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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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The Long Walk

My father who sits before me narrates the history of our ancestors. I lay in my bed listening, subjected to his words as our people were subjected to the white man’s guns. He recounts the tale; The Long Walk of the Diné—a story that recites the atrocities of colonial power. An event that would reform the identity of our people forever.

The Long Walk of the Diné

The landscape was red, raw with rich pasture and vast in scale. An old Navajo woman sat outside her mud-made hogan, weaving hand spun wool on a vertical loom held between two wooden posts. The woman sang as she wove;

‘These chiefs blankets sing to me,

of war, terror, and of harmony.

The intricacies woven by our guardians,

the colours symbolic of our fate.

The identity of our people will change,

through the atrocities conducted by the opposing race.’

The woman’s eyes were glazed with a milky white— a contrast against her dark skin. A young and inquisitive boy walked over to the old woman. His chest was bare and his skin was filthy. ‘What story does this tell?,’ he asked. There were clay pots of coloured pigments at her feet. The red one spilled and splattered on the blanket when she turned to face the voice.

‘They are the representation of what is to come, boy’ she said.

‘What does our fate hold?,’ he asked impatiently. The woman was silent. Hesitant and distant.

‘Death,’ she replied.

The woman stills and a gust of breath inhabited her body. Her hands that were steady began to shake. Her feet pat the floor continuously as her body convulsed. Her head was thrown back hastily as her eyes blinked faster, opening and shutting simultaneously with her mouth. She spoke in Athabaskan tongue; ‘Diiyá, Diiyá, Diiyá,’ she repeated.

The boy ran.

He ran until he saw his mother who was walking, holding a basket of corn.

‘Bidziil, where have you been? Your father wanted to take you hunting with him,’ she said.

‘Ma, you must come! The old blind woman is in trouble,’ he said in a panicked rush. The mother dropped the corn and ran behind her son. They stopped where the woman’s loom was but she was not there. ‘She has gone,’ the boy said as he looked around profusely. Bidziils’ mother saw the chief blanket hanging on the loom. Her eyes widened.

She then turned and smiled at her son, ‘perhaps she left to go and pick her crops, it is harvest season,’ the mother started to walk back to the corn. As they walked, a large figure appeared in the distance. The light from the descending sun made it hard to see, until the figure stood in front of them and exhaled a thick breath into Bidziils face.

It was a horse and a native Navajo Chief.

He was striking. His face was proud, stern, and was surrounded by a headdress of feathers and beads.

‘Father!,’ the boy cried.

‘Manuelito,’ the mother sighed in comfort.

The man carried with him a wooden spear entwined with wool and clay beads. He lowered his head in respect to his family but did not get off the horse.

‘There is a freshly killed bison at the hogan, it should last a good few months,’ he said.

‘I must go now as I have a thousand sheep to take to nearby villages in preparation for winter solstice.’ The man’s voice then fell to a tone of warning; ‘you both must stay inside as much as possible. The military governor plans to make us surrender to our homelands and we warriors do not obey to defeat.’

The mother and son left toward their hogan.

Manuelito rode through the wind, chasing gathered sheep toward the Mesa lands. On arrival, several armed warriors lay scattered on the flats of the mesas. Local village keepers walked around routinely; some carried baskets of corn and fruit, some dragged bison behind their horses, and some protected the local water source—one of their most sacred necessities. Manuelito herded the livestock to the local farmer. ‘Farmer, these sheep are for you and the people. Take care of them and kill the weak ones first. This flock will be more than enough to ensure you and the people of the Dinés’ survival throughout the nearing winter.’

The farmer, pleased, lowered his head to the Chief and continued on his way.

Smoke filled the air as daylight died off and the night began to breath. Manuelito inhaled a deep breath and consumed his surroundings. He feared for his people, his family, and his land.

The smoke signalled the Chiefs from nearby tribes to meet at the tepee several miles outside of the village.

The tepee is used as a meeting ground for local native tribes. It is constructed by wooden poles and bison hides. Inside was a fire and around that fire sat chiefs from the Plains, the Ute, and the Apache. The chief of the Apache spoke first.

‘Welcome, brothers,’ he sternly announced. ‘We are gathered here tonight due to an ongoing conflict between the white man and ourselves.’ Light from the fire highlighted his sharp features.

‘We are being taken for fools,’ he continued. ‘The military want us to surrender, give up our land, our livelihood, and our heritage. They want to incorporate their white traditions and customs upon us, be governed by their laws and succumb to their control. Well we do not accept!.’

The Chiefs approved.

‘I have to acknowledge, however, that the people of the Navajo, the Diné, are not fighters. We are farmers, hunters and gatherers, and medicine-men—yet we must fight for our people, our culture, and our freedom’ he said finally.

The chief of the Plains stood. ‘I fear they are the majority. We must surrender,’ he said with a sense of melancholy.

The attention of all had been captured by the notable silence, at least, until it was broken by an ominous faraway scream that pierced it’s heart.

The fire roared as the men ran out of the tepee and saw the devastation that was before them. The horizon had been engulfed in flames. Chief of Navajo jumped on his horse and shouted; ‘gather your people, women and children first, and take them to safety.’ He pointed in the direction of the mesas, ‘warriors, stay hidden on top of the mesas and signal if we have more company.’ Manuelito then rode several miles back to the village.

Arriving at the farmers village people ran, screaming as their crops were burned and destroyed. Livestock charged around the village alight and suffering, inescapable of their inflamed bodies. The land was dry and welcomed the naked flame. This is what Manuelito had feared as a consequence of their disobedience.

The chief of the Apache had gathered the women and children, the remainder of the men came shortly after with rescued portions of food and water. All of the people from the surrounding affected villages congregated to the Navajo village. The chief of Navajo spoke.

‘This is a tragedy. Who can tell me what happened?,’ Manuelito scanned the crowd. An old woman with milky white eyes came forward.

