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Tree on the Sky byryka

Tree on the Sky by ryka

by Claudie Muchindu

I have a story to share. It’s a less than charming tale of a peach and an apple that grew in orchard and somehow got entwined.

Shall I tell you about the peach first? He is and will always be the only entity that has the power to bring her to less than she is and she has willingly given that power to him. I cannot say whether she had a choice or not but that’s often the way life works, isn’t it?

I‘m  not sure if it’s the way his mouth moves when he isn’t  speaking or the way the air around him moves to accommodate his less than natural ego. Its all of these and none. It’s the way he makes her feel together when he is around and bits and pieces when he leaves. Yet too many nights she has woken up in an empty bed because he couldn’t bring himself to spend the night with her. Too many nights she hasn’t cried because crying is beneath her but the tears have always needed to be shed. They both are what they are. They’re one and yet less then that. How can one be so powerful and yet seem so powerless?

Today will be different. She knows it will. It has to be. She knows she cannot let him put her whole self in a wringer simply by walking through the door. She wonders why she ever gave him her spare key. They pass each other in the corridors as though they were nothing more than two walls coated in different paint not seeing each other from opposite views of the same courtyard; and they might as well be. They have different paint and different textures underneath it all. He will be more than she ever can and they both know that, peaches don’t grow on apple trees and my dears, he is a peach. Apples aren’t necessarily less than peaches but they cant grow on the same branch. Late at night before she nods off she will tell herself that its still all right for them to grow in the same orchard though. There are no laws against peaches and apples in the same orchard.

‘Jon. This bed isn’t big enough for us anymore,’ she whispers. She whispers because she knows he is almost asleep. She can also tell from the line of his back that he is now wide awake. He fakes a moan and she cant resist a smile. Her smile lights her up from within yet she doesn’t know. He’s never told her. She thinks she knows him better than he even knows himself but what can an apple know of being a peach? She places a hand on his back, her fingers are always cold but he’s never flinched to her touch. The warmth coming off him makes her feel she has been living a solitary winter and that there may be a summer at the end of it after all. He makes her heart smile as only he can, when he is being himself without trying. She doesn’t see the beauty in that simple vision, her hand on his back that is. She knows not the warmth of her cocoa essence on his paler than pale torso. He’s never told her that he’s never felt the cold in her fingers. He feels only the heat that her earth tones capsized his sails with long before he knew her name. He’s never told him he would stop being a peach for her and her being an apple, has never thought to ask.

She sees nail marks and a frown creases her flawless face before she can stop it. He has told her she should frown less but all she can think is she shouldn’t have gotten carried away this much. The marks on his back will leave an unsightly mass in the morning, she stares at her nails. Yes. There’s skin under there. A final testament to why she should learn to tone herself down. She kisses the marks even though she knows her lips wont take them away. It’s a beautiful yet less than beautiful sight to behold and there’s a magic in the path she lays on his marked back. He doesn’t yet know that those welts have blessed him but he will when he has a shower and he wont feel their pain though. He’ll feel agony caused by the fact that she isn’t in the shower with him.

You see, while peaches and apples aren’t able to grow on the same branch, sometimes, when they are in the same orchard they reach out to each other and even though neither can know what it is to be the other, they understand what it is to not fully be what they are meant to. But as I said in the beginning, this isn’t a happy love story, it’s a tale of apples and peaches and how they can reach out to each other and yet still hold back and not completely give into to making an altogether new fruit salad. These two have and they both know that they have gone beyond where they should have allowed it to go but they don’t know they words to say to each other to make the transgression survivable. Peaches and apples don’t speak the same language but they can sometimes hear the same voices.

He turns to her now and her heart leaps in her less than fleshy prison. He takes her less than freezing fingers and hold them to his lips. ‘I can buy you a new one.’ he whispers into her hand and she looks at his eyes. He means it and she knows. He is trying to speak apple and that doesn’t make her happy.It makes her eternally sad because she knows that he could never really be one. ‘No bed will be big enough for us.’ she murmurs into his face as she nudges closer to him and he blinks. Twice. Quickly. He does that when he’s thinking of what to say to her. She takes her free hand and tries to print his face on to it. He has warm brown Asian eyes; eyes that speak when his mouth doesn’t know the words to say. His nose is strong but unassuming; his mouth is wide but doesn’t swallow his face. When he lets himself laugh it’s a magical sight and one she has burned onto her mind. He isn’t smiling now though. His lips are moving but words aren’t coming from them and that’s ok too.

She pulls her now more than warm hand away and he gazes into her more than Godly face. No, there are no known Goddesses’ who have come close to the  vision that shares her less than large bed. She has eyes that are lighter than his, in a face with a mouth that often twinges in an attempt to smile. Its almost as though her eyes and her lips were constantly engaged in some form of mythical warfare. To see her eyes on their own you would see dancing tales told in wisps of vibrant colour and they would draw you in before you had a chance to save yourself. He is a bit deluded to think that his eyes could have been saved from the insanity of hers. He had no hope that first day when she sat at his table. Their branches crossed then and became entwined. Yet now, it seems time has come to release the vines from the more than healthy hold.

