That Voice

You’re telling me

Just go with the flow

No limitations

And you’re telling me

To live up to all

Of your expectations

–

I know sometime I might

Figure out this life

But for now I don’t know what I’m doing

Yeah, I really don’t know what I’m doing

–

But that voice

That quiet voice

Screaming out for me to hear

And that noise

That vicious noise,

It’s growing louder and louder

–

I can’t know

I don’t know

What I should fear

Cause that noise

That constant noise

Is too loud for me to hear

–

You’re telling me

Stop listening

To that silent whisper

And you’re telling me

It’s so much sweeter

To close my eyes and shut it out

–

And I know

Sometime I might

Figure out these words

But for now I don’t know what I’m doing

Yeah, I really don’t know what I’m doing

–

And that voice

That quiet voice

Confusing me with words and tears

But the noise

That vicious noise

Welcomes me with open arms

–

I can’t know

I don’t know

What I can do

Cause that voice

That constant voice

Makes me question what is true

–

All the hours I spent

Thinking through the calls

All the days I spent

Chasing after shadows

All the years I spent

Waiting for the best

Glancing back I see that

They’re all gone

–

But that voice

That quiet voice

Reminds me of hope

And that noise

That vicious noise

Teaches me its death

And my heart

My foolish heart

Pumps acid through my veins

—

Coffeeshophorrors

 

Writing

I recently realized something that doesn’t make much sense. There’s a subtle hint in some of the classic literature-the best example I can think of is My Antonia by Willa Carter-that there’s something deeper. A theme that wouldn’t make sense if you could face it head on, but somehow courses through your mind with a soft impression of…something. In My Antonia it’s the relationship between Jim and Antonia, the relationship that’s unending, constantly in flux, and very mild. No matter what it’s subdued. I believe this is so that you cannot understand the nature of it. Of course, there are a few things that you can pin down, but all they do is confuse you further. A movie that has this same hinting is the Fantastic Mr. Fox. When I watch that movie, I see something dark and shady hiding behind the scenes. It disturbs me a LOT. That movie is a “kid’s movie” and I can’t explain it, but it seems like there’s a message behind it that would like to jump out and destroy you. (Needless to say, I don’t like that movie very much) I feel it the most in the scene where Mr Fox encounters the wolf. It doesn’t make sense, and that’s almost what scares me.

Whether or not you understand me to any level, to put it simply, I believe that in many works of art, there is a subdominant theme put there to make you think, or to lead you somewhere. This theme can be good or evil. It all depends on the artist, the creator. Through this realization, or belief, I began to think about what writing is to me. It certainly isn’t an ‘art’ in the way most people think of the word. It doesn’t express my deepest thoughts, it doesn’t entertain me (well, that kind of depends on the story, but writing in itself doesn’t entertain), it doesn’t sit there looking pretty. None of my writing (true writing, not assignments) is written for other people. Some of it may be written for God as well, but it’s always written for me. I write for myself, not for anyone else. I guess that seems selfish, and it may very well be.

Writing is a tool. It’s a shovel, for digging up some of the deepest, cloudiest thoughts or treasures that I’ll ever have. Writing is for knowledge. Writing is for an expedition into my mind. I believe only the best authors can take others with them. Anyone can express what’s in their soul, but not in a way that others may understand. Writing is a flashlight for the shadowy, cobwebbed corners in me. Sometimes it casts bigger shadows, and sometimes, as a shovel, it throws the dirt right on top of something even more important. But you don’t curse the tool for that, it’s yourself that’s the problem.

The moment after I came up with this analogy, I realized I’d said it before, a few years ago. I’d written that writing was a shovel to dig up the treasures of my thoughts. Now I can understand that even more. Writing digs up those things that you can’t name, that you can’t understand. Things that twist and morph into the strange shapes. For once I think I can find some sort of speck of meaning and depth in those weird twisty sculpture things they call modern art. I’m not sure if the artist finds meaning in it, but I can look at that (it’s kind of like the labyrinth painted onto cathedral floors) and think of something that has depth and interests me. I can just see someone less innocent than I  reading this and commenting, “Um…the true meaning of that is a lot less…yeah, it’s not what you think it is, that’s for sure.” But the point still stands, as long as I don’t know what the author’s intent was 🙂

What I mean is, some things twist and turn so much that you can’t even tell what they are. Their shape is completely to themselves. Those things appear in writing, and I’m not saying that this is completely secular, a lot of who God is is impossible for us to understand. If I could take a reader in with me, to discover through writing something that great, something with a shape all it’s own, like nothing they’d ever seen before, something beautiful and strange and meditative, then I might just be almost as good as C. S. Lewis.

