Chinchilla, Blue Moon, I don't know what to say. Both of your writing gave me shivers. I love it so much. Chinchilla, the bleak landscape appears in my mind, speckled with sadness and gravestones and death. Blue Moon, your poetry is just so eloquent, so evocative, so sad as well.

Is anyone going to write a salute piece that isn't sad?

*This location is new. What do you think?*  

@Kitten, sorry, mine's kinda sad too.

Formatting's probably gonna be weird...

The Gesture of Heart

My chin droops down onto the bottom of my neck, a breeze playing around with my hair, trailing it onto the sides of my face and entangling it with my eyelashes, obscuring a fraction of my vision. My footfalls are heavy and flat, resounding through the thin, glasslike air pressing in around me. The wind tickles the remaining autumn leaves on their branches, sending half of them twirling away, billowing wherever fate pleases. Some perform a dance and touch down on the road, awaiting cars, just to be strewn about once more from the force of rolling tires. Some get pinned up against the sides of buildings and flap around helplessly before shimmying to the side and escaping. Still others gently sway down and fall onto the sidewalk, soaking in the memories of all kinds of people walking upon that very spot, each with their own cares and dreams and stories.

One particular leaf launches onto the back of my head, nesting itself in between a few strands of carmel-strawberry blonde locks. Gently, I bend my arm back and with one freckled, bony, dirty hand, remove it from my hair. My arm outstretched, I hold the crunchy piece of Autumn itself in my palm, watching as it is swept away once more.

My light hair shines white in certain spots under the influence of the Sun, blazing down upon us with none of its warming affect taking place. I watch as the shaft of sunlight moves with my footsteps.

Across the street, someone opens a pop container. I hear the telltale sound of the tab being wrenched up, the fizzle of carbonation. My shoulders quiver slightly, and my fingers go to my shawl, clawing at it, desperately fumbling to absorb more warmth from it. I watch my legs as they strike out in front of my body, moving confidently even with no place to go.

I hear a car about to streak by. So as not to be seen, I turn my head away from it. My green eyes travel from the ground up to a stretch of green, short grass, followed by a small cemetery. The toes of my worn sneakers scuff up against the pavement as I stop abruptly.

I scrape the bottoms of my already-worn-to-nothing shoes across the sidewalk until my whole body is pivoted to face the small graveyard. I exhale sharply, and the small huff hangs in the air, waiting- for what is a mystery. My eyes wander across the lawn, seeing the crisscrossing rows and patterns, the different shapes and sizes of the tombstones. Seeing that some have flowers and small trinkets laid respectfully at their bases, while others are bare and lonely, standing stoic. Tiptoeing, I weave around the tombstones and find one with no gifts offered to the memory and legacy of the person buried underneath. Carefully, almost so as not to wake the slumbering person below, I lean over and sink down to the ground to read the saying:

Evelyn Grace DiCosta

Dear wife

Dear daughter

1937-2015

“Do not mourn me, do not weep over the loss of me… I knew from the very beginning I would be gone, someday, somehow. And you should learn it too, if you haven’t already- that we play in a game called Living, and death is the end result, whether it be winning or losing. Bring not small gifts to honor me; instead, bring your memories and your love, and your mind that you may gain wisdom from this.”

I blink, astounded by the words and message scrawled onto this slab of stone, sitting here with unnoticed wisdom waiting around for the next lonely soul to stop by and heed its words and advice. My fingers- trembling for whatever reason- reach up like a beggar to the people in the streets, requesting water and trace the indented quote.

And suddenly, the realization hitting me like ocean waves lapping serenely at my bare feet, I feel so lucky to be living, to be human, to be me, me of all the people in this universe, able to call this human my spirit resides in myself. My eyes widen as I truly comprehend this spectacular phenomenon, this miracle, this mystery now so common and woven into the fabric of what is real so easily we never stop to grasp how insane being yourself actually is.

My fingers claw at the tombstone in desperation, shocked by my epiphany. I let my head fall onto the stone, feeling the rough surface tear at my skin. It feels good. I let my lips hang open, let my breath come deep and shuddering. I am me, a young woman, a person fumbling in the dark, trying to take hold of any clue about where I might go next. I am made of of tiny details that shape me into who I am- my shoelaces are always untied. I never look directly ahead, always down or to the side or up. I hold my tongue to the roof of my mouth when I’m nervous. I hate using straws. A ll of these things and many, many more that make me separate, my own.

