<i>Up, up</i>

Up, up

I met him on the stairs.

To heaven. I don’t care to recall how I died. I don’t even remember it. Why should one bother to remember their memories of earth when they are on the stairway to heaven?

I was always looking up, up, into a light that I could see with both eyes, wide open, irises dilated. I saw him smile at me with clarity. The purest smile. His golden eyes glistened as I approached. He reached out a hand and I grasped it. It did not feel like a hand. It was like…warm as the sun, and smooth as the surface of the sea.

“Who are you?” I asked as I gazed into his face, as beautiful as the fresh cherry blossoms that bloomed in the spring.

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” he said. “Very well.” His voice sang in my ears like the chimes in the backyard when the wind ruffled through. He kept my hand as I took the next step. Together we turned and climbed up, up.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked me. I took another step.

“Am I in heaven?”

“Not yet. Very soon.”

His feet made no sound as he stepped beside me. My feet, on the other hand, hit the stairway of glittering silver marble with a bejeweled tone that bounced like a hammer on a bell.

“My name is Ramiel,” he said. “I’ve guarded you all your life.”

My feet played a song as I just looked back at him. Neither of us had to watch where we stepped. It was always up, up.

“Do you remember when you fell out the window when you were two?” he asked me.

“I landed in rocks and opened a gash in my head.”

“Those rocks saved your life. Otherwise, you would’ve broken your neck.” Step, step. “I put them there.”

One of my steps resounded like a trembling symbol. It echoed out and up, up.

“Do you remember when you got lost in the woods behind your house?”

“My flashlight died. I was cold.”

“Your brother found you before dawn.” Step, step. “I led him there.”

He never let go of my hand. Always, he pulled me up, up.

“Do you remember when your best friend fell in love with you?”

“It broke my heart. Our friendship was over.”

“But you told him no. He understood. It was saved.” Step, step. “I gave you the right words.”

I started to remember some other things now.

“But why were you quiet when I fell in love? Why were you quiet when another rejected me?” I asked.

“That man is in jail now,” he replied.

Another step carried like the purest whistle from the most radiant bird.

“Why did you do nothing when I crashed my car?” I asked.

“If you reached the intersection,” he said, “you would have flipped.” Step, step.

I lost my step. My foot slipped backwards and my knees hit the marble with a bellow like a deep violin plucking a single string. Ramiel squeezed my hand. My other hand rested against the marble, cold as the coldest ice. My head lilted and I closed my eyes.

“Don’t let me go,” I whispered. “Please, don’t let me go.”

Then up, up, I went. My body rose from the steps as slowly as a spirit severing from a body. Ramiel knelt before me and enclosed my hand within both of his. He gazed back at me, and I saw my reflection in his eyes. I did not look the same. My face shone like the reflection of the sun on the lake of my summer camping trips.

“I never did let you go,” Ramiel said. “But I let you take some steps.”

And step, step went my feet. A chorus of rings and chimes followed. Up, up went my feet. Up, up the stairs. To heaven.

<i>When My Sister Became the Wind</i>

When My Sister Became the Wind

I haven’t had a short story in a long time. As I was browsing through some files that I had forgotten about, I discovered this little one that I had written a couple years ago. Then I realized I had yet to share it. So here it is, and may you enjoy it 🙂

 

 

Everyone tells me my little sister passed away. They insist to believe that she’s no longer with us, that she’s gone forever. But I know the truth. In a way, she has passed away. But she’s still with us. She’s not gone, and she’ll never be gone, not even after I’m gone. I know, because I witnessed it. I remember when my sister became the wind.

My sister liked to run. She ran everywhere, even when it wasn’t necessary. She was so fast I said she could outrun the wind. That would inspire her to try. She would stand at the top of a hill and run as fast as she could down its side. I would wait at the bottom, and when she reached me she would ask if she was faster than the wind. I always said yes.

The wind was her opponent. Sometimes it was her enemy. When she began to style her hair it would tease her and mess up the perfect honey curls. Then that evening she would challenge it to a race, and as revenge she would win.