They lay there wrapped in their world of impure madness. Their lips touch one last time as they both know it is that final embrace before they have to let go. His fingers lace around her more than slender neck and her hands wrap around his back. They have already forgotten not to cause too much damage. Bruising is the least of their concerns. One last time the peach and apple dance in the wind and then let go. There’s some lingering. He wants her to ask him to stay, he will if only she will ask. She never will though. She’s never asked a man to share her bed and she never will. It just can never cross her mind.

He clothes himself as she lays in her now too large a bed. Her burnt mahogany skin looks like a dessert against the white cotton sheets; a sweet indulgence you’ll soon wish you could forget. Her hair is a tussled mess and her face shows the love it has just been subjected to. He leaves his key on his pillow; for it will always be his even though he will no longer lay there. The door closes behind him without a hint of restraint.  The peach has left the apple alone on her branch, or so it seems.

She lays back, the cold has returned to her fingers as she places them on her belly.

‘Daddy was a peach
Mummy was an apple.
Before they had a chance to rot
The apple told the peach to go
They both wanted him to stay
But he had to leave.

Little one,
You can never be either
Fully a peach
Or fully an apple

If I could wish and pray I will
I’d ask you not
To become an apple like your mother
And instead to
Be a peach like your father’

She chants lyrically to herself as she rolls over. She will tell her little one about her peach of a father but the peach himself will never know that he planted a peach seed in an apple and it had begun to grow.

posted by on Rhymes Optional

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Broken Heart by nox-moonLover.

Broken Heart by nox-moonLover.

 

Mind Games

by Claudie Muchindu

Thinking I could play, no manual in hand
I rolled my die and watched them land.
Honesty they proclaimed, no truths shall be hidden
Discretion, they whispered, no truths to be shared

Convinced I was of seeing what only the blind can affirm
I let my heart fly, not knowing if I had enough room to land.
It wasn’t a virgin journey, I know this path
I’ve walked it once before.

I cannot love in moderation.
Shy away not from my loose tongue,
I’ll spell the words I refuse to write
Love has impaled me and blood shall run its course.

I cannot sit in the shade of a seed,
Planted only yesterday.
I have waited for you before,
I’ll wait for you still

I imagined what I hoped I could hold
Hate cannot flow in your direction
For you have wronged me not
Keep it that way, silence may you give me.

Make me not the woman who wretches you from another,
I’ll demand not what I cannot even voice,
I know the game now
And the truth, my dear sadly is…

I still want to play.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So,

A long time ago, in a land not so far away. I thought I could accept second place in a  love game. It didn’t matter, I said to myself, as long as I was on the podium… Sadly, this was a lie I was telling. A tall tale about how “advanced” and “evolved” I was to not be a selfish lover. In a love game I need to own the podium and be first, second, third… heck, I need to be the only person in the race!

I can freely give love but I cannot share it.Sometimes life’s lessons show us how unevolved we are.

Over and Out!

posted by on Rhymes Optional

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Blade

By Claudie Muchindu

 

Palms hide no secrets
Wrists do nothing,
But tell

I’m having an affair,
An affair with a blade
He hides under my pillow
Waiting for my call

His caresses grace my palms
Hot, wet and painless.
I don’t allow him near my wrists
And he allows me to open my soul

My life isn’t diminished
I do not desire The Afterlife
It isn’t worth racing to

My affair isn’t hidden
It’s in places
No one bothers to look.

Its not enough to just matter,
You need to have meaning too.

You see…

I’m having an affair,
An affair with a blade

Palms hide no secrets
And wrists?
They do nothing
But tell

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So…

This is not to glorify self harm or belittle anyone’s intentions.

Not everyone shares the same reasons for inflicting pain on themselves.

This piece does reflect an episode I went through a long time ago and if life is simply a journey, this patch was a ride on a gravel road with the widows rolled down and blaring heat both outside and inside the car. Sometimes we’re so focused on the misery of our entrapment we fail to see the oasis hiding behind a rock we’ve just ridden past.

posted by on Look! A Story.

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Nikaah

by Claudie Muchindu

I haven’t stopped loving you. That isn’t even possible. You are, will always be the one… No, not the one: My one. The undeniable and absolute key to myself.

As we lie here in this cold and frigid room with just each other to keep ourselves warm. We both know it is over. Endless? It will never be. Our hearts burn strong and true but they cannot beat side by side. This isn’t a sad farewell, merely a necessary parting of two lovers that shared their souls but shall not be able to share them anymore.

You hold me closer, why? You know I will have to go. There is no pain now. There shouldn’t, this is what must be and I will not have you mar this for me. I turn to face you. Face to face, heart to heart. Bare.

My secrets you hold and I trust you to never share. I am not sad, I am not happy. This is what must be. I reach for you. I shouldn’t. Must not. I can’t linger here. We will not share these silent moments anymore. Yours, I am and always will be, yet with you I am destined not to be.

A tear is shed, it carries no sadness. Longing fills the room with words we know we cannot say. I can never call your name, you shall never sigh mine. From hereon you shall be a memory and I shall carry you within.

