Eulogies are so unnecessarily sad

Posted on June 19, 2019 by Ms. Hunni under Uncategorized

Did you know that there are 250 billion stars in the universe. 250 billion. So if you really look into it. We, On this planet. we really don’t mean anything. We are like specks of dust on the kitchen floor of the universe. Sorry. that sounded a lot more metaphorical in my head. I didn’t think they’d ask me to come up here. So I mainly just wrote down facts I learned while watching discovery channel.

In a way it’s not really weird. Because I used to watch with him. Sunday afternoons are not televisions gold mines, unless you’re getting married and need a dress or you’re a zoologist. Space and it’s Vast Army come on right after the gorilla documentary called Apes on tapes. Somehow that was worse than my first comment. Lets see. i’ll just get back to the space facts.

Did you know that one day on Venus is longer than one year on earth. the axis it rotates on is slower so , night and day take longer to come around. That’s pretty weird since like if you’re having a bad day it would just drone one for year. Which would terribly suck, because the point of a bad day is that there is tomorrow and tomorrow means change, it means that tomorrow gets better and that everything that was going wrong , everything that got messed up could be fixed with this possibility of tomorrow being right around the corner. All you’d have to do is wake up and you’d be living a different day, where everything went back to normal. And people didn’t just die off like that,

god.

I’m sorry

I um have one more fact. It was the last fact the documentary said before it ended. Space is silent. I thought it was kinda cool. Because the narrator said it and the documentary got real quiet. Then faded straight to black. Space is silent. I no longer have someone sitting with me on Sunday afternoons watching these stupid documentaries. And i don’t think you notice how quiet a room is when it’s missing it’s usual people. you don’t realise until they’re gone. hen hear it. The space. The space that they left behind. It’s silent. Deafeningly silent.

Maycomb County , Where the men stand tall

Posted on June 18, 2019 by Ms. Hunni under Fiction, Uncategorized

Maycomb was a tired, old town,

even when I first knew it.

Somehow it was hotter then.

Men’s stiff collars wilted by 9:00 in the morning.

Ladies bathed before noon, after their 3:00 naps…

and by nightfall were like soft tea cakes…

with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.

The day was 24 hours long, but it seemed longer.

There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go…

and nothing to buy; no money to buy it with.

but had you been lucky, you would be given a husband like mine

and all these worries of being poor were easily forgotten.

Atticus and I lived in a small street home. The large oak was our reason for buying it. I believe it was because I said I liked oaks that Atticus was so drawn to this house. I liked it cause he did. He liked it cause I did. And so our days went as so.

Our clothes were well pressed as were everyone else’s on our lane. And our gardens were well kept even though seeds cost to much and tending to the lawn on a hot summer day was not worth the beauty that a few tulips brought to dying grass. But man does what man can to live simply and live happily.

In our house we had four rooms. One that was given to Calpurnia the day she came in . Calpurnia was my only good friend here in Maycomb. When I was pregnant she brought me ginger cookies , though women in this town believed it caused your baby to have rashes on their skin. Calpurnia knew I couldn’t sleep without them. The day I realized that I wouldn’t be much longer , I was glad Atticus had Calpurnia. I even wished he could marry her and give Jem and Scout a life they needed. But that was not how life worked here in Maycomb county. Not how life worked anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line.

The two other rooms were for Jem and Scout, when they did soon come along. And the last of the four was mine and Atticus’. We had a bed , a lamp, a cupboard of clothes and my favorite of all things a window that looked out to our front lawn. Some days when Atticus would come home from the office he would sit with me on the bed and tell me stories of the idling figures, that by chance walked by.

There was the story of Maude and her husband being happily married and fighting over bent carnations.

The story of the Littleton’s whose son grew tall enough to finally reach their top shelf.

The story of the Williams’ whose third daughter would marry a prince someday, since she always walked around like she was holding a stack of books on her head.

The Williams were the only black family living in the area of Maycomb. Mr.William walked down this street to go to the auctioning house where he worked as an assistant to Mr.Toole. Some days he would bring his daughter , Ella with him . His wife passed during childbirth , and some days’ Callie would look after the little girl. Atticus and Mr.William were good friends . Atticus had helped Mr.William with some house troubles. To pay Atticus back Mr.William hadn’t much money. He did however have a way with wood. He built the cupboard that held our clothes

From there on they were good friends . I would be lying if I said I don’t care much for the young girl Ella. In fact, Calpurnia often brought her to the house and she played and slept in Scouts room, which was hers first.