My sister was very smart. She made the best grades, she made the best scores, she was teacher’s pet, she was the class president. She was also very pretty. She had these honey blonde locks that always fell the way she wanted it to, and her eyes were as green as emeralds, and in just the right light they would glitter like stars. Her favorite color was yellow. She wore it as much as she could. She said it was because she wanted to match the sun. I told her the sun wasn’t always yellow. At twilight it was red or orange. So at twilight she would put on something red or orange. In that way, she was as beautiful as a perfect day.

I’d like to say my sister was always happy, but that wouldn’t be true. Sometimes she was sad or angry, but one thing was different about her. She was always sad or angry for someone or something else, and never herself. When she saw an animal dead on the side of the road, she was angry at the driver who killed it. When a friend hurt their finger, she would cry for their pain. There was only one time that she cried for herself, and that was when I decided to be different and tell her that the wind won. She looked at me with her emerald eyes, and they started to glitter, not because she was in the right light, but because they were filling up with tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, growing nervous.

“I’m getting slower,” she said woefully.

I realized my little fun was a big mistake. I wrapped her up in a tight brother hug and whispered in her ear. “You’re not getting slower. A storm’s coming. The wind was only faster.”

And to support my explanation, the wind howled in concurrence, and a wave of dark clouds moved in from the north. My sister looked up at them, and the tears stopped, and she smiled.

“Well, wait till the wind sees my storm,” she said gleefully.

She sounded like a poet when she said that. Most everything she said sounded poetic. That’s how she was. Even her speech was beautiful.

It was a storm that would pass without a sound, without a word. It would whisper my name and move on. But first there was a race. My sister was determined, without a doubt, that she would win, and forever be the champion of wind-racing.

We waited for an October day. Those were the perfect days, without sun but without rain, chilled and raw and splashed in grey. Those were my sister’s favorite days.

“Look,” she said, “see how the clouds are gathering? Those are mine. I told you I would make a storm.” She smiled a pearly-toothed smile, and it was a smile that could match the sky.

“It’s a beautiful storm,” I told her. She wore yellow today, because she wanted to look her best.

The race began at the south end of the field, where the deer would often gather. If they had gathered today, they would have witnessed a memorable sight. My sister laced up her racing shoes (my old pair of red converse that she insisted were lucky). Then we waited. I heard the wind before I felt it; it howled and wheezed and whispered a dare. My sister was off before I turned around. All I remember was seeing her gold whip of hair flying. I followed at a jog, because there was no point in keeping up. My sister was fast, whether she raced the wind or not. She scrambled up the hill at the other end just as the wind hit her back. She smiled because she knew she was beating it. She turned left and plunged into green. The woods were dense this time of year. Brown and grey twigs kicked up into the air as those red converse traveled over them. The wind tussled with the branches of trees just behind the yellow figure. It was fighting. It sure gave me a fight as it struggled past. The gravel road was just ahead. The white pebbles that sprinkled the street like snow glittered in my sister’s eyes. She felt the wind on her ankles. She kicked a stone of chalk, laughed, and shouted, “Not today!” The red converse scraped into the road.

I was still on the wood path, but I could see my sister ahead. I heard the typical scratch of loose gravel. There was the scratch of heels and the scratch of wheels. Both were going at the same time. All the while the wind whined in irritation. It pushed past the tree limbs, tossed a shower of leaves.

I remember my sister once saying that she wished she could become the wind. That way, she could go anywhere, and see the world, and fly, and be free. In that moment I saw the white of the road, the red of the shoes, the yellow of my sister, the gold of her hair, and the blue of a truck. It came swiftly and gracefully. My sister saw it, and she stopped to show the man in the front seat a wide eyed yellow beauty. No one will believe me when I say and swear that I saw my sister burst into a million sparkling, fluttering stars. It’s true. I know it. She shattered like a snow globe and became like dust.

I stopped at the end of the wood path. The wind swept past me and picked up that dust, those stars. I sat agape and with tears as I watched my sister fly away with the wind. As always, she looked beautiful in the sky. See, she said she would make a beautiful storm.

“Sis?”

Everyone tells me my little sister passed away. But I know the truth. She says hello everyday when I step outside. She says it’s beautiful today, up there in the clouds; she says she’s happy. She races the wind each morning and makes lots of beautiful storms. She’s a bright yellow orb in the sky. No, not the sun; that’s my sister. She just looks like the sun. She still changes into orange and red at twilight.