‘Christopher Carson and his military men,’ she said as she stood independently away from the crowd. ‘He has been ordered by the government to take our lands and claim it as their own. This event has been coming, ever since Fort Defiance. We are all in grave, grave dang—,’ the woman stopped suddenly. Her milky white eyes begun to seep red. Blood poured out of her mouth and she dropped to the ground. A bullet had penetrated the woman’s throat from the back of her neck. A wave of screams dominated the atmosphere. The Chiefs grabbed their spears as people huddled close by.

A man on a horse strode slowly toward the crowd from behind the woman’s body. He wore on his shoulders a blanket with a red splatter, a contrast against his white skin. Behind him marching in unison were several hundred armed military soldiers.

The chiefs were bewildered and indignant.

Christopher Carson.

‘It is to our unfortunate disposition that we must follow orders from our government. We are to remove you from your villages and reposition you to Bosque Redondo, a camp located southwest of here,’ the man said villainously.

Manuelito came forward. He stood upright and strong, ‘I am the chief of the Navajo. Our ancestors were born unto these lands as were the people here before you. We do not obey to the supreme, we obey the spirits and elements of our world—those who provide us with the resources and guidance to live amongst it.’

Carson did not budge to the chief’s words. ‘There is no negotiating. My men are all armed and prepared for battle. Your men don’t even know how to throw a stick,’ he chuffed. ‘You will rest tonight under our guard and we will march tomorrow at sunrise. Surrender yourselves and you will live in peace. Fight, and we will not be so merciful.’ The guards assigned themselves groups of people to watch over, and though no one slept that night, it was to be their last sleep of comfort in their homeland forever.

Sunrise began to climb the horizon. Guards rallied up the people, urging them to pack essentials and to pack lightly. Five carriages with horses arrived as Carson awoke. They carried food and water, first aid, ammunition; firewood, blankets, etc. Local villagers wore moccasins and carried any cherishable souvenirs they had of their ancestors as well as fruit, grain, corn, and seeds. Babies were carried on the backs of their parents while children either walked or were dragged behind them on a bison hide. Occasionally, the women and children were allowed to ride in the white man’s carriages. However this was just a facade that concealed their inner evil. The most predominant encounter of this was on the tenth day of the long walk. A pregnant woman was walking among the people, her moccasins were worn, her hygiene was poor, and she was close to going into labor. They had walked over 200 miles when the pregnant woman fell onto the ground with labor pains. Her man, a farmer, dropped to the ground alongside her and tried to calm her. The woman struggled to get back up on her feet so the soldiers would not see her falling behind the group. The soldiers walked at the front, the middle, and at the end of the group in order to maintain control. The woman moved slowly and painfully, leaning almost all of her body weight on her husband. Alas, she could not go further and had to stop. Two soldiers then grabbed the woman and took her aside, ordering her husband to continue on with the group.

The father of the unborn child argued, ‘I need to be there with her, she won’t be calm without me there and this is our first child.’ The soldier ignored his desperate plea and after separating the two, one of the soldiers forcibly urged the man to move on and continue with the crowd, while the other soldier took the woman to an off beaten track.

‘Sit down behind here lady,’ the man gestured her to sit behind a boulder.

The woman screams in pain, panting and sweating in distress. ‘Where is my man?’ she yelled through breaths.

The soldier studied the woman and her situation— the extra food the baby will require, the attention, and the endless screams it will produce. He asserts himself that they will be a liability.

The farmer hears his woman screaming in pain and he fights his way through the arms of the soldier to get to her. He ran through the crowd guided by her screams until two gunshots were fired and her screams no longer guided him.

The man stopped with a halt. His heart quickened and his breath shook.

He ran.

He escaped from the crowd and saw the soldier walk out from the boulder. The soldier's face was calm and at ease, his body composed. He looked up and saw the farmer, ‘what are you doing? Go back to the group this instant!.’

‘Where is my woman? Where is my child?,’ the man demands in a frantic distressed tone.

‘Go back to the group immediately before I shoot you!,’ the soldier threatens. The farmer started to run for the boulder with a fear that his woman was there. Yet before he reached it, the soldier shot him in the leg and he fell to the ground. The man yelled in agony but continued to crawl to the boulder in search of his woman and child.

The soldier attempted to shoot him again. He missed.

The farmer continued to crawl to the boulder, pacing himself he looked behind it and saw his woman sitting upright, her head tilted to the side with a bullet in the middle of her forehead and another in her stomach.

Before the man could let out a scream of hopelessness and anguish, the soldier shoots him too.

The soldier re-entered the group and continued walking. They were now 100 miles off Bosque Redondo. The sun started to set as the people’s patience began to wear thin. They were tired, hungry, and broken. Their feet ached and were dirty from the holes that had worn through their moccasins. Carson ordered that they stop and rest for the night. A small amount of food was provided to all of the people, although most of them were still hungry considering the large amount of energy they had lost throughout the day. Manuelito, his woman, and his son sat together when chief of the Apache called him for a private talk.

‘Manuelito, we must do something. This is not right. This is not what our ancestors would want. We chiefs are to fight, and while I have been preparing for the right moment, it is hard to decide exactly when.’ Manuelito agreed and together they devised a plan. The soldiers and Carson both slept in the same tent.

‘Do I gather the other tribal members?’ asked Manuelito.

‘No, we must do this together, alone. No one can know what we plan to do.’

‘If we fail, our people will suffer the consequences,’ Manuelito states.

‘Our people are already suffering the consequences. We either fail or succeed. If I do fail then at least they can say that I died trying,’ the chief of Apache bows his head.

‘For the people!,’ they both shout. They have attached clips from the tent to the horse and they rode as far to the west as possible. The men inside the tent fall over each other and shout with wrath. They opened the door to the tent and saw the chief of Navajo and Apache. Examining the situation, they cut the lines attached to the horses and come to an abrupt and rough stop several miles out of where they were. Carson gets up with guns in both hands and the chiefs race back to them to end this war. With their spears in hand, both chiefs charge towards the men and prepare to kill.

