The good thing about being the Writer / Editor / Formatter / Publisher of your own book is you are the also the only shot caller when it comes to deadlines. Therefore, I hereby postpone Poetry: Volume Two publication for one more day. Continue reading
As I roll into my last month of Melbourne, final seventeen days if you will, nostalgia is taking time to creep in and rattle reflections of Australia. I have lived here for nearly a decade, after all.
Melbourne is the city that introduced me to macchiatos and taught me how to say mate. It’s where I came to realize how the sound of a didgeridoo, at any given time, ignites immediate reaction to stomp my bare feet and shake my tangled tresses.
It’s where I stopped thinking I might be an Artist, learned valuable lessons about who I literally am, and heard my voice change from a shaky, “I write…” to a firm “I’m a Writer… mate…”
Melbourne is where I decided to stop masking my spirituality. It’s where I learned what it means to truly have a soul mate, story books aside.
Melbourne dipped me into my first summer Christmas and popped my chilly August winters with bursting citrus trees. It’s the place that olive groves sprouted on my block and I gained proper understanding of what a real pub is. Continue reading
The next time Samuel sees Clara and Lyla, the girls are holding hands walking down the beach. They’re whispering in each other’s ear shifting attention between the water, sand, and vanilla sky.
Samuel feels like they don’t notice him. He feels like no one sees him at all. And although the perpetual emptiness that he spent most of his adult years trying to mask with shallow encounters is undoubtably present – somehow it doesn’t hurt.
As soon he gains this awareness, the girls take notice of him. They’re steps quicken in his direction. They’re giggling about what he slowly understands.
Turning over his shoulder, he sees Clara’s mother pull her car over and frantically exit. She stumbles during her run toward the brush that conceals her daughter’s body.
Clara doesn’t know that the letter she thinks is in her handbag waiting to be found landed on the floor of the hypnotist. It was the last thing he read before dialing her mother.
“She mentioned Samuel? Do you know who that is? You must contact him as well. Please… quickly…”
As Samuel’s feelings developed for Lyla, he disagreed that they keep it from Clara.
“We need to be honest with her.”
Lyla regretted telling Clara the moment the syllables slithered from the corners of her trembling lips. “I… we’re…. I’ll end it with him. Straight away. Let’s just talk about something else. Let’s pretend it never happened. It was stupid, I love you. Our friendship is so much more important. Let’s just put it in the past.”
“Let’s play a game…”
Clara is under the water again. Just beneath the surface.
Wrapping herself in the liquid salt embrace a few steps offshore, she opens her eyes to a blurry burn. It soothes her. It soothes because she can make sense of losing focus.
The last time she saw Samuel, her vision hazed in a similar way for a far different reason.
“I thought it would be best if you found out this way.”
Clara remains enfolded in ocean. Her cotton dress extends in twists and twirls beyond the elegant shape of her drifting body.
Is this what it feels like?
Turning toward the faint light of dusk, her thin frame floats above lapping waves. Half exposed.
She reacts to the grayness of the clouds and subtle caress of liquid ripples with sprawled fingers and a delicate smile. Clara’s smile has always been her most fragile feature.
He should have understood that.
Her amber gold locks shape a sail that is perfectly tuned into the motion of marine swells keeping her afloat. The only sound in her mind is stillness. The calm drift of her perpetually craved freedom.
Clara’s mother is concerned. The icicle shade of her knuckles gripping the steering wheel is the same as her cheek’s ghost tone when she first heard the news.
“Clara would never do that…”
Along the road she is driving are rocky faced cliffs leading into the ocean. Her windows are rolled down in effort to lower the boiling temperature of unmentioned history burning her veins.
photo: Under your sea by Jessica Tremp