TWIST ENDING!

Coffeeshophorrors

 

Faithful: Chapter 3

Here’s the third chapter! I really love this one, but once again, if anything is confusing or could be misunderstood, tell me. Enjoy:

It was the seventh day of the celebration. Each day was filled with renewed enthusiasm for the feasts, but the last day, the seventh day, was meant to be the most grand, the most beautiful, and the most exquisite of them all. The planning had to be perfect. Everything had to go exactly as planned. Ohobilah was almost as busy as the day of her wedding. She had to make sure the chef knew what to prepare and who to prepare for. Allergies had to be accounted for, as well as particular tastes. If a single tablecloth was stained, Ohobilah had to make sure that it was replaced with a matching one. Charts for seating were spread all over her mind.

Ohobilah spotted a bench on the stone wall of the long hallway and walked quickly towards it. Maybe she could catch a moment of rest before the final arrangements. She sat down and sighed contentedly, smoothing out her dress and peering out of the thin slit of a window at the colorful flying banners as the royal guard marched into the streets for a parade. She could hear the faint stamping of feet as they stepped in time to a drum barely audible from here.

A soft padding rhythm interrupted Ohobilah’s break. She stood up to face the intruder.

Timna rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. “Oh! There you are, my lady. I’ve been looking for you. Lord Michael is here to speak with you. He’s waiting in the council room.”

Ohobilah sighed exasperatingly. “Thank you, Timna.” The slave curtseyed and her master began walking in the opposite direction. She halted, a few paces past Timna and asked over her shoulder, “Why does he want to see me? Did he say?”

“He didn’t. I asked him, but he just said that he wished to speak with you.”

“Thank you.” Ohobilah continued walking.

The council room was on the top floor of the palace. It was comfortably furnished and brightly lit. Many pieces of exquisite art were displayed there to impress the lords who met to clear up issues of law with the king. Two large wooden doors, painted in gold and green, stood open into the hallway. Ohobilah peered in curiously. Michael was lounging on a couch, gingering a glass of wine tentatively, his eyes directed away from her.

Ohobilah cleared her throat just loudly enough to get his attention. Michael’s head flew to the doorway where she stood, blonde hair flying around his face and his long earrings smacking his face. “Ohobilah!” He strode over to her, taking the queen’s hand and kissing it with a deep bow.

“Michael!” She smiled warmly.

“Happy anniversary to you and the king,” he said, embracing her. “May your happiness in love last forever.”

“Thank you, but why did you call me here?”

“I know you’re very busy, and I must be interrupting terribly important duties,” his tone began to sound cautious. “But there’s something I feel is nessecary for me to say.” Ohobilah nodded encouragingly. “Why don’t we sit down?” Michael gestured to the couch and waited for her before taking a seat himself.

“I hope you will not think, after hearing me speak, that I say this out of hate or prejudice. In fact, what I say is out of the purest love, for your husband and for you. I say this to secure your happiness, not to destroy it: I heard you questioning the king on the day of your anniversary of Lord —- and his rebellion.” He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes earnestly. “Do not grieve the king so. He will do as you ask, but it did distress him, recalling the memories. You claimed to wish to help him bear such burdens, however, and I beg you not to misunderstand, remember where you came from. My lord saved you, not you him. He loves you, and let that be enough. Rely on him. Do his will for you. Do not rely on yourself, but trust him.

“Ohobilah, you could not save yourself from your blood. I was with my king when he found you. Listen when I say, without him you are in the same place, struggling in your own blood.

“But he told you to live! So live in him and do as he asks, out of love. Do not grieve him any longer with thoughts of substance outside him or the betrayal of a friend.” Michael stopped short and looked into her down cast eyes. Ohobilah just played with her hands, silent.

After a few minutes, in a small, nervous voice, she said, “I-I’m sorry, Michael. You’re right…I…I forget so quickly. I do not deserve the life I have, and I cannot earn it.” A tear fell onto her skirt. “Thank you…for reminding me.”

Michael placed a hand on her arm. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to distress you. He loves you, still. No matter what. I just hate to see either one of you unhappy.”

She stood up quickly, wiping a tear with one hand and lifting her skirt to curtsy with the other. “Thank you, Michael. Goodbye.” Ohobilah rushed out the door.

She was ashamed, as she strode through the corridors. How could she forget her place to the extreme that Michael had to remind her? How could she cause her savior such grief with her unrealistic presuppositions? Her hair was falling out of its tight pins. It hung loose around her face, bouncing in time to her steps. A few locks stuck to her tear-wetted cheeks stubbornly. Gratefully she met no one on her way down the long flight of stairs, or to the gardens. Everything was silent.