Biting my lip, I force myself to stop the tears- Evelyn requested that I not weep for her. I feel I owe her something; maybe respecting her wishes could repay her. I breathe, then stand, my legs feeling weak. I squeeze them tight, barking a command from my soul to my brain to be strong. I press two fingers to my chapped lips and turn them to face Evelyn’s tombstone. A silent salute to the one who unknowingly gave me what my heart needed. A gesture to a soulful, wise woman I never had the pleasure of knowing.

I feel as though a pound of gunk has been removed from inside of me as I depart from the cemetery. Somehow, I know I will never be the same after today. Someday, I will feel like all of the bad things have come hurtling after me and slamming into my stomach, sending me flying backwards, not knowing how long it will take until I can breathe again… and then I will remember today, and maybe I will remember this feeling and know that it will all be fine, soon enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The end 

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The queen lay on the exuberant
litter, an oblivious ruby smile on her face and gleaming sapphire earrings
swinging as the slaves carrying the litter trod along heavily. She was the
picture of elegance, the pride of the land, but was her heart as pure and unblemished
as her complexion?

The black-haired girl leaned against one of the plain stone pillars that
lined the Shoppersway, listening to her fellow villagers shout and cheer for
the queen, happiness swirling over their unconscious smiles, holding banners
and flowers of vermilion, yellow, and blue, royal blue, for the queen!

Approaching the litter from the front was the army, bloodied but proud,
strength in their faces and patriotic love in their gait. As they came near the
queen’s litter, they performed the Salute of the Queendom: left hand on chest
for the nation, then right hand on chest for the queen, and, if she was
present, right fist extended. It was the symbol of loyalty and unity, and had
been for generations.

The girl against the pillar suddenly tired of the grand sights and the
crowd, and, quick as a black fox under the moon, darted back behind the
leatherworking shop to her right. She ran faster and faster, down the
cobblestones which gradually grew more dirty and uneven under her black-booted
feet.

Soon she was in the Backscrubbles, where most of the homeless, poor, and
jobless of the city could be found. The girl wasn’t sure why she went there,
but something about life as a duke’s daughter made her occasionally wonder what
life everywhere else was like.

And since her nurse was who-knows-where, now was the perfect time.

She wandered down Lowrun Street, seemingly ignoring, but actually
worrying about the people of poverty she saw everywhere. They growled at and
mocked her, but none of them actually did her harm.

The rich, pampered, beautiful girl was shocked by all that she saw: the
thin people who had had no food for days, the dirty trash and dust on every
corner, the cries of the sick rising up on struggling, helpless wings. The gray
smoke that caused many to cough seemed to rise sluggishly from the pavement
rather than only the factories down a few blocks; it drifted low, a phantom of
illness.

Just as she turned onto Gripefish Avenue, the girl saw another girl,
slightly older than she, sitting against a tall black lamppost and crying. Her
hair was brown, mussed, and her eyes, tear-filled as they were, had a lovely
blue color. The duke’s daughter’s heart filled with compassion, and she went to
sit down next to the maid; she was a
maid, and of the royal house too, for she wore the Servant’s Crest.

The two talked. The maid’s name was Andrielle, and she had been a
personal maid of the queen herself.

“But a few days ago, the queen was gettin’ ready to go to somewhere –
can’t remember where, and she asked, ‘Andrielle, get my makeup case’ and miss,
I didn’t mean to, really I did not, but I had misplaced the case a few hours before that, and it took a good
twenty minutes for me to find it again, and the queen got so awful angry and
ordered me taken from the place at once.” Andrielle burst into tears even
harder than she had before at this.

“That,” commented the black-haired girl, “was frightfully unjust. She
must have been in a very bad mood that day.”

“Oh no miss,” said Andrielle, looking up, “she’s like that all the time.
One toe out of line, and you’re out. Out of favor with all employers of the
city, too.”

The black-haired girl put a comforting arm around Andrielle, thinking of
the queen. Was this who they were fighting for? Was this the person for whom
they saluted?

The world had a twisted vision of what was right, indeed.

Sorry I know this isn't very good. :)

Oh my goodness Blue Moon - I love that. I like that a lot, the feeling of being the one left behind, the last one standing, isn't often mentioned in poetry or stories. Kudos for the originality of the piece! I love the prose. It's beautiful!

Soren, I really enjoyed the vivid imagery and detail in your writing. It's a great piece. of writing. I also like the end messege of being happy to be alive. Altogether it's an extremely vivid and evocative piece!

And I'm NOT just spewing out random compliments. Sorry, recently I've been having a bit of a 'Crap, am I a fake??' feeling in everything I do. In the middle of writing 'Oh no do people think I'm just PRETENDING to write and it's all just a FACADE??'. So yeah, actually, there's some real quality so far here. 