So you see? My sister is not gone. She’ll never be gone, because I remember when my sister became the wind.

When it was about to rain Part 2

Another small part to my newest story. Enjoy!

I came home late again. Not because I was working. Not because I was at school. Not because I was visiting a sick person or passing out water bottles to the homeless on the street. It was because I was indulging in what my mom considered the most selfish act to ever be conducted.

I was taking a walk.

My mom accused me of running away. Each time I returned with a complacent look on my face, she insisted that’s exactly what I was doing. I would just smile, shake my head, and step lightly to my room, as if I had just experienced the most satisfying thing in the world. In a way, it was satisfying. Knowing that I was always right and she was always wrong, it was enough to go to bed without the necessity of coming out again until morning. And all the while, the rain would come, in one way or another. It would come, and it would make my day better.

By the way, my name is Lorraine. I prefer Laney. Actually, I prefer Luna.

When it was about to rain Part 1

It’s been a while. I’m intending to get back into writing. As such, every Thursday I will post a piece of writing. Here is a little piece of something so far…enjoy 🙂

There it was again. That ache in the spot above my left hip. I sighed deeply. I was watching my life slip away before me. It wasn’t so much that it was falling apart; rather, it was being pricked, like a sewing pillow. And you can only prick a sewing pillow so much before it begins to look like it shouldn’t.

It was raining that day. No, actually, it was about to rain. Yes. I always remembered when it was about to rain. It was something in the change of atmosphere, the way the wind blistered with the very faintest of chills, so very faint that you felt as though you were being washed over with a bath of rose petals. And the way the sky glimmered with this kind of hope that only the earth could understand, because humans were not simple enough to understand it. And I would always remember how the spot above my left hip ached, as if there was a very small baby inside, trying to push its way out the wrong way. It was always a strange moment, when the world stopped turning, and everything was quiet. Somehow, everything always knew when it was about to rain.

What do you think so far?

“Sister, I’m Here”

Here is the second part to the two-parter I posted last Saturday. Enjoy!

 

            “I’m here, sister.”

            My sister. There she was. And she was looking at me.

            Oh, my sister. I ran to her arms. This room was bringing me to my knees. And there was my sister, in the room with me, and she saw me. She knew I was there. Someone knew I was there. Someone saw me!

            Her slim, pale arms embraced me. I was in a different place now, the place of my sister’s arms. Nothing changed; the voices were still there, but everything melted far away in the background. They were only just an echo you hear when you shout from a mountain side. Her voice was clear. Clear and solid and beautiful. I felt hot tears stain my face, and thank God they were hot. I was warm again, like being wrapped up in a blanket on a rainy afternoon. Nothing could hurt me here. I was safe. I was really safe. It wasn’t that simulated safety that had tricked me all those years. How often did I feel like I was in a machine? But not anymore. This was no machine. It was real, very, very real.

            I’m here, sister.

            Indeed, here she was. I had purpose now. A soft-spoken, understood purpose. The room smelled fresh, like a clean, thick robe straight from the dryer. The air no longer pressed into me, but rather smoothed across like water, crisp and serene. The coffee turned to the scent of tea. I love tea. Cucumber and spearmint. Who cared if I didn’t have the strength to stomach all the stuff others could? I drank my tea, and I always felt new. This moment was lovely. This moment was perfect. This moment, I was transformed.

            I woke from my dream, and I was glad to not be in that room anymore. I knew where I could really call home now. Someday, I hope I can be the one to say it.

            “Sister, I’m here.”

 

Let me know what you think in comments!

“I’m Here, Sister”

Here is another piece I wrote during my Writing class. It’s part of a two-part, and this is the first half. Enjoy!

 

            I never thought it was possible this place could make me feel both safe and afraid. I know what it is that makes me feel safe, and I know what it is that makes me afraid. I never thought it would haunt me in my dreams.

            When I walked through those glass doors, I thought I was alright. This was the place you could call home, after all. But it was so bright; too bright. It was like the sun, but it was artificial. Artificial light, something I really hate. So I couldn’t see. I had to squint my eyes. And it wasn’t just the light; the colors were frightening. They weren’t soft and gentle and cool, the way I like them. They were harsh, neon, hot, cruel to the eyes. Worst of all, everywhere I looked, I saw the things I couldn’t solve. Problems of the past glared back at me with taunting sterility. I’m left here. You didn’t fix me. I wasted your time. Here I am again.