You part your lips. I cannot allow you to speak, I have to leave and if you ask me
to stay I shall. My eyes tell you what only your ears can hear. No more whispers, your tongue shall never map a course over my body. We cannot feel the cold anymore, there is nothing but us, for one last time.

I give you my hand, the hand that will soon belong to another. You take it, the way you took my heart. Softly and gently but firmly yet.

My chador lays strewn across the floor, a sign of my disheveled heart. I cannot allow you to embrace me again, but your arms call to me. I can only answer.

One last dance I shall give, one last song will I sing, one last duet shall we play. Yours
mingles with mine and neither knows where the other begins nor ends. Within and
without: I am yours, undeniably and absolutely. Sweat upon sweat, sigh upon
sigh. One last chorus shall we play, I am your instrument and you, my
conductor.

I cannot lay beside you. My heart can take no more. With heavy breaths but a light heart. I depart. My hijab covers the crown you ran your fingers though, my chador tells no one of how you conquered my body and staked it as your own.

My nikaah is tomorrow. I shall leave
you here, in our den of madness and not return. Tomorrow I belong to another,
chosen for me but you shall always know that I chose you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So…..

I originally wrote this story in 2007 . We usually believe our own set of values and choices are best  and this belief clouds us to the opportunities other choice sets provide.

Simply because someone else’s choices do not reflect our own does not mean theirs are any “less” than ours.

I wrote this story to show that Islam isn’t an ugly religion, and you can be devout in your faith but still make mistakes but you can choose within those parameters to fight or to accept certain situations. This is about how a marriage isn’t forced on a girl but arranged and she accepts it.

Oh, I am Catholic but I have sporadic attendance (at best). But faith fascinates me.

Over and Out.

P.S. Certain phrases that most might not know:

Chador – traditional outergarment for Islamic women
Hijab – traditional head scarf worm by Muslim women
Nikaah – traditional Muslim wedding ceremony

posted by on Rambling

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{Memory Lane isn’t Yellow Brick by Claudie Muchindu}

So…

I recently had a conversation with my mum over love of stories in general (I told her I was reading A Song of Ice and Fire and she refused to see the enjoyment in reading “the same story” that spans seven books).  I asked when I started to read, she said “early”. When I was five, apparently I was happiest with a book on my lap figuring out the world that lay in front of me tucked within crisp pages, she said we’d share books together sometimes. I have no recollection of this though. I don’t have many childhood memories and not because of any trauma (unless I have forgotten that too), I just don’t remember any strong emotions and that’s what makes a story live. For me anyway.

Some memories I do have though are of lying. In fact I may have led myself to believe I was some kind of demon child because my lying knew no bounds and people seemed to believe me, no matter how grand said lies were. For example: I have some scars on my back from a wonky infection (that story shall be told on another day), and when one girl at a new school asked me about it (we must have been in grade four or five), I told her it was where kidnappers had hidden emeralds in my back when they held me hostage. Her eyes bulged as I narrated this horror story to her and I have no idea if she believed me or not but we became fast friends, until as most girls do, we grew apart and in different directions. The point is I knew very early on that I could weave a tale that caught other people. I knew that telling stories was what I wanted to do with my life when I discovered that other people had “real” stories that I could re-tell and adapt, I was in heaven. While other girls played with dolls I perched in trees and dreamed of far off lands with warrior princesses and talking animals.

Unfortunately real life got in the way and being a writer just wasn’t practical in my environment so I shelved my ambitions and pursued an economics degree because “you can do anything with it” and eventually got a “proper” job that helped finance the last stages of my degree. I was decent enough to get a few promotions but while my head was entirely dedicated, my heart just wasn’t, still isnt. I had dabbled with the idea of teaching, but wasn’t sure I had enough patience to be a good one and I needed to be good at whatever I was doing. Its not enough to just “do”, you know? Then I thought maybe a psychologist because you can “what if” the hell out of other people issues but dropped that because I didn’t think I’d be able to separate their problems from my own. Studying languages also wasn’t feasible because there was no “career path” and I was “talented” in math so it was considered a “waste” to pursue words, especially when you couldn’t find a job in them. I still dreamed of seeing my name on covers and I have spent an obscene amount of money on new books so I can smell the new pages as I dive into new worlds.

This brings us to what this blog is all about. This is my little patch to showcase my work. I dabble in poetry, short stories and various opinions I may have. I am not genre specific, I am after stories that have some kind of journey and evoke some kind of emotion. My attempt at a novel sits obstinately in a corner and snarls and pouts in alternative measures when I approach. Not entirely certain when I shall tame that beast but in the meantime I am simply seeking the joy in stories, mine and those I find trawling the web.

Over and Out!

It’s Alive!

Mar
2013
25

posted by on Rambling

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Hello World!

My name is mwiings and I claim this patch of the interwebs as my own.

As dramatic as that sounds (in my head), I thought I would hear epic angelic music and harpstrings but all I hear is the thrum of my fingernails hitting the desk as I wonder “WHAT HAVE I DONE?”.

So world, I am here and I look forward to a long, “wordy” future.

Over and Out!

 

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