Carson sleeps with two guns on his side and so he held them both up to aim and shoot. He shot the leg of Manuelitos horse and it fell. Manuelito then rolled and plunged a spear right into the heart of one soldier. Carson was furious. The chief of Apache then sticks his spear through the head of another soldier and he drops to the ground. Carson shot and fired at the chief of Apache and killed him instantly. Manuelito dropped to the ground and yelled. He was outraged.

‘You are a corrupt and evil spirit, may your spirit be forever ruined!,’ Manuelito charges at Carson in fury and is, also, shot.

Carson shakes his head and laughs, ‘what fools.’ He then inspects Manuelitos body and rips out the clay beads from his hair and puts them in his pocket for a keepsake.

They decided to leave both of the bodies there to decompose. Flesh for whoever wants to feast. Carson then took the horse of the Apache chief and rode back to the village as the sun rose. The soldiers walked.

Gathering the people together they announced the sudden disappearance of the chiefs.

‘It is to our limited knowledge that the chief of Navajo and the chief of the Apache have gone missing. Perhaps they continued ahead of us. Nonetheless, we shall leave soon and arrive at the Bosque Redondo on dusk,’ said Carson.

The people gathered themselves and begun to walk. They were exhausted and fatigued, malnourished and in despair. Their clothes reeked sweat and their skin wept dirt. They were told to keep walking or they would be shot. They had also been told by soldiers that the camp was highly functional with accessible water, crops and orchards, and plentiful livestock.

They had finally arrived at the Bosque Redondo.

There were large buildings that appeared to be made out of clay. They had windows and trees that lined the walls, giving shade to the people who were already there.

The people looked oppressed. Poorly, and weak. As the newcomers inspected their new home they realised that there were no crops or orchards. The pasture was dry and the only livestock were a small group of sheep. Water was sourced several miles away and it would take a whole day to travel there on foot. The camp was under protection from the government, under their full and total control. In result of this, many people suffered a deprivation of their daily needs in means of survival.

Carson held authority through disposition of food, water, and health care. Smug about this fact, Carson took the clay beads from his pocket and held them in his hands. He then threw them on the ground and buried them with his shoe.

‘You are as dead as the land your people now inhabit,’ he said to himself and smiled.

Four years pass, and in this time, due to poor conditions, thousands of Navajo die in the tragic circumstances of disease, illness and malnourishment. General Christopher Carson, governor of the military, receives word from the government that the Navajo people are to return back to their lands in result of a failed scheme that was to change the Navajo people, colonise their lands, and incorporate them into the white man’s traditions and customs. This is the story of the Long Walk of the Diné.

Written in 2017 - by DG

#navajo

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Faking Sincerity

I sit in the high treetops of Puriri Valley. Withered flowers become crisp in the reconstructing air and I can tell that winter is approaching as the valley grows cold. The only thing I have with me is a pulley and a bag of roasted nuts. Brushing the excess crumbs off my jacket and shoving the bag in my pocket, I spring up from the platform and take the pulley from the buckle of my harness and attach it to the cable wire. I check that the wire is still secure and that the ends that are tied around the trees are undamaged. I then take flight through the valley. I zipline through an atmosphere that calms me, with the natural tranquility of the environment beneath, and the reassuring ground that collects me. I have landed safe and I detach myself, taking off the harness and quickly scanning my destination. The river flowed through the valley and the smell of wood-smoke filled the air.

My sister and I used to zipline when we were kids in order to cross the river. It would be the quickest route to the other side, where her house is now situated. I was on my way to see her and my nephew as I hadn’t seen them in several months. A strong wind suddenly swoops through the valley and the trees tremble and drop their leaves. However, the leaves weren’t the only thing that dropped. A disorientated pukeko falls out of the tree and lands right in front of my feet. I stomp on it’s neck and kill it instantly. I see them as a pest to the environment and so I pick up the lifeless bird, fling it over my shoulder and continue on my way.

Arriving at my sister’s house, I chuck the bird behind a tree and walk onto the veranda. Going inside, I am then greeted by an excited four-year old; “Aunty! Aunty! Made you picture.” I lift him into my arms and he hands me the picture, wriggling to get down. The picture is of him and his pet pukeko.

Written in 2017 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Fiction Writing

TODAY

I find myself in a booth in our local community courtroom. “Sir, you have caused a major disruption within your local community, how do you plead?” a stocky, low-grumbling judge announces to me. I am a little bewildered, I don’t actually remember willingly walking to this courtroom, nor what I did to disturb my local community. I decided to stay quiet about it, surely it couldn’t be that bad after all I am a pretty humble guy. So I stay quiet and I welcome the punishments accused against me. At that moment, a young child walks towards the stand opposite me. She looks a little familiar, maybe I babysat her one time. The child is nervous, small and innocent. She takes a deep breath, “you popped my balloon and then laughed!.” The child was clearly distressed, her voice shaking. Oh god,“I am so sorry.. Please forgive me and let me get you another balloon.” She walks off content. A couple then walk up, seething about a cronut that I had apparently shoved in their face. Yikes, “I am regretfully sorry, please forgive me, I don’t know what came over me.” They walk off still irritated. A group of teenagers are then called to the stand but don’t say anything because their parents are in the audience. Phewf. Lastly, an older child walks over to the stand. She spills a whole story with nothing but spite and hurt in her voice. “You stole my ICE CREAM!,” her eyes inflamed with rage. I don’t recall these incidents but somehow I instinctively feel a need to protect my balls.

YESTERDAY

Every day I walk through Windsor Park on my way to work. I work at an office job where I waste most of my life at my assigned desk. I find myself singing to Queen’s song, I Want To Break Free. I have this raging headache and so I decide before I go through the park, to stop at the ‘donuts donut lie’ store where I eat away my spite for the happy and free people around me. Halfway through my jam cronut my mind endures an extremely overwhelming sense of parapraxis, otherwise known as the Freudian slip.