The garden was in full bloom, all the flower bushes framing fences and fountains as a few vines of roses and morning glories stretched out a few green sprouts to climb up them and spread out their leaves attractively. There was the bench where the king had given her his gift. He’d looked so happy, so joyful. Why would she ever disturb that joy?

Ohobilah sat down heavily on the bench and tried unsuccessfully to wipe her face clean. She sniffed with a huff and stopped trying, letting her hands fall onto her lap. She glanced around the garden blurrily and sobbed. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” There wasn’t anything for her to do. She couldn’t apologize. The king was too busy to see her right now. Even if he wasn’t, the queen knew she couldn’t face him. She couldn’t continue work on the feast; she was a mess. The only thing to do was sit and wait for the crying to stop and the shame to peter away into nothingness.

Ohobilah heard a snap break through the steady flow of bird song. Heavy, clomping steps continued, the sound of boots against cobblestone littered with the crisp, dead remains of fall rustling through the air. With renewed energy, the queen dabbed at her face hurriedly, sniffing and praying it was just the gardener or Timna, looking for her.

A man dressed in drab brown sauntered into view. The knees of his trousers were stained a mossy green and a few twigs and leaves clung to the material, as well as to his long hair, tied back with a black ribbon.

He flashed a smile at the now-standing queen. “Hello. How do you do?”

Ohobilah stood stock straight, staring at him without a word. It was the man. He had the same smile, the same glint in his eye. This was the noble who had caused the king so much pain. “Are you Lord —-?”

He looked confused. “You must be mistaking me with someone else. My name, my fair lady”—and here he smiled again, bowing and taking her hand—“is Lord —- (some name besides what the king told Ohobilah).” He finished his introduction by brushing his lips softly against the back of her reluctant hand.

She took a step back, pulling away. “But I’ve seen you before…at my anniversary. I know it’s you! Why are you lying?”

“My dear,” the man took a seat at the bench, nonchalantly gazing at the flowers and putting his arm up. “You must be terribly misinformed. I intend you no harm. You needn’t be afraid. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He looked up at her again. “Sit down, my dear. You look tired.”

Ohobilah didn’t know what to do. How can you accuse a man who refuses to believe you? Maybe the king was wrong. Maybe he mistook this man for the noble who betrayed him. Perhaps he wasn’t dangerous at all. “I’ll remain standing, thank you. What are you doing in my gardens?”

“I used to live here. Surely this isn’t how you greet others who you meet in your house? I thought you were known for hospitality in this dinky little kingdom of yours.”

“You sound as if you’ve been outside it. What is there besides this comparatively small kingdom? Isn’t our king the ruler of all civilization? I have been told all outside of this is Wilderness, dark and dreary, however huge it is.”

“My dear,” and here Lord —- leaned forward with an intense, focused smile. “There is so much more besides this. There are worlds you’ve never even dreamed of. I have seen them all. Whatever these people have told you is a lie. I will show you the truth.”

Coffeeshophorrors

 

Faithful: Chapter Two

So, this chapter is where my story gets iffy. I talk about very controversial things (in allegory of course) and I honestly would like to know if you see anything doctrinally incorrect. Please tell me. Although, if you don’t back it up with scripture than I might not listen. I want this story to be as true as it can be, so you guys should help me out! Here’s the chapter:

Chapter Two

The dining hall was brightly lit, filled with the noise of gaudily dressed lords and their ladies as they shoved back their chairs to stand up and greet an old friend or sit down and have another sip of wine. Jewels flashed around, folded into the silk cloaks and dresses as they maneuvered genially through the crowd. There were smiles spreading across everyone’s red faces as, in the center of a long square of tables, a psalmist began singing, plucking his harp experimentally and grinning at the crowd.

The king and his ward were grandly seated at the center of the table facing the door. Timna stood at Ohobilah’s side, refilling her wine glass whenever the bottom of the cup was visible through the dark red liquid. The speech was over, and a line of servants issued from the door, holding silver trays of pastries, meats, and stews. They set them down on every table, piling the food on everyone’s plates.

Through the noise, Ohobilah turned to the king with a question. “My lord,” she said. He turned to her with a smile. “I saw a man at the celebration, dressed in black. You seemed to recognize him. Who is he?” The smile slowly faded as she talked.

“It isn’t the kind of story one usually shares at a feast, my lady.”

