Sep 9, 2015 Friday Fictioneers, Original Short Story
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100 words
Charon-Me
©September 9th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The canoe was beautiful — cedar jointed together snug and tight, it curved gracefully like a swan that could slice the waters.
Inhaling deeply, letting the scent of the wood drift into my bones, ignoring the cancerous pain in them (my everyday reality), I pushed the canoe into my beloved glacial lake which mirrored the blue bowl of sky above, finely hammered into hot blue steel.
I did not wear my life-vest. I could not swim.
I rowed energetically to the middle of the lake, and looked down. Something swirling in the ninety-foot depths invited me in.
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Thanks, as always to our Fairy Blog-Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to Jennifer Pendergast, for that lovely photo-prompt!
Sep 9, 2015 Writing 101
Home
©September 9th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Where you arrive, drop your wings
Remove your bra with a sigh,
Greet your child, your husband, your dog,
With a “Yay!” in your voice
And they greet you back
With a “Yay!” in theirs;
Where you sing out loud,
Toss your bag down,
Not caring where it lands
(A tiny act of rebellion in a safe space),
Traipse into the kitchen
Pour out a glass of clear water
Sink into your chair,
Sip.
And sip.
And sip again —
And the clarity of the water flows in
Deep, not just in your body
But finding its way into another You
Bringing peace, quenching thirst
Letting little shoots of plants
Poke out of parched, dusty ground,
Bringing freshets into dry places;
Where you lean back in your chair,
And see little birds — hovering around
And landing on perches on the
Bird-feeders outside your kitchen window
Feeding in delight and calling
To their mates to join them;
Where a beautiful Japanese maple tree
Filters sunlight like liquid laughter
Onto a rhododendron bush and
A butterfly bush, hung about with swooning blossoms;
Where you take off your socks
And wiggle your imprisoned toes
And stretch aching calf muscles
And feel the joy of simply flowing, of
Living in your body, free from people, from
Other eyes, judging, evaluating, admiring, condemning;
Where the book- or books – that you left
Half-finished on the kitchen table await you,
Like a slew of lovers whom it’s safe
To love, to admire, to caress;
Where the soft sloshing and plishing
Of the washing machine slapping
Clothes into clean submissiveness blends
With the low buzz-hum of your
Ancient refrigerator, and the breeze
Rustles the pine tree in the back-yard,
And they form a lovely symphony
With your husband’s rich, golden-warm
Voice in his Teaching Study, singing
Into the ether, Skype-ing Indian music
Into the ears of a student in a
Far-off land, and your daughter’s
Joyous silver voice floats down her recent
Favorite song from the bedroom;
Where you know you have other things
To do, that await your ministrations,
But you DON’T care, at least for now,
Because, here, now, drinking cold, clear
Water, you are completely inhabiting
our body, and you know you are free —
That’s home to me.
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Tags: #Original Poetry, Home