I stand up, fed up with these untroubled, overjoyed, euphoric and content delinquents and I run, cronut in one hand and reckless impulsiveness in the other. I spring through the park and stop at a disgusting happy child with a balloon, and I pop it. It crashes to the ground simultaneously with the child's jaw. I smirk, cackle and continue. I then spot a couple sitting under a tree kissing. Yuck. Public affection is repulsive and loathsome so I skid to a halt, fast walk over to them and shove the remnants of my cronut right in between their filthy, affectionate mouths. Instead of waiting for their reaction I continued to skip through the park. I then notice a group of teenagers smoking carelessly at this picnic table, clearly wagging school. Preposterous, absent-minded and irresponsible idiots. So I gallop over to them, take the cigarette right out of their goddamn hands, flick the ash onto the table, blow it towards them, and stick the thing in my mouth. They stare at me, bewildered for my forthright behaviour and slowly descend from the table.

I was a careless maniac with no particular intentions except to arouse terror. I started to think about my actions, until I saw Mr Whippy’s truck parked alongside the road. So I sprint over there like a dog fetching a bone and I see a child who is licking a frosty soft serve with a flake. She is smirking because the line is long and she was the first served. So I march right up to her, look her deep in the eyes, and then I swipe that delicious ice-cream straight out of her stupid child hands. Her eyes filled with rage as her foot slowly rises towards my crotch.. Everything was a blur from there.

Written in 2017 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Self-Parapraxis Narrative

YESTERDAY

I stand up, fed up with these untroubled, overjoyed, euphoric and content delinquents and I run, cronut in one hand and reckless impulsiveness in the other. I spring through the park and stop at the disgusting happy child with a balloon and I pop it. It flies around in spirals until it crashes to the ground simultaneously with the child's jaw. I smirk, cackle, and continue, skipping along the perfect pebbled pathway. I then see a couple sitting under a tree kissing. Public affection is repulsive and loathsome so I skid on the pebbles to stop then spring up to them and shove the remnants of my cronut right in between their filthy, affectionate mouths. Instead of waiting for their reaction I continued skipping along the pathway. I then spot a group of teenagers smoking carelessly at this picnic table, clearly wagging school. Preposterous, absent-minded and irresponsible idiots. So I skip over to them and take the cigarette right out of their goddamn hand, flick the ash onto the table and stick the thing in my mouth. Inhaling like a pro, they stare at me bewildered for my forthright behaviour. So I felt like the only way to handle a situation like this was to growl at them like a dog in order for them to run. They did.

I was a careless maniac with no particular intentions except to arouse terror. I started to think until I saw Mr Whippy’s truck parked alongside the road. So I sprint over there like a dog fetching a bone and I see a child who is licking a frosty serve with a flake. She is smirking because the line is long and she was the first served. So I march right up to her, cough, finally grab her attention, look her deep in the eyes, and then I swipe that frosty ice-cream straight out of her stupid child hands. Her eyes filled with rage as her foot slowly rises towards my crotch.. Then everything was a blur from there.

I don’t remember a thing.

TODAY

I find myself in a booth, in our local community courtroom. “Sir, you have caused a major disruption within your local community, how do you plead against this” a stocky, high-pitched judge announces to me. I am a little bewildered, I don’t actually remember willingly walking to this courtroom, nor what I did to disturb my local community. I decided to stay quiet about it, surely it couldn’t be that bad, I’m pretty humble, and caring and considerate. So I stay quiet and welcome the punishments accused against me. At that moment, a young child walks towards the stand opposite me. She looks a little familiar, maybe I babysat her one time. The child is nervous, small and innocent. She takes a deep breath, “you popped my balloon and then laughed!,” the child was clearly distressed, her voice shaking. Oh god, don’t tell me I did that. “I am so sorry.. Please forgive me and let me get you another balloon.” She walks off content. The couple then walk up, seething about the cronut that I had apparently shoved in their face. One of them was allergic. Yikes, that lip looks disgusting. “I am so sorry, please forgive me I clearly wasn’t thinking that day and don’t know what came over me..” they walk off still irritated. The group of teenagers are then called up but don’t say anything because their parents are in the audience.. Phewf. Lastly, an older child comes up and spills a whole story with nothing but spite and hurt in her voice. “You stole my ICE CREAM!,” her eyes are inflamed with rage. I don’t recall this but somehow I instinctively feel a need to protect my balls..

Written in 2017 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Ghost story

A man of distant and reserved persona walked alone into the desolate and misty night of Geraldine Gully. His skin sheltered his insides and a long oilskin trench coat sheltered his skin. Snow fell down over his shoulders and onto the unpaved track. He was on an undesignated journey, preparing to rest for the night at an inn a previous passerby had told him about. Smoke gathered in the air in front of him, his lips firm as his breath signals the fire up through the cigarette. He was calm, tired and even bored. He had been walking for miles, passing nothing but pine trees and small ponds. He turned his head slightly and acknowledges one of the ponds, mist hovering above the surface. He shivers. He was glad to be away from it as he sighs in a moment of recollection, talking to only the frosty air that gathers and throws itself in his face. He feels mocked, cheated. Humans intervene with the innocence of nature and in return nature intervenes by retaliation through calamity.

Two hours soon pass and kill his distance. His pace is then interrupted and he comes to a complete halt. He finds himself standing before a metal neon sign that appears as if it’s been decaying in acid. It blinks the words: “Geraldine Gully Inn,” “Vacancy.” This is the place, he thought. Exhausted and intrigued he starts towards the door.