“I could tell from your expression earlier,” she commented dryly. “But I want to know. No one will overhear it, if that is your worry.” She gestured to the crowd. “A crowded room is safer than a solitary one, if the occupants are gay enough.”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“I’m your friend. Anything that grieves or burdens you should be on my back as well. I wish to know all your troubles and relieve you of them as best I can.”

“Very well.” He sighed slowly, sadly, and reluctantly began to speak again, with a short pause, a silence in the air, thicker than the noise made by the nobles. “—- was the Prince. He was second only to me in power, and a close, close friend. But my friendship, the friendship of the king, and the highest position besides mine, was never enough for him. He stirred rebellion in his own heart and the hearts of others. He corrupted the court with his own selfish greed.” Each word sunk heavier and heavier, dropping from his mouth like tears, or drops of blood. The king looked old and grey. And sad.

He didn’t continue speaking. Ohobilah edged closer and wrapped her arm around him. “Your love is too great, even for enemies of the crown,” she murmured in his ear.

“It’s my nature, and my delight to love all of these,” he gestured to the crowd around him, laughing and singing and chatting carelessly. “And he took it for granted, doubted that it would lead him to the best. He forsook me. And I forsook him.”

But it still hurts. Ohobilah thought. You’re still sad. “Why would he come back?”

The king gave another long sigh. “He wishes to stir rebellion in my courts once again and ruin everything we have here.”

“Surely he knows it’s a lost cause? Shouldn’t he give up?”

He turned to Ohobilah with a sad, lonely, intense stare, with a depth hidden even from her. “You’d be surprised at the hate deep within men’s hearts, Ohobilah. Even a man faithful and true to me can be carried away and enticed by his own lusts. —- can take as much as he can down with him and cause me pain, even if my kingdom is lost to him.”

“He would do all that for spite alone? Why wouldn’t he ask forgiveness and a place as your servant? Surely life as an outcast, spit upon in your kingdom and ravaged by beasts in the wild, would be enough to drive him back to you with an apology on his lips?”

“He no longer understands the way of forgiveness.” The king’s eyes averted once again to a place far, far away, a scene distant even in memory. “He no longer desires it.”

“What of the barons who revolted with him? Have any of them repented?”

“No.” The king swallowed and turned his misty blue eyes back to the things of the present. “Let us speak of good things, Ohobilah, and not recount in order the sorrows of the past. Today is a celebration! There is no room for dismay.” He took her hand and stood up, shouting for a dance. The musicians struck up a song and the queen was spun into the mass of colorful, whirling skirts.

The jewels were flashing again, diamond, ruby, topaz. A dizzy dark cloud came over Ohobilah’s head. She began to look down at her feet as they moved through the motions, built into them mechanically. The confusion slowly dwindled into a dull, heavy silence of step, one, two, three. Step, one, two, three.

Why would a man sacrifice life in the court for a risky revolt against the king of the known world, with his subjects backing him up? Ohobilah couldn’t understand the logic or the reasoning behind this man’s actions. It seemed as if he’d just drunk too much wine and began to believe that he was already king and the throne was rightfully his. None of the nobles had ever dreamed of holding the crown, she knew for a fact. They were as loyal as she herself. No one in their country had ever attempted such a rebellion.

The pieces from the king’s story didn’t fit together unless Lord —- had believed there was some other power backing him up, something to fall on after he lost the battle. That would mean something besides the kingdom, outside of the king’s realm. But her entire life Ohobilah had been told the only thing out there was the Wilderness. What kind of terrible power could be outside the king’s own? The king must have left out a detail. Was there a rival kingdom? Maybe the king didn’t own the entire realm. Maybe they were only a tiny dot on the surface of  the world.

Ohobilah looked up into the king’s face with her mouth opening. “My lord, is there something outside of this kingdom? The idea of a revolt without a safeguard boggles my mind. How could Lord —- take that step without something to fall back on?”

“Ohobilah, there is nothing outside of my kingdom but the Wilderness, cold and harsh. Surely you have learned that in my courts?”

She winced. “Are you sure? Maybe he knows of a power outside of yours, and that influenced him to rebel. Maybe he was a spy from the start, sent to take over your kingdom.”

“No, Ohobilah. I know for certain that there is nothing outside of my kingdom but darkness and wilderness. —- was a fool, and he may have believed there was something, but there is nothing good outside of our kingdom, and there never will be.”

Ohobilah was quiet. She stopped dancing and slowly said, “I’m dizzy. I’ll go outside for a moment. Would you get me a drink of water?”

He nodded. “Take a coat. It’s cold tonight.”