Atticus liked her as well. He laughed at her smart mouth and brought her chocolates form the sweet shop up the road. I knew from there that Atticus wanted children, far more than I had realized.

Mr.William was a good man. He did his best to take care of Ella. But here in Maycomb he wasn’t seen so lovingly. He was seen as thief .

The summer, the year I learned that black folk went to a separate county jail, Mr. William was charged for a crime. Ms.Toole had said she’d seen him steal fourteen dollars from Mr.Tooles desk .

We knew her confession was a lie, since Mr.William hadn’t a penny to spare for weeks. He was an honest good man.

Atticus offered to take the case but before he could do anything Mr.William was thrown in Etson county jail in Virginia miles form here. And Ella well she stayed with us , with Calpurinia.

Then a man form the bank came and took her to go live with Mr.Williams’ sister in New Port County. We never saw her again.

Atticus took trip to go see Mr.Williams but by the year 1922 Mr.William was no more. He was killed in an accident with another inmate. Atticus was told when he got their with flowers, to tell Mr.William that Ella had a suitor.

Later that day we tried to find Ella, but hadn’t heard a word of her whereabouts for years. We called her aunt.Atticus even drove down to meet her in person. But she no longer lived there.

Years later in a paper we saw that a young black lady was left murdered on a front lawn in New Port. The picture of the woman in the paper left us all a little struck . She was tall and was wearing a beautiful white dress. It was Ella. The last photo they had of her was of her on her wedding day.

Now I can say that Atticus and I lived normally after . But that would be a lie. Because neither Atticus nor I ever. forgot Mr.Williams and his beautiful daughter, Our little girl Ella.

Up in the Gallery

Posted on June 2, 2019 by Ms. Hunni under Poetry, Uncategorized

In the letter to his wife

he wrote only three words

but he was far to late

Up in the gallery

where he watched the trial run

he saw her face collapse

though he was peering as he should

he felt guilt for what he had seen

for she was no mans’s wife

and not his to laugh at

but around him cackles encased the room

heckling volunteers threw stones

in the she shape of words

callousing her prim face

whore

but Men you see

are an odd subject

for had she lain in any of their beds

the would cower in utter silence

But every man up in the gallery

is guiltily free

for their crimes behind closed doors

have not been caught

so they terrorize

with senseless pride

the beautiful woman

who is not their own whore

Every man but one

for before him

is his lover

so he doesn’t heckle

nor laugh

nor say a word at all for he knows that he too

should be sitting with her

In the letter to his wife

he wrote only three words

I love you

but he was far too late

For his wife

in their home

had found a bundle of letters

not addressed to her.

but a addressed to a woman

with a newly bound fate

Love is such an odd subject, isn’t it. Sometimes we are bound to people who are trailing behind others. How upsetting. In fact I am sure that I based this poem off some odd dream that i had that involved Ben Affleck in the film Gone Girl. I also drew inspiration from the scene of To Kill a Mockingbird where they watch Atticus from the balcony. The whole idea of the poem I wrote is this otherworldly figure who is able to be in two places at once. Who sees the woman who breaks as she learns of her husbands faults and the husband who miles away breaks with guilt as his lover, is acquitted for love. He watches from the gallery, like an onlooker, just as the narrator of the poem watches him and his wife.

Men without ears , who will stand by the door to listen

Posted on April 22, 2019 by paromithaelleestlesluthscommencantlhymneduthepartingglass under Uncategorized

I remember that it hurt , looking at her hurt

Some of us, the unlucky few, will never know what it is like to feel that way. Too bad , I guess. But this isn’t the case , not for the millions of us who have sat in wooden chairs or church benches, staring at the carpet beneath our feet, hoping, praying to get noticed. Funny, how God will sit in front of us and not say a word.

I remember what she looked like walking down the aisle

I remember sitting in the third row from the front, two people from the aisle. Kate her friend from college, William her uncle from New Hampshire, and me. Her hair was always so dark, just like earth after it rained. The first time i saw it was at one of Kate’s stupid brunch parties. It was noon and if you looked closely the rays of early summer sun would be folding the thin lines of everyones hair. Everyone but her’s. Her’s was untouched, growing darker the longer I stared. She came and sat right across from me.

