You Are In My September…

september

Indian summer in September…so bittersweet… It reminds me of a pinch of salt in a freshly cut wound – still open, still here and burning. Burning because it has always been too short. Because it has passed once again and because I want to believe summer is never supposed to end…

Friday Fictioneers: 100-Words Story Challenge *Best Kept Secret*

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He kept me hidden. Nobody knew I was here, and I had no clue where “here” was. Nor how much time had passed since I woke up in this room for the first time. Months? Years? My memories were imprisoned to make any sense. I had become a part of these pale walls, the creaking wooden floor and the ceiling, held together by cobwebs in each corner. Everything but the door. His door.

My only connection to the world outside was a tiny window. The dusty glass eye I could reach only tip-toeing to peek at the well-known squares all over again. Recounting them. Hoping for a single soul to appear but there was none. Not until her.

Image courtesy of Dawn Q. Landau

Friday Fictioneers – 100 word stories

Song Of The Rain

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A Lebanese artist, poet and writer Kahlil Gibran (Arabic: جبران خليل جبران) has been among my favourite ones for quite some time. And thoughThe Prophetand “Sand And Foam” will always be the number ones from his works for me, I have the feeling today the poem “Song Of The Rain” fits the mood well.  At least in these latitudes.

I am dotted silver threads dropped from heaven
By the gods. Nature then takes me, to adorn
Her fields and valleys.

I am beautiful pearls, plucked from the
Crown of Ishtar by the daughter of Dawn
To embellish the gardens.

When I cry the hills laugh;
When I humble myself the flowers rejoice;
When I bow, all things are elated.

The field and the cloud are lovers
And between them I am a messenger of mercy.
I quench the thirst of one;
I cure the ailment of the other.

The voice of thunder declares my arrival;
The rainbow announces my departure.
I am like earthly life, which begins at
The feet of the mad elements and ends
Under the upraised wings of death.

I emerge from the heard of the sea
Soar with the breeze. When I see a field in
Need, I descend and embrace the flowers and
The trees in a million little ways.

I touch gently at the windows with my
Soft fingers, and my announcement is a
Welcome song. All can hear, but only
The sensitive can understand.

The heat in the air gives birth to me,
But in turn I kill it,
As woman overcomes man with
The strength she takes from him.

I am the sigh of the sea;
The laughter of the field;
The tears of heaven.

So with love –
Sighs from the deep sea of affection;
Laughter from the colorful field of the spirit;
Tears from the endless heaven of memories.

As if you were on fire from within, the moon lives in the lining of your skin…

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Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping… waiting… and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir… open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us… guides us. Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love… the clarity of hatred… the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we’d be truly dead. /Joss Whedon/

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Red Girl on the Steppes – Chapter 2

Growing up behind the iron curtain – a serialised story of childhood

There were not many Latvians who lived in Kazakhstan. It didn’t really matter because we were all the Soviet Union, and the Kazakhs were used to gulags on their territory, and sudden influxes of removed people from other parts of the country. There were Russians, Volga Germans, Greeks, Koreans, Crimean Tatars and many other nationalities who were forced to move to the country in the 1940s, yet the Muslim Kazakhs remained a kind and hospitable people.
http://red-girl-on-the-steppes.blogspot.fi/2014/06/red-girl-on-steppes-2.html

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Red Girl on the Steppes – Chapter 1

Growing up behind the iron curtain – a serialised story of childhood

If I bumped into you by accident on a busy street, it might well be because still after all of these years I have a habit of looking around me in amazement while I am in my stride. Its not that I love walking, but I got so used to it I can never really stop. – http://red-girl-on-the-steppes.blogspot.fi/2014/06/red-girl-on-steppes-chapter-1.html

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Carpe Diem Haiku *”Kabir the Indian poet-saint” by Kuheli*

Kuheli has introduced us to the poet-saint Kabir – a prominent literary master of the Indian tradition and shared with us a song of Kabir saab translated by Rabindranath Tagore in 1915 for SONGS OF KABÎR.

O How may I ever express that secret word?
O how can I say He is not like this, and He is like that?
If I say that He is within me, the universe is ashamed:
If I say that He is without me, it is falsehood.
He makes the inner and the outer worlds to be indivisibly one;
The conscious and the unconscious, both are His footstools.
He is neither manifest nor hidden, He is neither revealed nor unrevealed:
There are no words to tell that which He is.

Our task is to write a haiku, inspired by the song above:

* * *
shards of broken glass
wind runs through the window frame
a fresh perspective

* * *

Carpe Diem Haiku Kai

Short and Simple – LĪGO!

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For the past 8 years for different reasons I am spending my summers away from home – in Bulgaria. It is a beautiful country with as beautiful people but there still is one particular date when I feel the sweet sting of longing for home inside me…somewhere in the region where heart is (or is supposed to be). It is the night from the 23rd to the 24th of June when Latvians celebrate Summer Solstice – the Līgo (Sway) Eve.

Recently I wrote a bit more about Līgo on Carpe Diem Haiku challenge “Carpe Diem Haiku *Summer Solstice*” therefore today I won’t bore you with details of cultural heritage and traditions. I just want to add one thing…yes, it is a special feeling of being together with family and friends somewhere outdoors near meadows, forests, fields and with the gleam of the last embers in bonfires meet the new sunrise. Some call it magical, some – mysterious but for me it is a part of my identity, my home. And I do miss it today. A touch or maybe more…

LĪGO, EVERYONE!

Friday Fictioneers: 100-Words Story Challenge *A Touch Of Mystery*

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My fear of dentists, cemented deep down inside during the years of the Soviet childhood, slowly started to disappear with each new visit to his practice. Like tartar from teeth – step by step until there was nothing left to worry about.
Almost hypnotised I looked at his muscular arms in the tone of warm bronze, admiring how gentle and attentive they turned out to be. An experience to be enjoyed.
There was only one thing that made me wonder – my missing panties after every anesthesia. I kept returning to try to solve this mystery one day…

Image courtesy of Ted Strutz

Friday Fictioneers – 100 word stories