Coffeeshophorrors

 

Faithful

This is chapter one of my story Faithful, which is based on Ezekiel, particularly Chapter 16 (gorgeous!!!). A while ago, I felt like there was something God wanted me to do with my writing that would bring glory to Him, and this is what came out of that. It’s not very good, since it’s very hard to write happy stuff and I wasn’t really into the story when I wrote this. I just recently finished reading Ezekiel, and it’s an amazing book. I hope you enjoy! BTW, Ohobilah means “my tabernacle is in her” and it’s from Ezekiel 23.

Chapter One

            Blood pools around me in a filthy, gory mess. No one loves me. I am alone. Alone forever. There’s nothing but blood and more and more. The flow never stops. Nothing will help me. I’m worthless, writhing, disgusting. My mother threw me out. No one cared to wash me. My father despises me. All I see is pain. What can I do to save myself? Someone help me. All I need is a hand. Just a hand. I’m dying. Oh, God, I can’t breathe. All that’s left is death. Save me. Save me, someone. Keep me from this pain. This eternal pain. When will this end?

I hear screams. Someone’s in pain. I run, hoping to get there in time. She’s dying. She’s covered in blood.  The poor thing. I pick her up and bring her back to the palace. My clothes are covered. She’s filthy. “Live!” I say to her in her blood. I don’t want her to die. I wash her in warm water and cover her in satin clothes. I hope she survives. She’s crying. The tears are warm on my fingers. Where did she come from?

It ended. Oh, God, it’s over. I…I’m in Heaven. Thank you. Thank you, so much. Thank you. Thank you. Tears run down my face. I can’t speak. His fingers are smooth and cool against my burning cheeks. Thank you for caring though I’m filthy and awful.

It’s a lovely day. She’s doing well. She’s thriving! I see her speaking with the servants. Her face lights up whenever she sees me. I love her, no matter where she came from.I don’t want her to leave.

I don’t want to ask. I don’t know where I can go. My life has installed itself right here while I wasn’t looking. I can’t go back out there, I can’t leave this. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do. I know this is selfish…but I pray he’ll never ask me to leave. I’m seated on his left hand at a feast. What an honor. I do not deserve it. He is so kind. He looks happy.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Ohobilah?” I ask her. She smiles and nods. “Do you want to stay?”

I’m laying on my bed, eyes wide open. I don’t think they’ve closed for hours. I can stay! He asked me to promise him something-to save myself for him.Of course I agreed. I will live in the palace permanently now. All the days of my life. Timna, my friend yesterday, sleeps in the next room, my servant. I have authority, not that I would ever need it.I am so happy…I don’t even know how to express it. I can stay, for my life. I am the king’s own.

The day shone mildly, warming the winding cobblestone path as she moved her bare feet slowly across the ground. The garden ran over with life, bright green, transparent leaves clustered with fat, colorful fruit, dragging down the supple branches. The world was beautiful, trapped in an eternal spring, each tree and bush delightfully scenic and tasteful in their own place. Oholibah smiled.

Soon a small alcove came into view where a young man sat, ankles crossed and tucked underneath the seat, his hands flat on the stone bench. He faced his garden with a blissful, quiet expression. When he saw her, he smiled handsomely, standing up. “I made something for you,” he said brightly.

Oholibah kissed his cheek, holding his hand lightly as they both sat back down. The bench was deliciously cool compared to the persistently warm sun. “What is it, my lord?” she asked. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a glimmering, polished bracelet, studded with jewels. The king’s smile widened as he saw her surprised face looking down at it. “It’s…beautiful.” Her eyes were caught on the wrought gold. “Thank you so much. You made this? For me?”

He nodded. “Put it on.” She slid the bracelet on shyly, still in wonder of the beauty, eyes locked on it. The king hugged her, softly saying “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she murmured.

The room was flooded with light, shadows from the budding trees swaying back and forth over the intricate Persian rugs. The celebration was an hour away. Ohobilah lay on her bed, hair disheveled and her beautiful dress, a spring green one that the king had given her, spread around her. She was smiling into her reflection, warped by the polished gold of her new bracelet. “I’m so lucky,” she grinned. Tonight was their anniversary. Their entire kingdom would be there, looking up at their king, celebrating the kingdom’s lasting peace and prosperity under such a wide leader. She couldn’t wait.

A servant walked in quietly. “Ma’am, you should be getting ready,” she said anxiously.

“Thank you, Timna,” Ohobilah said, sitting up as the maid began to plait her hair. She kept staring into her reflection.

“Did the king just give that to you, miss?”

“Yes,” she said with a vague smile. “Isn’t it beautiful? He made it himself.”

“I thought so,” she said confidently. “I saw him walking into the garden with the happiest smile on his face. He really loves giving things to you.”

