest!