My greatest fear
is not failure
pain
or even death.
My greatest fear
is another
failing to think
and doing
what they think
I bid.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2012
I undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
21 December 2013
The New Keeper (short story)
Freshwater eels are born in the salt water of the ocean, after a journey of months, a journey of which almost nothing is known for many species.She could see a swirl of movement, of dust and swept leaves ... obviously a gust of wind - but it was a windless day, and she was under a dense canopy of trees which was not moving. She knew of willy-willys, the small dust devils or tornadoes of the open, flat, hot outback - her car had once been partially lifted and dragged from one side of the road to the other by one - but not this swirl of wind in uneven space dense with trucks and boulders to prevent movement and shaded from the driving power of the Sun.
Cautiously, she moved towards the area.
Nothing. Just leaves, twigs, debris - typical forest floor litter, although something nagged at her.
She straightened, saw a couple of other areas of movement, and then covered her face as the movement started where she was.
What was going on?!
She listened as the swirl moved away, and noticed that all three swirls were moving in straight lines, lines that would converge at a sandbank in the river.
This is not possible.
Insulated from her fear by her scepticism, she remembered a path that would take her to a vantage spot above that sandbank where the paths would converge. She turned sideways, and bolted along well known paths until, a minute or so later, she could gently move a branch, and see -
... a mound of leaves, brown, writhing, moving as a single swirling mass that looked like a car sized beetle. The mound positioned itself on the river, and then a stony - literally made of stone, the sceptical part of her mind noted to itself - pair of arms appeared over the side of the stationary mound of wriggling leaves and rested on them, clasping hands, as if leaning on a shelf, followed by a head which tapered into broad shoulders at the top of the arms.
The hands unclasped, and one patted the mound, as if patting a faithful dog on the head, and then she heard a voice - well, she called it a voice, but it was really the grinding sound of rocks dragging over each other, and yet ... and yet, she could hear the words in it.
"Now, kids, you've done very well, and I'm proud of you. We've lost of couple of you, but I think they'll be with us soon, so, stay together for this next bit."
And then the head tilted towards her. It had eyes! She could see what looked like eyes, maybe they were really just shapes gouged or worn in the rock, but they were sure like eyes.
And then one of the eye shapes CHANGED IT'S SHAPE, for all the world looking as if it had winked at her, and there was a swirl of wind on the sandbank just ten metres away, across a shallow channel with a uneven, rocky bottom that she knew she could safely walk across, forcing her to close her eyes, and when she opened them, the sandbank was free of the car's worth of leaves, and it's stony sentinel - not even a footprint or mark left behind.
And then she realised what had nagged at her mind, back in the forest of eucalyptus: the floor litter she had been looking at was from a deciduous forest. She gave up to the fear and shock then, her body sagging sideways against a convenient rock as her mind fled screaming to hide in inner haunts and sob like a scared child until it could regain its courage and subside the screams into little hiccoughs of doubt.
She stayed like that a while, until she had recovered enough to start trying to rationalise, and then she saw the leaf. It was an oak leaf, on a branch an arm's length away, stuck on a branch, one corner moving back and forth for all the world like someone trying to wave in a friendly, reassuring fashion - a stranger saying "See? I know your ways - I am not a threat." This time, her body also fled, until she out of the forest, and she could hide in the long grass in a cleared area nearer to town.
She stayed there for an hour, as the sun passed its zenith, and the day heated. She'd often hidden, as a child, in similar grass, hidden from the horrors of life in an orphanage. She'd tried to do the same one day she had become separated from the other kids on a school excursion ... but she'd only done that after she had tried, politely, to get the attention of some adults to help her. She'd even tried to wave to some of them. It was then she saw the leaf ...
An oak leaf, brown, the way they are when they fall in autumn - not the way they are at the end of summer. She looked at it, and made a decision. She could remember where the other leaf was, and carefully picked this one up. It quivered a little, like a kitten settling in to a comfortable hand, and she quivered in return, but not like a kitten, and turned back to the forest, the mysterious forest where she had been drawn for so many years, and felt, in her innermost mind, that place her consciousness had fled to, a grinding of rocks that, for all the world, sounded like "thank you".