“Yes. He loves me very much. I wonder what I should give back to him?”

Timna chuckled. “The king has everything he wants right now, I believe. You don’t need to give anything back to win his affection.”

“Yes, but…” Ohobilah laughed with her. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter,” She looked up, lifting her face into a patch of sunlight coming from the tall, glass windows.

“Keep still, my lady.”

“Yes, Timna.” She began smoothing down her dress methodically, her fingers sweeping across the smooth material soundlessly. Ohobilah yawned. “I wish I had more energy. I don’t know if I can stay awake at the feast.” Timna just kept tugging at her hair. “I’m exhausted.” She muttered. The tugging grew the tiniest bit harder.  “That hurts, Timna!” Ohobilah complained.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

A sharp knock rattled the heavy oak doors. “Come in,” the queen cried in a commanding voice.

A guard, dressed in the scarlet colors of the king, walked in stiffly. “Five minutes until your appearance, my lady.”

“Thank you, I’ll be ready.” Ohobilah sent him out with a small nod of her head and he responded with a deep, respectful bow, closing the door behind him. “It’s a good thing I’m already dressed,” she sighed, picking a hair off her skirt. Behind her, the queen could feel her servant pinning the last strand of hair up.

“Thank you, Timna,” she said, standing up quickly and rushing to the door. She opened it to see the king, leaning against the red and gold walls, beaming at her in his ceremonial robe.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he said, his eyes warm and radiant. He walked over to her and offered his arm, which she took, smiling back.

The trumpets blared, harmonizing with each other as the cheers of the people rose up against them like a wave. The heavy doors opened onto the balcony, overlooking a great multitude of subjects. Lords of the king’s provinces sat upon huge elephants, waving at them. Fathers hoisted their eager children onto their backs to give the tykes a better view of the nobility. The noise from vendors ceased entirely as they stopped handing out juices and pies to stare up in awe at the two beautiful royals.

Ohobilah’s smile grew wider. Everyone loved her so much. She knew she belonged where she was, at the head, with the king, as thousands of people cheered them. This was right. This was good. She fiddled with her bracelet happily, waving regally every once in a while, gently removing her arm from the king’s. He turned to her and kissed her cheek. His eyes were so passionate…so loving…so kind. Ohobilah looked down to the crowd. Their eyes were filled with the same love, the same beauty.

The world was at its best.

“Ohobilah, see how much they love you? I love you so much more.”

“Oh, I know. You tell me every day, my lord, how could I doubt it?” she elbowed him teasingly. His smile looked tired and strained. “Cheer up! Enjoy the festivities.” Ohobilah looked back down and continued waving.

In the corner of her eye, she saw a dark-clad figure. He moved through the crowd with a proud grace, smooth and haughty, with long strides. People parted before him easily as he shoved through them. He looked up at her, into her eyes, with a curious gleam, and smiled. He didn’t wave-he just stood there, gazing commandingly into her eyes.

“Who’s that?” Ohobilah asked, turning around with a finger pointed at him. The king’s eyes were darker now. Almost intimidating. She looked back down, following his intense glare. The man in black had disappeared. “What’s wrong?” she asked, softer now.

“There’s no reason to ruin this lovely moment with such a long, arduous story,” he said laughingly. But he didn’t look her in the face, and there was pain, sharp and strong, drawn in the downward tilt of his mouth. Ohobilah didn’t pursue it.

Coffeeshophorrors

 

Die Free

So, I wrote a prologue to a story, and it’s not very good (especially because it’s not about God) but here it is:

Prologue

Cause we fight ’til the end

And gather all our plunder,

Closer than our friends

Or any of our mothers

The sea was calm and beautiful. No storms would be heading their way for a long time; the sea was as docile as a month old calf. A blustery wind whipped through the sail, helping the steam engine along. But such a large ship required much, much more than that. The wind couldn’t do all the work-no crew could ever be as lethargic as this, even in the nicest of weather.

“Those lazy men’ll be the death of me. We’ll starve before reaching port!” The captain sauntered below deck, where the thick smog of burning coal and the terrible sound of sea shanties assailed her ears. “Shut up about yer rotten-rigged gunports! If you want to see yer families anytime between now and Davy Jone’s Locker, than you’d better shovel like men instead of new-born babes!”

“But we don’t have families, Ca’n!” one of the crew cried genially, tossing his double-load of coal into the fire effortlessly. There was a great deal of laughing and jostling among the others. Rujula was a popular, jovial fellow, stronger than the others, and completely loyal. He needed no rebuke for talking back to his captain, so she let it go, jesting back,

“Ah, men!” she spat, grinning. “No life but the life on board.” A great consensus of ‘hurrah’s answered her jokingly, jostling their agreement over to her as she walked past back up to the deck.