Schist stone outline the two-story building. Towering windows sit in between the stone, the reverse side of the panes reflecting only a manifestation of the darkness throughout. No one answered to the man’s fist thudding against the door, so he entered uninvited. Inside, the walls were covered with velvet wallpaper and the lightbulbs above twitched yellow. Insulation was visible and the stairs hadn’t been completed. It looked as if it was unoccupied entirely, perhaps they were renovating. The man stood in front of the registry office, rang the bell and waited. No one was around and no one came. Furthering his curiosity, he explores his surroundings. To the left of him was a spacious room, a dining area to which chairs were seated around circular tables that gave home to cobwebs and dust. To the right of him was a room with only a freestanding bath. Curious, but hesitant, he walked over and saw that the bath wasn’t that, but in fact a model of a pond. There were plants and trees and rocks and things, each positioned to recreate a landmark. Bewildered, he marvelled at the idea until he recognised that this pond was familiar. A sense of shock ran through his body as the display water began to bubble. He stared, disorientated, and a bubble rose and danced mockingly in front of his face. Inside the bubble was a pond with plants and trees and rocks and things. Inside the pond is a little boy grasping the air for someone to pull him out while his lungs suffocate and his body descends into the water. The man yells in terror, panicked, startled and sickly. He reaches into the bubble to pull the boy out, but his hands too only grasp the air.

A voice then pulls the man out of his momentary lapse of hysteria. “Hello, who’s there?,” a sullen and unfriendly voice calls. The bubble bursts before him and the man’s attention withdraws and follows the voice. He is greeted by a mysterious older woman who wore perfect lines of wrinkles around her eyes. She had witch-like attributes that made him uneasy. Adjusting his posture, he announces hastily; “I would like a room for the night, please.” Her eyes look him up and then down. “Of course you can. You must have journeyed long to find this place. Please, follow me. Your son will be excited to see you.

Written in 2017 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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I’m just doing enough to get by I suppose.

 It feels unusual,

 talking.

About myself.

To no one in particular.

  I’m more frightened than a sudden heartbeat,

 more scared of what will happen next 

of what could happen next  .

I am afraid of my mind.

My mind seeking death.

I am afraid of my perplexed self,

driving out the door–

my soul.

 I don’t understand the world 

and, as I question it ,

I question myself–

I always want to be somewhere else.  

No man, woman, child, animal can help me.

Inspiration might resist grief,

 but only for a short while.

I am saddening  each day

 in a fragile state of in-habitual mind.

My eyes grow tired,

my mind overriding the tide.

I feel torn,

against my own will.

I am really

no where.

I cannot move.

 What do I do? 

I haven’t got a clue.

  It’s starting to rain. 

Raindrops of reality

are finally falling on me.

Can I just be selfish

 and take my own life?

 I’m causing myself too much strife

 I cannot handle this crazy life.  

Goodbye cruel world.

Goodbye me .

Goodbye everything I’ve known to be.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Poetry exercise - Ways of looking

Eyes rising open with the sun,

he sprung up

showing the lads how it was done.

Grey hair, slick back, dark glasses on– winter.

The sea was level with the heartbeats

it carried.

It was going to be a minter.

Nylon, hook, bait, sinker.

A snapper over 20 pound, gaffed

at the gills.

He wasn’t really a tinker.

Holding the head of the fish up high,

tail low– down by his side.

It was as calm and sturdy as the catcher.

Eyes piercing wide with double glazers.

The back of great barrier was home,

and the sea; the key to the door.

Just as the fish were to his heart.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Poetry exercise

I am one.

Of many bodies,

to have sat in this room.

On this pink couch.

It is not my home.

Yet, it is home.

At the age of three

the carpet was changed–

my pig standing in front of me.

I had pigtails in my hair

and my pig grunting by my side.

I knew.

He wanted my apple.

My dog was also there,

fluffy and small.

Dribble– not so small.

St Bernard and a Kunekune pig–

where could one go wrong?

As a child this was all you needed,

except maybe a place to call home.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Burial

The term goes, ‘a mother should never have

to bury her child’. But in this case,

it was the child burying the mother.

The rust tainted shovel that was once

used for shoveling sand, was now used for shoveling

gravel stones onto her mother’s pinewood casket.

The child thought of the time when her and her mother

picked up the white and brown twirled shells at the beach;

not one shell contained an imperfection.

The girl’s tail bone separated from her spine as she bent.

Why didn’t the blackbirds fly when she screamed? Or,

the figure in the dark come to help?

Falling on top of her mother; she was now burying them both.

Wisps of black hair flew around her face

that was now opposite to the child’s elder twin.

She could feel her mother’s presence.

Warmth came up through the casket,

entwining the child’s body like an infested vine.

The shovel remained on the surface,

while the child remained still, trapped,

in a grave that was not meant for her.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

Text

Tribute to Elizabeth Bishop - One Art

Lost in the darkness

I wept.

In crept the pungent harshness

of sweat.

Lonesomeness to me,

it to not forget

For it is everywhere

and hits me wherever it can get.

I don’t expect things to stay,

things usually tire out after a day.

Loss will come at it’s will

and take

take,

take

whatever you won’t kill.

Losing something, or

some

one,

is generally how it has to be

for we are unable to flutter our hearts

as it is considered

greed.

therefore we must be attacked

and with that loss, it will always come back.

Thus loss gradually becomes need

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

Text

Poetry

My day started when I saw his face.

Head poking out the door,

I saw that he saw.

Our eyes immediately lock

and we make our way to the car.

Where we’re going isn’t very far.

He takes my hand and kisses it,

interlocking my fingers within his

we’re in the back of his sisters car,

they’re driving us to Matakana,

it’s half an hour far.

We mumble quiet whispers in the back,

laughing while day turns to black

the sun falls down around us,

sunset colours reflecting off his face,

I don’t think i've ever seen anything so brave

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

Text

Dreamscape

Jake awoke to the violent sounds coming from his square-shaped alarm clock. “Another day another dollar”, Jake mumbles while fiddling to switch it off. He slipped himself out of bed and into his freshly pressed grey suit. It matched almost everything in his house. You could even say it matched his personality. The light was always dull in his apartment, just like his eyes. Jake was a businessman. He would leave for work in the dark and come home by dark. Only two days a week he saw the sun, that’s if the building in front of his wasn’t shadowing it. “You’ve gotta do what you’ve got to do”, he always said.