Also thak you Rogue I love to write comedy! 

UGH GUYS STOP BEING SUCH GOOD WRITERS ALREADY - It's making it hard for the judges!! (Whoever they are =P) 

Also - Jithkeeper - It's true that the bit at the end felt a bit rushed, and not overly connected to the rest of the piece, but especially while describing the queen (I'm sorry at first I thought she was dead and was like; "Why is everyne cheering? BUNCHA SADISTS - oh whoopsies ma'am, I uh, didn't notice you breathing"), you were direct and original and quickly formed an image of a porcaline-statue-style queen. I still enjoyed it, and you managed to create a scene in my mind with a few choice words. I especially liked the 'flowers of vermilion, yellow, and blue, royal blue', detail.

Ok here's my story. Well I'm not sure if it's a poem or a story. Little bit of both. And I'm sorry kitten but it is sad. 

Every time I close my eyes and remember I think of that moment, that memory I have. Not a happy one though. I was only 14 back then. Young, oblivious. At least until that day. 

The soldiers, our soldiers marched through the streets headed to the war. I remember their faces, dark and serious, not a flicker of light, not a trace of anything besides cold and distant. Remembering the wars before.  

Their uniforms were ragged, torn, seams missing, like they could afford anymore. I saw their scars. It scarred me, really. And their eyes, their eyes were still haunt me late at night. War torn, scared, broken, heartless, cold and dark. And haunting. They were haunted.

In a way I am haunted by that, like they are by the war. Then I stop and scold myself. How dare I compare myself to them! How dare I compare myself to their honor! Their courage and strength. Next to them I am no one, nothing. How dare I imagine I even have a fraction of that glory. They are our fighters, our warriors, our soldiers, our hope. Fighting a fight we caused. Not them. And still they die for us.

Why must we have a fight? Is the question on my tongue. But I daren't ask it. Everyone would say I wouldn't understand. Too young. In a way, they're right. I don't understand. I never will. Why must we die and kill. 

I look back at them. Strong on the outside, honor on their chests. But I wonder what goes on inside their heads. Choas, worry, panic, stress. I wish I could help them, wish I could comfort them. Heal their scars, and scarred minds and hearts and heal those haunted eyes.

But I can't.. All I can do is salute. Show that I'm by their side. I will always regret that moment. Wish I'd done more. But all I can do is salute.

The End.  

Heh I completely forgot about this until I saw it yesterday... oops XD
But I started working on a story, posting soon!

Mind if I join? Everyone else's stories are so great!

~~~~~~~~ 

It was a warm summer night. That didn't change anything, though. It didn't make the war stop. Looking back on it, we all thought it would be over soon. We would win, and then go home. It didn't turn out that way. Nothing turned out how we expected it to.

We were in our tents, comfortable, not worried, happily anticipating our last battle, which would happen tomorrow. Or so we thought. Now I realize we weren't all relaxed. A hint of fear ran through everything we did. Everything we said. Because, even if we did win, men would die. We were trying not to think of that - that tomorrow might be our last day. But on the face we were fine. Laughter broke out at odd moments, and when everyone finally settled down to sleep, the crickets sang, lulling us to that happy place. 

The morning wasn't so nice. We woke up at dawn, washed in lukewarm water, and ate - well - let's not dwell on the food. It wasn't the worst, but it wasn't the best either. Certainly not the best. We straightened our uniforms, polished our weapons, and waited for the kit inspection, standing rigidly in what was now the full heat of the day. 

Then, he came. "Salute for the gene-ral!" someone shouted, and we all did so, trying to ignore how uncomfortable it was, standing there for hours with sweat pouring down our backs. The general started to speak. He told us how brave we were, and how our courage would be honered when we went back home tomorrow, after winning this battle. He sounded so confident, we believed him, and it made us even more confident. I suppose that's what a general does, boosts morale, but at the time it didn't seem like he was trying to convince us of anything. Just stating bald facts. 

He finished speaking. Told us to move out. We had the advantage of the hills, he said. All we have to do is fire, he said. We fired. But what we weren't expecting was for them to be ready for us. We lost many men that day, including the general. And the war didn't end. It dragged on. 

I don't blame the general for what happened that day. I don't know how I survived that battle, and the next, and the next. I wasn't "seasoned" or "experianced" as some said. I was just lucky. 

I salute the general.

~~~~~~~~ 

Well, I hope you enjoyed it. It was fun to write, but man, it took a lot out of me.