The air was clean, open and empty. The captain smiled and took out her telescope, unfolding it with a snap of her wrist and peering out past the railing along the side of the ship. She frowned. Something was swiftly approaching from behind, its bright red flag snapping across the soft blue sky, the swords of the Saraceni crossed over it.

“Karif!” she screamed against the wind, throwing her head back and squinting at the crow’s nest, eyes stinging from the sea spray. “Wake up, you useless man!” She ran back below decks, cursing him loudly. “Man the six-pounders, men! Sarasols coming!” There were loud cries of war from each of the men as they dropped their shovels, coal scattering around the floor, running for the cannon room. The captain grabbed one of them by the arm, saying in a hushed tone, “Ready the guns, Nuhad. We don’t have enough chain-shot left to bring them down before they get here.” Nuhad nodded grimly, running off without a word.

The captain walked quickly in the opposite direction, her jaw tightly clenched. Once she reached her quarters she slammed the door behind her, shaking its weak frame, and kicked the desk ruthlessly. Maps slid onto the floor, scattering the navigation instruments with them. The captain yelled sharply, glaring, and sat down to sharpen her cutlass with a short, agitated sigh. A knock sounded through the grating screech of rock against steel.

“Come in,” she growled.

“Do you have a plan, Cap’n?” the man asked, standing next to the door.

“We fight, Jabari.”

Her first mate nodded. “What should we do with Karif?”

“Make him fight. Tell him if we win, we’ll drop him off next time we land. We need as many men as we can get, even if they are all lazy idiots.”

Jabari nodded.

“Jabari? We can’t beat them, not if they get on board.”

There was a pause, then he answered, “I know, Cap’n.”

“Tell the men, if the choice is between death and slavery, we’re not infamous enough for death to be the choice. They at least have a chance-none of them have the tattoos.”

A faint smile washed over Jabari’s face. “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” he said quietly.

The captain sheathed her cutlass and walked to him, putting her hand on his tense shoulder, covered with the unfinished tattoo that matched hers. “I’m sorry.” She walked past, hardening her face into a stony glare, heading for where the crew was preparing for battle. Jabari closed the door and followed her at a distance.

The cannon room was noisy until the door pushed open crankily, revealing the captain. The crew grew hushed and silent, understanding why she was there and what happened next. She walked into the crowd, shaking hands with many of her crew, Jabari taking her place in the doorway, opening his mouth slightly and taking a deep breath.

The captain could scarcely listen to him. She didn’t want to. Such a brave man shouldn’t lose his life on a ship like this, hopeless, fighting for nothing but to show resistance. Battling to his last breath truly alive. He deserved to finish his apprenticeship and become a captain himself, sailing back and forth along the coast, terrorizing the Saracenis. The same thought went for most of these men. She put on a stern face as she shook hands, patting men on the back, murmuring things into their ears.

Life was over. Her crew was leaving. These would be her last words to them aside from battle orders. This was the end.

Dark lines seemed to engrave themselves into her face. The captain felt old. Older than any of these men. Wiser, sadder, ancient. She didn’t want to lose this.

Drinks were passed around silently, heavy wooden mugs of rum, the last of their stores, foaming at the top. The smell of alcohol splashed onto the wooden floor. They didn’t have much time, but the ship was out of range anyways. The drink was gulped down eagerly, the sailors welcoming the rush of strength and confidence coursing through their veins. The captain embraced the momentary confusion, and the barbaric, one-sided clarity afterwards. She would lose this fight, and die to this life, slaughtered by a science experiment, alone, away from her ship, from her people. But, even if she would rise a slave, she would die free.

Coffeeshophorrors

 

Art

A while ago, I heard someone say that they didn’t like non-rhyming poetry. Actually, I might’ve misheard them, so…in that case this blog post isn’t really refuting them as much as it is developing my own ideas on what poetry is. I’m not offended by that comment (though I only write non-rhyming poetry). I would be perfectly fine with it if it changed to “I don’t like writing non-rhyming poetry.” I personally don’t like writing rhyming poetry, so there. But whether or not it rhymes, poetry is an art, so there must besomethingout there that you would enjoy. For instance, if your spouse wrote you a poem that didn’t rhyme, would you brush it aside with the excuse, “I don’t really enjoy reading such things”? The whole point of art is it’s universality. No one can say that they don’t like art, because eventually they WILL find art that they like.