The traffic was busy this morning. “There’s probably a crash goddamit”, Jake hissed punching his steering wheel. He decided to take a different way to work today, driving his 1990 mitsubishi lancer to the next offramp. Jake was driving along to Newstalk ZB when suddenly a tyre pops on his left rare and his car spins out. It rolls, flipping and tumbling over and over. The car eventually flips upright and lands into a paddock a few kilometres away from civilisation.

Barely conscious, Jake hears a distant voice come closer. “Are you ok, man?”, a head of hair pops in through the window. Jake is dizzy and confused.

The head of hair gets Jake out of the car and lays him on the grass. “Where. Where am I?” Jake looks around in a daze. His head is cut and bruises are starting to form.

The head of hair sticks his hand out, “I’m Noah and you’re in Centerpoint man”. Jake tries to get up but stumbles. Noah lifts Jakes arm over his shoulder and takes him back to campus.

“This is where the family lives. We’re not all related but spirit-wise we all totally are”.

“Why are you speaking so mellow, Noah?”, Jake asks rudely.

“Because I am a mellow dude, man”, Noah shakes his long hair and laughs. Campus was a field of trees and teepees. Psychedelic sheets and tie-dye clothing were hanging from the washing line. Dream catchers and wind chimes hung everywhere.

A young girl with red curly hair sprints up to Noah and Jake. “Oh dear, oh no, what on earth happened?”, the girl pulls out a chair for Jake to sit on. “I’m nina”, she says calmly.“There was an accident Ninz. O’l buddy here survived and rolled through the paddock like a champ!”

Jake didn’t hear anything except Ninas angelic voice. He was captivated taking in all of her; her soft face, her red lips, her eccentric and fiery red hair.

“My names Jake”, Jake says attempting to stand up and failing, falling back down into the chair.

“Thank you for helping me, it’s much appreciated”, Jake says, blushing. He looked like a child who had just got his first wound.

“No problem, Jake”, Nina smiles. “Do you live around here?”

“I was actually just on my way to work…”, Jake says, the lines in his brow frowning.

“Oh man, work is for the wicked. You do look like a pretty serious man, I guess.” Noah says, offering Jake a drink.

Nina brings out some clothes for Jake. A muslin top and tie-dye pants. “Here ya’ go Jake! This is all we have I’m sorry”. Jake had never seen such bizarre clothes before. In some ways it excited him. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you”.

Noah comes out with something in his hand. He passes it to Jake.

“Here you go man, this will help with the pain”, Noah offers it to Jake smiling.

“Oh no, I don’t smoke thanks Noah”,

“It’s not a cigarette man, just try it”. Jake looks up at Noah and slowly takes the stick from his hand. Noah lights it up for him. Jake coughs.

“You gotta inhale dude, breath it in like it’s air from the gods and goddesses”. Jake does this, he didn’t cough.

Suddenly the lights around Jake start flashing, psychedelic colours attack his eyes. Jakes heart pounds. His eyes are wide and his mind is thinking.

“What is this stuff?”, Jake asks in bewilderment. Noah laughs and grins, he grabs Jakes shoulders and whispers, “only the best my friend, only the best”.

Nina appears in the corner of Noah’s eye. She’s smiling. She leans down and kisses Jake on the lips. “Follow me”, she says alluringly. Noah winks, waving him to go with her. Jake follows and is taken captive by her appearance. She takes him to a secret room. Tie-dye sheets are hung everywhere, light colours shading the room.

Jake awkwardly follows Ninas lead. She pushes him onto the bed. It was a combination of every colour possible.

Taking off Jakes muslin top, Nina throws it over a chair. She starts to feel her way around his body, her hands going over his muscles, over his scars and down his stomach. Her lips kiss his shoulders lightly and he shutters. Nina smiles and continues. Reaching her hands down towards his pants, he stops her.

Jake takes control. He picks Nina up and throws her aggressively on the bed. He rips her clothes off and unbuttons his pants. Nina looks up at Jake. She’s scared. He smiles.

“This is how I do it, darling”. Nina goes to scream but her mouth is forced shut by Jakes hand.

“Fighting will get you no where. You asked for this”. Jake slides her underwear down her legs laughing. He forces them open. When he’s done he knocks Nina unconscious and throws her off of the bed. A sudden darkness then starts to swallow him up, pulling him away from the light.

Jake springs up, waking with sweat dripping off of his face. He is puffing, his is heart pounding and his mind racing. He takes in his surroundings. He is back at home. What just happened, he asks himself. Where are the colours?, where’s Nina and Noah?, where am I?.

“This couldn’t of been all just a dream?”, he asks himself.

Running outside he see’s his car. There’s not a mark in sight. Jake grabs his head, pulls his hair and goes back inside. “Must’ve been a dream, has got to be a dream”, he says. Jake goes into the bathroom to have a shower and clear his head. Something catches the corner of his eye. A woman. She has red lips and fiery red hair. She is laying in the bath, on ice. Her head is tilted and her eyes are open, her body bruised. He gasps, his mind remembering everything. He smiles.

“Good morning Nina”.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

Text

Mess

“Hurry up kids! Soccers in 20 minutes!”. Zara, mother of three young boys is currently rushing around the house looking for soccer shoes. God I’ve got business I need to sort out and things to do, can’t these kids of mine just hurry up!, Zara thought while bending to pick up socks.

“Mum, where’s my shoes?”, the oldest son Jimmy asked.

“Here you go, give these to your brothers as well. Hurry up please”. Zara throws all the shoes into Jimmy’s arms and grabs her bag. “I’m in the car waiting!”.

All three boys pile into the car at once. “Mum have you got the ball?”, “Mum have you got our drink bottles?”, “Mum did you bring our socks?”, the boys all ask at once.

Zara runs her hand down her face and grunts, “Yes dearies, I sure do”. The boys all smile and keep talking, all at once.

“Mum wheres dad? is he coming to the game?”, Jimmy asks.

“No honey he’s not, he won’t be home for awhile”, Zara says giving the boys a warm smile.