            All I heard were voices, voices, voices. Voices I both loved and hated. Above them all I heard my own, calling out, imploring something I forget. I heard me own, and the people around me (there were so many people) did not. They did not hear my voice.

            The air smelled and tasted of old salt. I was nauseous because I could smell everything I was ashamed to not be strong enough to eat: greasy meat, sugar, strong beverages and coffee. I thought I liked the smell of coffee. But right then it reminded me, you don’t like coffee. I am cold. I’m always cold, and this time no one could give me their jacket. There was no touch. Even when I tried to reach out, I still seemed to be too far away.

            And on and on, I begged to be seen, I begged to be heard. All the people I knew, all the people I loved, they were all around me. I was a void. Untouchable. Dangerous. Was I a ghost? Or did I float by like the wind?

            “I’m here, sister.”

            My sister. There she was. And she was looking at me.

 

Feel free to share your thoughts. I always love hearing them ^_^

“The French Revolution Waits”

Here is another piece from an assignment in my Creative Writing class titled “The French Revolution Waits” that I’d like to share. I have to say, I am loving these short shorts I get to write. I knew this class was going to be good 🙂

 

It wasn’t a day I wanted to be away from home. Being at the office (if I could call it a proper office) was not the right process of healing. The grade of a C+ on my history essay I got back yesterday was poisonous. I can’t say it’s my fault, at least not all of it. I don’t have the money for books, and I could only get to the library two times in the past two weeks, and for only three hours max, because Efficiency was thinking itself creative again and found the necessity for five meetings and a decent load of marketing and sales reports that each took a meaty two hours. I had no time for serious research on the French Revolution from 1790 to 1792. Apparently it was so rubbish I downgraded the epic Storming of the Bastille before and the disgustingly pleasurable execution of King Louis XVI after. Nothing special happened in my time period, anyway, and I thought it wouldn’t be that bad. It seemed the professor held the failed escape of the royal family to Varennes in high regard. I kind of glossed over that.

You see, I should not have been at work today. As I walked down the sunset burned sidewalks of boisterous and clumsy Manhattan, I couldn’t suppress my growing annoyance at the world. I was not supposed to be here. I had ideas; dreams, but I call them ideas. They’re not dreams anymore. I was a sales analyst, for a company I did not care for even in the smallest degree, and I was hailing a cab home because I was tired and I had an essay to save my life with.

I stood on the edge of the sidewalk and leaned, as if I had an intention to step right into the street and make the trip short. I raised my arm to all the yellow vehicles sliding past, waiting for one to acknowledge my presence. I was looking to the left, always looking to the left, but for some reason I decided to turn my head a little to the right, to look directly ahead of me. I saw a sign which at first appeared blurry, but when I allowed myself to focus I could finally see what it said:

“Coming to a stage near you: A Little Princess. Walk in auditions. Come sing for us!”

What a collection of words to rock my world. I felt a splatter of collected rainwater on the tips of my boots and realized that a cab had come at my bidding. I hesitated. This moment seemed dreamlike, dreamlike like my dreams. My dream…it was to be a Broadway performer. I don’t remember when it faded away, or maybe crashed into the moon, but it was coming back, carefully, creepily, tauntingly. I was twenty-three. Was there still time?

The cab window rolled down and the driver’s raspy air-conditioned voice called out to me.

“You getting in, ma’am?”

My hand was on the door handle, and all that was left was to pull, and I would be home in fifteen minutes; home, alone, in a dream, scribbling French Revolution absurde et trivialty historique. But my hand wouldn’t pull.

“Ma’am, if you’re not getting in could you please move on then?”

No, I’m getting in, I wanted to say. Was I? My eyes wouldn’t come off the sign. Perhaps this was it, the day the dream became a reality. I imagine I was shooting to some very far off stars, but I shot nonetheless.

I released the handle and tore around the cab. I went for the nearest crossing and hopped on my feet, waiting for the light to turn green. I definitely wasn’t going to be home in fifteen minutes. The French Revolution would have to wait for me now.

Let me know what you think in comments ^_^