5 The Holocaust Box

A story brought to light from one of my favorite story tellers. I am stunned and I had to share it, history, stories, all entwined to make life what it is….please leave any comments on Johns site. Sad and powerful and I will let his words speak for themselves…..wow…..K

Through her fingers-(a short story)

“When all the stars are falling down Into the sea and on the ground, 

And angry voices carry on the wind, 

A beam of light will fill your head 

And you’ll remember what’s been said 

By all the good men this world’s ever known.” Melancholy Man-The Moody Blues

The song played quietly in the background as he looked around the dimly lit room, not sure why he was here, only knowing that the eerie purple “come in” sign in the window called for him to see what lay beyond the shuttered door. 

The old hunchbacked woman gazed into his blue eyes as she shuffled the deck, and reaching out her hand, gnarled and wrinkled like an old withered tree, felt her grasp his fingers with a surprising strength and looked up into her rheumy eyes. She had him hold the cards for just a moment and then pulled them back with a nod, as if he had enough time with her beloved treasure, and then she calmly began to sort them one by one into some kind of order that only she knew. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through the brown shaggy locks of hair that had fallen into his eyes and then looked at each card she placed had before him.

 “You will return to me” she said with a throaty younger womans voice which startled him, and he watched as before his eyes, she began to change. Her hands that held the remaining cards became smooth and a ring on her finger he hadn’t noticed before began to glow a strange green. Her eyes became a beautiful shade of jade, the rheumy opaqueness now gone. Her hair lay in brown waves down her back and there was no longer even a touch of grey. He looked around the room which hadn’t changed at all and then back at the old, now young woman seated before him. She smiled and handed him an object, a mirror he realized, that was facedown. “I’ve waited as a hundred stars fell, like each tear as the years passed and I knew you’d come, I just didn’t know when” she said passively, then took his hand in hers. 

Confused, he looked down in sudden shock to see that his hand had now become a gnarled tree-like appendage and hers silky smooth like a young woman’s. He lifted the mirror with a trembling hand and gazed at his image, and as her laughter filled the space between them, he heard a scream from within his soul.

Just trying out a bit of short story fun today…..let me know what you think.

And I awoke

I fell asleep last night, and like most nights did it in the same way, with words running amok through my head like a rollercoaster on the downward first plunge. Eighty miles an hour the thoughts took each twist and turn, moving words in sequences and plucking many out like fleas off of an infested dog. Nope, no good, pull that one and replace. Yes, that one works good there. I did this for a few moments, rehearsing the lines over and over again so that I would remember them, so that they would be given actual life on a piece of internet page for the world to see and judge. I fell asleep with words of beauty on my tongue, nodding in harmony to the rhythmic flow of creation.

I had many dreams last night. I know this as I woke with each passing one with a smile because of the fact that I remembered them, so many varieties of thought dreams. This is so big for me for since I’ve moved, the dream thief has stolen each and every one upon waking. I don’t know why I am not still given the gift down South that I had up North, perhaps the warm weather soothes the nightmares away, leaving only good words in the morning to put to life. I like to think so.

And I awoke this morning as my fingers moved, fast and steady typing on an old typewriter of all things, forcing each key down as I rushed to get the words out before they slipped away around the corner. My joints ached and I realized as the dawn of awakening tends to show, I remembered what I was doing, why my fingers ached. I was dreaming of  typing poetry and capturing each dream before it was lost.

Perhaps I should sleep with the keyboard on and actually get massive amounts of writing done, but then the mind wouldn’t rest and the fingers would fall off I would think. Besides, I like my sleep and why interrupt it with light. More comes from the darkness and with the light of waking, so much lost yet so much found.