They arrive at the soccer game. Relief hits Zara as she waves goodbye. “Bye boys, good luck!”, she gives them all a kiss. “Remember your Aunty Jane is picking you up today!”. The boys nod and run off. Zara takes a deep breath, finally.

Zara goes back home. The house is a mess. Clothes are everywhere, on the furniture, on the floor, on the tv. Dishes and toys are also everywhere. Zara sighs.

She gets out her cleaning gloves and puts them on, along with her apron and hair net. She goes into the garage. Getting in her minivan, she moves it forward a few metres. A trap door is revealed. Zara opens the door and makes her way down the narrow stairs. Got to get cleaning products and clean clean clean, she thought to herself.

The doorbell rings. Zara shoots up the stairs and opens the door. “Hello ma’am, how are you? I was just wondering if your husband is about?”. It was Fred from across the road. Living in a friendly neighbourhood Zara was used to this. “Hi Fred! no Dave’s not here unfortunately, you just missed him. Want me to tell him you called over?”, Zara smiles.

“Oh no sugar that’s fine, just wanted to pop over and say howdy! Have a good day there Zara”, Fred smiles, teeth and gums both showing. Zara smiles and waves, shutting the door.

She walks back down the narrow stairs.

Getting to the bottom of the stairs, a pool of blood has seeped into the carpet. Zara gets her cleaning products out and cleans up the mess. Now for an even bigger mess to clean, she thought. She heads over to a locked door. Pulling out the key, she unlocks it.

A figure is laying on the floor, knife wounds marking its whole body.

The husband.

“Hello dear, I’m back”, Zara smiles and closes the door behind her.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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Fiction Exercise

It’s 6am when Ella awakes. She didn’t get much sleep last night, her bed was cold and her stained sheets carried fleas. Little red bites marked their place on the little girl. Her small body was itching, bleeding out in some places. Blonde curls bounce around the girls face, blue eyes blinking away the darkness. Steam escapes her mouth. It is the beginning of winter.

Ella gets out of bed her feet touching the concrete floor, she winced. Winter is not going to be kind to her, especially when you’re not prepared for it.

Ella puts her school uniform on, a white t-shirt and grey callots. This is all her parents can afford for her, at least that’s what they say. “The machines like to take our money away, dear. This is all we can afford”, or “daddy’s drink always comes first, you know he can’t survive without it”. Ella always accepted these excuses, she didn’t know not to.

The two bedroom house perpetually smelt of smoke, this would make Ella cough. She often wondered why her parents would put these sticks in their mouth if it made them cough too.

The kitchen was bare, all except the stainless steel bench top. Glass bottles with labels on them took up most of the bench, the other half bread and a cookie jar. Ella butters herself some bread and cuts it in half. One half for breakfast, and the other for lunch. School was Ella’s favourite place to be. It was warm and friendly, she couldn’t wait to go, especially on this cold day.

Ella is on her way out the door to school. Her father comes out. “Stop! child. Come here”, Ella walks skeptically towards her father, unknowing of what he will do. She didn’t want to be late for school so she hurried towards him. A large figure with a stubbled face looks down at her, it wobbles. A hand, coming out of no where, makes it’s way across the girls face. “How dear you help yourself to that bread! do you know how expensive bread is these days?!”, the little girl grabs her face and looks up at the father. Tears drown her eyes, “I’m sorry, I- I didn’t know”. The father burps, looks at his daughter, raises his head and continues to wobble his way back to his warm bed.

As soon as Ella stepped out of the door a light rain started. She shivered. Her sandals and uniform will be soaking and she was worried her mother might get mad. There is always a free bus to Ella’s school just 5 minutes down her road. The rain was getting heavier and goosebumps started to climb Ella’s body. Ella was relieved when she saw that the bus was there waiting for her. This feeling left as the bus drove off without her. She screamed, ”STOP”. It still didn’t stop.

Walking in the rain Ella sighs, kicking a pebble. She could picture her mother saying, “walking will do you good”. Ella walked and walked, class was nearly starting. She could make it in time if she hurried. Suddenly a wandering dog with no owner comes up to Ella. It captivates her so much she loses the time. Ella picks the scruffy dog up and makes her way to school.

Finally arriving to school, Ella walks into the classroom where her favourite teacher Mrs Honey is waiting. Shivering, wet and bruised, Ella apologises for being late. Mrs Honey runs up to the little girl, tears running down her face. She picks her up and tells her everything will be ok. Mrs Honey gives her warm clothes and a warm drink. Some lady who Ella has never seen before is there too. The badge on her outfit says ‘social worker’. Ella wished Mrs Honey was her family.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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thewriterscollection · 6 years ago

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The Leather Jacket

Dirty-brown shoulder-length hair flicked pine needles onto the only concreted path in the pine-needle-infested forest. Ohlins was allowed in this part. Today was one of his good days. Tomorrow may not be so gentle. Ohlins was institutionalised, admitted to the psychiatric facility, and stuck in the middle of the Herondale forest.

Ohlins religiously wore his leatherjacket, never took it off in fact. Everyone knows that the last time anyone had touched the jacket, well, it was the last thing that they would be able to touch ever again. Crystal chess pieces can be sharpened and should really have been banned from people like Ohlins.

The charcoal jacket symbolised a rebellion that lay within him. Because he was unable to rebel against certain things, such as taking his medications, eating meals, showering and conforming to bullshit rules of the system (as he would say), Ohlins wore a leatherjacket so even though he was unable to rebel physically, he was able to rebel mentally. And boy do I mean mentally.

White weatherboarded walls displayed long, thin carved lines. Ohlins scratched and scratched so hard that having nails was not an option for him anymore. He explained that “someone was trying to get to me! I swear! I swear! It was nuts man, just damn nuts. They were eeeeverywhere! Everywhere!”. But that was a bad day. Apparently people weren’t big fans of him inside his head.

“Where are we going? Do you min-” Ohlins and his last word were being pushed in the crowd

of people. “There is someone new starting here! I heard she’s really pretty and smart!” shy Milly said behind her half-cut curls.