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
20 December 2013
[Content Warning] Undone
Trapped.
Doomed.
Shut in, and off.
My goals undone,
my life a waste,
decisions and desires
of mine
o'erlooked
or undone.
I could give
so much
- much more
but I am out
of step
and time.
At work
they want
the big pic
the profitable win
and no-one
- not client,
nor peers,
cares to fix
the basic wrongs
- they must think
all grunts the same,
all graduates
good enough,
and experience
counts for naught,
and all are the same,
and I cannot
even
flee.
A prophet,
'tis said,
is not listened to,
in her life,
so I must be
a prophet
- either that,
or mad.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
Doomed.
Shut in, and off.
My goals undone,
my life a waste,
decisions and desires
of mine
o'erlooked
or undone.
I could give
so much
- much more
but I am out
of step
and time.
At work
they want
the big pic
the profitable win
and no-one
- not client,
nor peers,
cares to fix
the basic wrongs
- they must think
all grunts the same,
all graduates
good enough,
and experience
counts for naught,
and all are the same,
and I cannot
even
flee.
A prophet,
'tis said,
is not listened to,
in her life,
so I must be
a prophet
- either that,
or mad.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
15 November 2013
[Content Warning] A Mourning of Friends
They're all gone now,
a change of scene,
a new partner,
and I am alone
- no bulwarks left,
no support
against the
crises of life,
and that which
is coming.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
a change of scene,
a new partner,
and I am alone
- no bulwarks left,
no support
against the
crises of life,
and that which
is coming.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
14 November 2013
[Content Warning] The Banes of Easy Street
Money
- bane of the living;
Naiveté
- bane of leaders
everywhere;
Stupidity
- bane of workers;
Economics
- bane of society;
Rhyme
- bane of amateur poets.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
- bane of the living;
Naiveté
- bane of leaders
everywhere;
Stupidity
- bane of workers;
Economics
- bane of society;
Rhyme
- bane of amateur poets.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
07 November 2013
[Content Warning] Sleepless in spring
The cats are hovering
- anxious, nurturing.
showing me their ...
well, if not love,
devotion.
The dog's tail
thumps the floor
in noisy pleasure
- another happy
to see me,
as would be,
no doubt, my love
- were she awake,
as I am
this muggy four
in the morning.
Tossing in bed
worked not
- nor did getting up
and reading.
Mayhap this poem
will lay to rest
the pounding dread
the ceaseless worry
that kills all joy
and life of heart.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
- anxious, nurturing.
showing me their ...
well, if not love,
devotion.
The dog's tail
thumps the floor
in noisy pleasure
- another happy
to see me,
as would be,
no doubt, my love
- were she awake,
as I am
this muggy four
in the morning.
Tossing in bed
worked not
- nor did getting up
and reading.
Mayhap this poem
will lay to rest
the pounding dread
the ceaseless worry
that kills all joy
and life of heart.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
02 November 2013
The Grip (short story)
"It's new", she said, as if that explained everything.
"But it's exactly the same!", he replied, bewildered.
Bewildered was a good explanation of how he felt almost all of the time, of late, in this strange new world he had found himself in one morning. He'd gone to sleep in his apartment in London, and woke with a thump, several bruises and a headache falling to her kitchen floor. She'd been about to drink some coffee with a friend, and the minor burns from their spilled cups hadn't helped. Still, she'd adapted remarkably well, and now, a few weeks later, he was about to go to work for the first time.
"It's the same as the other portfolio", he continued.
"Oh rubbish - it's nothing like the other!"
"But ... how can it be different? They're the same size, the same ... function. Same .. everything."
She looked at him pityingly. He was like a child. Well, she better explain it to him, then.