I remember spending years figuring out what I was going to say

She wasn’t happy. I could tell because I knew what she looked like when she was happy. I even knew what she looked like when she wasn’t . A month after Kate’s party , I worked up the courage to ask her. She smiled. Her eyes glistened. Then she said no. She just started dating Mark , I didn’t know . I was embarrassed she wasn’t. She thought it was cute. I thought she would tell Mark, and that they would laugh about it while laying in bed. I don’t think she ever did. Six months later, the seat across from me was empty at Kate’s party. Her and Mark had driven to her parents for the weekend. When they came back the following weekend, She looked like she had been crying, but she had a ring on her finger . So I didn’t really realise. At her engagement dinner a month later, I found out her mom was terminally ill with colon cancer. While she was telling me what happened, I felt horrible , because the only thing could think about was ‘ how come she was sitting here with me instead of with her fiance.’

I remember that it hurt

Some of us, the unlucky few will settle for the first man that stumbles through the door. We fear that waiting and hoping, will become blankets we rely on for warmth in old age. So we buy the first house we can, take the first job were offered, and and say yes to the first man who asks. Then we stand at the alter, say vows laced with lies. Only to feel empty. To sit in the coat room , in a white gown, bleeding tears out from our eyes.

And men without ears, who will stand by the door just to listen. Hoping that in time they will find the courage to speak, to say.

With the Hymn of a Fairy , the Seeking Begun

Posted on March 23, 2019 by paromithaelleestlesluthscommencantlhymneduthepartingglass under Uncategorized

I am the lost maiden in the forest of auburn tees and evergreen leaves. Where the curved path of stone leads me to the true homely caverns , where inside walls are caressed with the touch of painted flowers upon a maroon canvass, where depth is carved. Holstered upon the wall are the grandest of all lamps. Like medieval bowls, they allow the golden light of night to flourish. Hidden behind wooden panels, that latch to close,are draperies of endless red, and amongst the sea of dark beauty is I , the sullen girl, of adventures calling.

Outside rain has loosened its last drop. Where the winds were once harsh, slanting the boughs of its neighbouring trees, it had now beckoned. ” come outside, would you please, oh maiden who sits upon the arch less bed in darkness.” It took one mere call, a whisper of the winds, a pleading of light pellets, before the tap of ruby red shoes and an unlocked latch, freed me to adventure, of the forest outside.

The wind kissed my sweater less arms and bellowed out to the direction, where a pasture of trees hid an unknown wonder, a hidden palace. The walk had begun. Upon uneven rocks where each step was gallop of excitement, I stood like the sailors of viking times, in search of what lay beyond, what mine own eyes could pester to see.” What could it possibly be, why is it so hidden.” Twirling and skipping, time had lost its meaning.Only the rocks and the pasture had colour, the rest of the world were soundless words.

Dancing among the bushes, I hadn’t realised that I had trailed off the path, and wandered into the sea of green, the bounds of grass, which encased strands that held droplets of dew that tickled bare legs. My eyes had opened to a sight of nearness, of grey stumps , that peered behind the bushels of green and upright wooden fixtures. Engulfed in excitement , were my limbs that raced against an unmade path. A roadway never travelled. An adventure, made just for me .

What felt like an eternity of seconds, I ran, before I stood at the gate of trees. A song of fairies called me inside, an unrestrained swift step through the underbrush, I entered the castle.

The Castle , which was no castle at all. Was no home to any prince, nor the living either. The castle was drained in grey air that stood still among the trees, the grass that lay beyond, here stood brown, with no kiss of green. This was a murderous sight, where had I stumbled, on these stilts of mine, what had I found. The cold sodden ground where the resting lay. I had disrupted ghastly hours. And for this disturbance, would I repent.

Behind me were crackling sticks the sound of a distant guttural cough, I had trespassed to a point of saviour, no one would hear my call. “Where would I run in this pasture of green: where would I hide”. No leaves or stumps , could engulf me as I wished, none could protect me in my need. My heart was a beating palindrome that tilted endlessly.

Nearing, was the aura of the unknown, the ghost of the grounds keeper. Before his question the loudest calling, ” who’s there?, ” could echo to the depths of my curious ears, was I off on the stilts that once carried me to this unknown castle, the resting place of memories long gone.

Through the grey mist, swiftly past the twinkling of a fairy song and below the underbrush I galloped , like a horse released into a boundless pasture, until once again I found the cool caresses of evergreen grasses that calmly rested in their expanse of lively beauty, which lay beyond the grand grey castle of the resting dead of Interlochen.