Our time is a restless race for success. Competition is unforgiving, nobody waits up for the ones who stumble along the run uphill. Hardly anyone has the time to stop, the humility to kneel, and the patience to wait for the timid little flowers to open their blooming eyes.
Stress, rejections, disappointments, envy, feeling unworthy, feeling betrayed by both friends and strangers, feeling the pressure, feeling like a failure. The hideous by-products of the daily race.
But the bread is on the table. My Grandmother always said “bread is sacred”. Bread means gratitude. It reminds me of the simple things in life I take for granted, lost in the superficial everyday race. A loving family, a house to live in, enough money to last the month, a health good-enough to go on day by day, and the bread on the table. For it I am grateful.
Some amateur poetry and flash fiction for those of you who don’t use Notes. It does take up a lot of time.
After
After the rain had
Washed your eyes
Clean from the fading
Cries of the dream,
And you finally breath free,
Will it be a relief, a victory
Or the crying floods of defeat?
Peace
The perfect surface of the sea reflects the sky. There’s no horizon today; the sea and the sky has become one. You step into the blue, your body becomes one with the water and your soul becomes one with the peaceful sky. No other place brings peace into one’s soul like the sea. For even in the harshest storms, it hums a lullaby for the restless.
Lost at sea
Tonight I wish my heart
Was buried at sea.
Let all the hateful winds
Blow over. I’ll be free
From your newfound tyranny.
The sea will always love me,
Small, lost, scared, unworthy
Of deeper thoughts and words
Of higher complexity.
Tonight I want to be lost at sea.
Paper
She barely survived the winter. Pale, weary, her hands were nearly transparent, when she held them against the bright sunlight. Life has written its cruel words all over her skin. The violent ink - unwashable; the dark blisters may have faded, but deep-cut bruises will mark her body and soul for the rest of her days. A feeble creature stepping from the shadows into the springtime sun - crumpled, torn, paper-thin.
Things
The weight of
Each unwashed plate,
Every unfolded sock,
Draws a ring of hate
Around your finger.
You pull it. A hand-granade
Of vicious flames
Blows my brains apart.
It must be fate. Or maybe art.
Yes, our demise is an art
Of broken promises,
Broken sinks and lost
Toothbrushes. The cost
For every unresolved
Unsettled thing is falling
From paradise with broken wings.
Imminence
It lurks from the shadows of cozy spaces; the friendly handshake by the lunch table, the tap on the shoulder in the century-old corner pub, the online platform of a kind, supportive community. It strikes without a doubt or hesitation. The betrayal, that backstabbing bitch.
Rot (a horror poem. Gore ahead!)
Our mangled, broken fingers
Tangled together in a knot,
Becoming one in everlasting rot.
*
Our torn and crippled limbs,
Spliced together in a mince,
How sweet the vulture sings!
*
Our darkened, rotten skin
Slips from our bones,
The vulture knows; death always wins.
*
Our bodies weave together as we lay
Forgotten in the woods, you paid
The price for leaving me that day.
*
Deep in the woods we’ll forever stay,
You, me, the vulture, the moss eating us away.
A rotten union and a sweet decay.
Days
Days I couldn’t remember,
Days I cannot forget,
If I let the monster get
The best of me
I’ll never see the remedy.
Trapped in the nightmare,
Crying in my sleep, eyes shut,
Sinking neck-deep in the rot.
If only I could wake up,
But I can’t. I’m stuck.
Marking
When the tears
Marking the cheeks
Of the one who fears
To lose you,
Who seeks
To find you,
Doesn’t move
Your heart,
That is
The mark,
The sign of
Love dying
In the dark.
Tree (to all my writing friends)
Let your roots run deep into the land,
Stand tall, stand brave against all winds.
Spread your branches - blooming flower hands.
The birds will cover you to rest their wings.
*
Be brave, my silent friend, don’t bend!
They’ll try to cut you down or break you.
I’m here to love you and defend,
My silent, ever-growing friend.
Some micro news, nothing much though:
On Monday, April 15, I’ll share the next chapter of my urban fantasy Cirque du Macabre 2: Cabaret Sauvage. All Chapters of book 1 and book 2 are free to read on my Substack. It’s not perfect, but it’s fun.
On Wednesday, April 17, I’m sharing Chapter 4 of my dark epic fantasy The Heiress of the Lake. It’s time for that romantic subplot!
On Thursday, April 18, I’m sharing Thorny Thursday, a compilation of love prose, poetry, non-fiction and art by Substack authors. Also I’m sharing part 2 of my contemporary story The Tears of a Tulip.
Thank you for reading! Sometimes I do take you, wonderful subscribers, for granted… I am grateful and overwhelmed, there are so many of you! 196 is a number I never believed I’d see on my ‘Stack. Thank you!
Love,
Kathrine 🩶
I like the "mini-vignette' style of writing. The two that mention the sea rang a bell for me, having lived a few metres from the sea for a decade or more, where I found that the sea is a great listener -- even though I screamed at Her a lot too.
These are beautiful. I especially enjoyed Bread and Peace—the latter of whjch reminded me of the early chapters of Kokoro by Natsume Soseki