"I see. Well, it's the corners. Look, the portfolio has rounded corners - so last season, but the grip has square corners. It's totally different, totally new, and ex-ci-ting!" she almost sang.
"You had to come up with a different name for that ... that small of a difference?"
She bristled. "Well, of course, says the man who says there's more than one type of fork."
He shook his head. "Well, where I come from, there are."
She stopped him. "Don't. I've heard it all before."
She glanced at the floor, and, curious, asked "What's this creation you've been working on all night? And what's it for?"
He grinned, and replied "I'll show you."
With that, he put one arm through a strap, hefted it to his back, and fiddle until his other arm went through the strap, watching her eyes get bigger as he did so.
"It's called a backpack."
"Huh - terrible name. But ... why do you want to wear that?"
He sighed. "I'll put my lunch, and notes and anything else I want for work in it. The weight goes across the shoulders, and it's easy to carry, leaves your hands free, and can't be snatched easily by thieves."
Her eyes opened wider as the concept got through. "Ohhh ..."
She frowned. "It's different - really different, I'll grant you that, but ... do many people in your world have them?"
"Yes, they're quite popular in some areas. The load is even across both shoulders, unlike"-he put up a hand to forestall her-"the multiple, individually named variations of satchels that you have."
She sniffed. "Hm. Ah well, I doubt something like that would catch on here. It's too ... different."
"But", he replied, bewildered again "it's so functional."
She smiled, "Well, so you claim, but we've got a long history of developing things like that, and I think if we had needed it, or it would be that much use to us, our people would have come up with the idea by now."
He thought they'd been so focused on small variations that they'd missed the bigger picture, but kept his peace as they went their different ways to work.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
"But it's exactly the same!", he replied, bewildered.
Bewildered was a good explanation of how he felt almost all of the time, of late, in this strange new world he had found himself in one morning. He'd gone to sleep in his apartment in London, and woke with a thump, several bruises and a headache falling to her kitchen floor. She'd been about to drink some coffee with a friend, and the minor burns from their spilled cups hadn't helped. Still, she'd adapted remarkably well, and now, a few weeks later, he was about to go to work for the first time.
"It's the same as the other portfolio", he continued.
"Oh rubbish - it's nothing like the other!"
"But ... how can it be different? They're the same size, the same ... function. Same .. everything."
She looked at him pityingly. He was like a child. Well, she better explain it to him, then.
"I see. Well, it's the corners. Look, the portfolio has rounded corners - so last season, but the grip has square corners. It's totally different, totally new, and ex-ci-ting!" she almost sang.
"You had to come up with a different name for that ... that small of a difference?"
She bristled. "Well, of course, says the man who says there's more than one type of fork."
He shook his head. "Well, where I come from, there are."
She stopped him. "Don't. I've heard it all before."
She glanced at the floor, and, curious, asked "What's this creation you've been working on all night? And what's it for?"
He grinned, and replied "I'll show you."
With that, he put one arm through a strap, hefted it to his back, and fiddle until his other arm went through the strap, watching her eyes get bigger as he did so.
"It's called a backpack."
"Huh - terrible name. But ... why do you want to wear that?"
He sighed. "I'll put my lunch, and notes and anything else I want for work in it. The weight goes across the shoulders, and it's easy to carry, leaves your hands free, and can't be snatched easily by thieves."
Her eyes opened wider as the concept got through. "Ohhh ..."
She frowned. "It's different - really different, I'll grant you that, but ... do many people in your world have them?"
"Yes, they're quite popular in some areas. The load is even across both shoulders, unlike"-he put up a hand to forestall her-"the multiple, individually named variations of satchels that you have."
She sniffed. "Hm. Ah well, I doubt something like that would catch on here. It's too ... different."
"But", he replied, bewildered again "it's so functional."
She smiled, "Well, so you claim, but we've got a long history of developing things like that, and I think if we had needed it, or it would be that much use to us, our people would have come up with the idea by now."
He thought they'd been so focused on small variations that they'd missed the bigger picture, but kept his peace as they went their different ways to work.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
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