Ohlins was interested and allowed himself to be pushed. Oh push me to her for the love of god! he thought.

“Welcome, Vivian” announced the guests of the ward.

Vivian entered through the hallway and out into the foyer.

“Greetings darlings, how lovely to meet you all”.

Oh dear lord she is British. What a perfect combination with her dirty-blond hair, British accent and cherry-red lips. “I am so going to listen to her and talk her up”, Ohlins matter-of-factly thought and half-said.

Ohlins and Vivian became the best of friends over the period of several months. He would even sneak in a kiss every now and then when the nurses weren’t looking. But Ohlins wasn’t interested in keeping a love; he wanted to get out. And so, through the trickery of love Ohlins convinced Vivian to teach him how to escape. She was an expert. She had tried it herself. I wouldn’t say she was like a female Houdini, no. No, unfortunately it didn’t exactly work out. The fire was a terrible plan on her behalf. She knew she needed help and she wasn’t going to deny it.

Through the endless winter days Ohlins practiced his escape. It was simple really. All he had to do was, be normal. For a few months at least. He really made an effort too, grew his nails out, didn’t scratch, didn’t pull the hair of the nurses or squeeze their butts while they shoved medication down his throat.

Ohlins was getting serious. So serious that he had come to terms with his mind and decided to take off the infamous leatherjacket which left him only wearing white. Ohlins paled and asked his mind, is white supposed to represent purity or what? Because I hate purity. The nurses didn’t have a choice but to let him go. The policy is, that if a member of the unit conforms to all regulations of behavioral assessment over a long period of time, then they have to be granted rights to freedom.

Ohlins ticked all the boxes and left on his way.

Walking through the seldom crisp air, Ohlins could feel tiny hairs turn straight as he walked the plank to the outside world. I am ready for this, I can do it, I can do what I want and so I will. Nothing will stop me now.

Ohlins mind clockworks like a mad recollecting chimpanzee. He has forgotten something.

Ohlins bites his fist in fury, “Oh shit! my leatherjacket! Why did I leave it behind why did I leave it behind. I must go back I need to go back I will go back. I will go right now.”

Running through the Herondale forest, a maze of thin pine trees, Ohlins appears to have found himself lost. Coming to a highway just so proves that. Cars of all colours zoom past him at 100 kilometres per hour. What the hell is going on? Where am I? Wow cars look disgusting these days.

Remembering an old high school trick, Ohlins sticks out his finger. If anyone picks me up, it’s going to be because of my damn purity colours, Ohlins says in a grumbling frustration.

Nevertheless a decent person in a decent car pulls over to the side of the road.

“Where you goin’ son?” The guy had ginger hair. Everywhere. Beard, nose, eyebrows (thick), chest, it was a classic tragedy. “I’m trying to find the psychiatric facility in the Herondale forest,” Ohlins lips chattered. “There’s a road just down from here that leads straight to it. My sister’s in there you see, darling girl, I promised my parents I’d go and see her.”

“Mm. Alrighty, if you say so. Hop in boy.”

The car seats were wearing leather. So was the driver.

He’s wearing a goddamn leatherjacket that sonofabitch.

“Down this road mate?” the driver asks patiently.

“Yeah. Down here.”

The hunk of machinery made it’s way through the forest slowly but surely. “The facility is just over there by that concrete pa-”

Ohlins speech came to a stop. Along with the car..

Where’s the facility. It was just here how could it be gone. WHERE the FUCK is the facility.

Smoke rings lifted off the charcoal remnants, echoing itself into mid-air. Piercing white walls were now tainted with black marks. Everything that was intensely white to begin with was now burnt to a crisp.

“Jesus boy! what the blimey earth happened here?”, not waiting to hear Ohlin’s answer Ginge gets out of the car and runs towards the collapsed building. As if he will find a body in that mess.

Ohlins runs in absolute hysterics screaming, panting and shouting. He grabs the sides of his face with both hands, squeezing his cheeks with half frustration and half bewilderment, “MY FUCKING LEATHERJACKET WAS IN THAT FACILITY AND NOW IT’S GONE. MY JACKET IS GONE.”

Ginge stares at the wild-haired man in front of him, wondering how he could care more about his jacket turning to ash than the people. “Uh. Who gives a shit about your jacket boy. A lot of people must’ve died here ya’ know! good grief. Plus you can always buy a new one you know bro.” “NO I CAN’T. THAT JACKET WAS EVERYTHING TO ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT.”

Ginge was taken aback, “woah calm down there son.”

Ohlins paces around madly then stops. He gets a wicked look in his empty soulless eyes.

He is scanning the driver’s jacket.

“You know what I think Ginge?”, the driver looks around nervously. His ginger hair sticking up like a cat under attack. His car is about 30 feet away. Ginge grunts.

“I think that you.. STOLE MY JACKET. NOW GIVE IT BACK YOU GINGER MOTHERFUCKER”

The driver runs back to his car as fast as his legs will take him. He trips. Specifically he is tripped by Ohlin’s foot. Ohlins grabs hold of the driver and thrusts his fist upon Ginge’s face. Ginge fight’s back, “Get off of me you damn psychopath!!”, “YOU HAVE MY LEATHERJACKET!” Ohlins wrestles and fights, pine-needles now infesting Ohlin’s hair.

Ohlin’s dark eyes spot a useful rock.He gets off Ginge and runs to pick up the rock. Meanwhile Ginge is up and off back to his car. Ohlins is too busy with the rock. He started stroking it, singing to it.

Just as the driver opens his car door he feels a sharp, deathly pain in the back of his skull. Ohlins has thrown the rock.

Ginge manages to turn around just in time to see the dark, evil-faced man whose eyes lit up the whole forest in darkness.

Ohlins smiles and takes the leatherjacket off of the driver.

He puts it on. It’s still warm.

Ohlins starts walking aimlessly into the midst of the forest.

God, finally I have that leatherjacket back. I thought I had truly lost myself.

Written in 2015 - by DG

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