Although this is music, and almost completely unrelated to the topic at hand, some of Chopin’s mazurkas are a sort of ‘non-rhyming poetry’. He gives sorts of twists on pieces that surprise the listener, sometimes offending the ear. Yet he has been named the ‘poet of the piano’ (funny how that works :)). Have you ever realized that with many types of art, the entire idea is to offend, shock, and ultimately keep the viewer entertained and enraptured?

As well as that, art directed towards you, however bad it may be, can be determined painfully gorgeous. If someone puts their heart into something and you can SEE that, then you can’t ignore the beauty. You want to fill yourself up with it all day, just because of a single poorly-worded, badly-rhymed phrase-but you know the meaning. You know what goes on behind the scenes. And you love it because of that.

Oh, forgot one tiny detail. This is very directly focused on the statement that person made: CAN YOU NOT APPRECIATE THE PSALMS? They didn’t even rhyme in Hebrew. Once again, I’m not offended; I just think that comment was a little ridiculous.

To close up, a poem(doesn’t rhyme, sorry), quite obviously directed towards one specific person, who will find it gorgons, but the rest of you can dislike it as much as you want, as long as you don’t completely undermine the genre (haha, wow this poem is cheesy…maybe you won’t find it gorgons).

I miss you

My heart aches for you

But because of that

It’s too easy to ignore

I want you to know

I’m sorry

Even with God,

I sometimes fail

As a person, as a friend

I love you, though,

And just so you know,

I love you

Equally and eternally

Forgive me my failures

When I can’t help

When I make things worse

I’ve woken up thinking of you

Don’t let me ignore you

Because I’m going to miss you more

Very, very soon

God help me

What will I become without you?

You have made up so much of my life

And I never want to let you go

–

Coffeeshophorrors

 

 

At the Altar

This is my offering

So great yet so small

This is my sacrifice

I answer Your call

This is my whole life

My all in all

This is my everything

Yet far, far too small

—

Thanks

Be to He who conquered

He who set us free

Thanks

Brilliant in glory

You rise again

Save us from our sins

We don’t deserve it

Thanks

My sin drowns me

I can’t even reach out

I am nothing to You,

But Your love makes me great

Thanks

Let my life be Yours

It belongs to You,

Father of the storm

Prince of peace

Thanks

Why did I live in death?

Why give up Your love?

Let me be Yours,

The least of Your slaves

Thanks

Praise

Worship

Glory

All to You,

Perfect,

Holy,

Unceasing

Thanks

 

Coffeeshophorrors

 

You Are

You are my comforter

A heavy woolen blanket wrapped around me

Decorated with the tapestry of your love

Warmth in the freezing hail

Safety from the terror surrounding

A refuge from the filthy mire of my mistakes

Ever-present, ever-loving Father

Ever-giving, ever-loving Son

Ever-faithful, ever-loving Spirit

Wholly complete, lovely, perfect One

–

You are my nourishment

A river of fresh water rushing towards me

Graced with a reedy bed of your peace

Food in the starved desert

Strength in the fearful haze

An oasis in this parched country of sin

Ever-present, ever-loving Father

Ever-giving, ever-loving Son

Ever-faithful, ever-loving Spirit

Wholly complete, magnificent One,

You are everything

–

Coffeeshophorrors

 

Time and Eternity

These two poems are complete opposites, and I suppose I have been thinking about eternity and time a whole lot. Anyway, here they are:

A wind blows the leaves away

One by one by one

It freezes and cuts to the bone

And the tree’s blood litters the ground

The petals of your favorite flower

Are shorn away

The sound of the sun’s heat wafting down

Is drowned by the wind

Tearing, clawing, snatching

The wind drones on, unceasing

Branches whip and slash

Nothing breaks free of the frigid wind

The taste of a sweet sticky soda

Replaced by the hard, stony gale

The lonely, burning tears on your cheek

Ripped off by the brutal storm

Nothing lasts or sticks or stays

Where time and eternity take separate ways

—

It’s still here

And the sun shines brightly

And the birds sing their wake-up call

Nothing ever seems to penetrate the stillness

Or the clarity

Or the scent of fresh, grassy dew

But the birds fly off their perch

And my foot steps into a puddle

And the cold seeps in

Or strikes, like a dagger

And it feels like a dream

It’s not the clarity

Or the birds

Or the icy, frigid air

It’s not the grass,

Or the dew,

Or the bright sunshine fair

It’s the stillness

It’s the quiet

Noise does nothing here

Like my mind switched off

Or my heart just stopped

Or maybe Time just ceased to be

Maybe there will be birds

In Eternity

—

Coffeeshophorrors