Some published works

Dear 2021,

I realize you have left me mentally and physically exhausted and thus, crippled, in my literary schemes. For this, and maybe a few other reasons too, I resent you. I have gone through many ups and downs in the last two years and I see my future filled with the same amount of excitement I've lived through before. I'm also terrified of any endeavors I have planned within your realms, susceptible to your whims and fancies. 

And such, seeing as you have followed the footsteps of your predecessors, I want to remind you that you have collectively failed to reduce me. And, to prove my point, I leave you with two of my published written works, available to all my dearest readers here.

The Journal of Artistic Creation and Literary Research 

            Complutense University of Madrid 

        

            Artistic Creation ISSN 2340-650X

            

            JACLR 2019 - Volume 7 - Issue 2 - C

                    Link to site

                

                    Link to pdf 

                    *the email provided in the document does not correspond to my own email address

Opera Prima Publishing House

            Anthology Mashup 2020 - Fantastical Creatures and the Classics

            

            ISBN: 978-84-9946-536-4

                    Link to site

                    Link to pdf

                    *the short story can be found on pages 5-11

All my love to my loyal readers, who still message me requesting more of my ramblings. To you, I promise literary ceaseessness. To the newfound travelers who have more recently encountered said ramblings, welcome, I hope you'll forgive my lack of consistency. Life has taken advantage of a busy schedule, which I hope one day will be no more than a distant remembrance. 

Here, if you will allow me, I reiterate two important facts. Ab initio, my work is fictional. Though some interpretation, inspiration, understanding of my world seeps through, don't glide through unrealistic reality. And finem suum, I keep edited copies of my work to myself. To the world (on this blog), I present developed versions of the rough drafts, which I believe display the transparency behind the process, and the reason behind some rough grammatical readings at times. However, my disclaimer to this latter explanation resides in the characterization of my work as that of abstract nature, which is not meant to be confused with ungrammatical, as some have kindly pointed out to me before. 

And so, with this gentle reminder of my existence, I retreat once more to the person behind the screen, with only the following to end my note to you:

More to come...

Esther Alós-Ordiales

When Shipped Away

It started out in the bar around the corner. The bar I never remembered the name of, so it was left to the bar around the corner. Even when time had passed, too much time, and the neighborhood changed, we moved, the owner sold the place. But it was still the bar around the corner, the bar where it had all started. And where it ended.

It was a whirlwind romance, the kind the movie industry likes to advertise. Woman and man meet at a bar, fall for each other’s eyes, and get swept up in the romance and fairytale of it all. The day I met him, sleek jeans and a pink shirt. And that cologne, that cologne that surrounded the aroma of his soul, left on my bedsheets for days on end, breezing through my apartment. In his smell, I bloomed. I still remember how that scent of his wafted through the bar around the corner, lingering on my beer and finding a home on the bottles and napkins scattered all over the place. How we laughed about it months after, the way my eyes darted to his as he walked past, searching for the owner of what smelled like hidden dreams. We laughed as we remembered the subtle-less intake of air I took. But we stopped laughing when we remembered his own intake of air, a gasp of sorts, an exclamation of admiration, fascination, inclination. That day we spoke what our hearts had kept hidden in their burrows, the first time we shared our soul with each other.

And then there was Madrid. An abrupt change induced by the promise of better lives. Within the busy streets, the loud chatter, the continuous smiles, we found a new home to build on. We even discovered a bar that resembled the bar around the corner, a feeling of giddiness that overtook us when we first encountered it, of feeling we had never actually left home, just evolved with it. And how we fought for it, defending it, refusing to let the illusion fall from our grasp. When it got boarded up and abandoned, we let go. From our hands fell the mirage turned desperation. Because it wasn’t the bar around the corner, it never quite crept into our lives with the same sudden fervor of love. We buried our sorrow, we had each other in this new frantic world. We turned to coffee.

And with the introduction of coffee in our lives, we continued to be happy. Thrown into a city with Sunday breakfasts and life based on social interactions, we had coffees with newfound friends. Tuning into the secrets of the city, we found the cheap paces, the homely ones. We entered into the ways of a happy city starting its sunny summer. Madrid accepted us for ten months, by which then closeness had solidified our love. Walking the small streets, strolling throughout the green pockets of air, enjoying the scale numbers going up with each meal shared. And with the meals, we shared our lives and we shared our hearts. I had never met anyone like him, a combination of odd parts merging into my quirks. From eternal conversations of weather and philosophy, of shopping lists and literary analyses, from weekly household tasks to witty irony. And the silences. The silences which at times we secluded ourselves in, a bubble clouded in a display of misty thoughts, in a comprehension of the volumes unspoken, in the appreciation of sitting and being, of each other.

April is the cruelest month, a synonym found in a commonly adored work, and we left Madrid amidst untroubled vivacity. Paris, the city of love, was to be our upcoming destination.  We were excited about the promised romance, we searched for the inside jokes the city whispered, we looked forward to an ever after. We were mistaken. We confused romance with lust, love with terror, appreciation with confusion. But what a city. We fell in love with Paris with a vehemence close to the love we felt towards Madrid. We fell in love with the roaming arms of the river, the moody skies prone to surprise showers, the atmosphere of sophistication. We even fell in love with the crowds of tourists, understanding and smiling along, for Madrid had trained us well, for beauty attracts adoration. It must have been the dream, it must have. It must have been the dream of love in the city of lights, for as we fell in love with Paris too, we were running out of love for each other. Paris had us for half the time Madrid did.

And then we were home, to where it all had started. And conversations no longer revolved around future plans, and silences were interrupted with T.V. nonsense when they started becoming uncomfortable. We put our lives in order and held a yard sale, disposing of the baggage in our hearts along with material memories. He sold his pink shirt, I turned the dress of the first night into rags for the kitchen spills. We fell into a spiral of lack of self-control, we forgot past love, we delved into illogical explanations of what seemed an unnatural romance.

And then I was alone. And fake romance played into my life once more, sitting on the bench with the rain falling onto my face, getting drenched in a metaphor of sadness. Except this wasn’t a movie anymore, this was my heart crying, yearning for the carefree rain in Paris, for the sunny terraces in Madrid, not this heart-wrenching coldness. And I had never thought reality could involve love so powerful and so deep, I never thought I’d find in someone else what I never knew I needed. He had changed me, helped me grow, and we had evolved together, in a hurricane of emotions and happiness. He had walked away from me, those sleek jeans in a box left behind for goodwill, his hands full and his heart empty. And I had watched him leave, with shredded thoughts and dashed hopes, waiting for the scene in which he would turn around and regret it. Regret the times we had left the disagreement fester between us, regret the times where differences were held accountable for unreasonable responses, regret the moment we decided to not fight for the feelings dripping through our fingers onto the floor. But he continued walking away, taking with him the aroma I once called home, and I continued to sit on the bench until he disappeared from view. Past the bar around the corner.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Esther Alós-Ordiales © All rights reserved 

Reverie

He's started writing poetry again.

He says it's not an outlet. At least, it isn't as much of an outlet as it used to be. He says that for now, all it is is a habit. And habits die hard, so he says. But it's stopped being art.

He doesn't let her read it anymore. It's too painful. And he's no longer as strong as he was with the pain. He can no longer escape pain as easily as he used to. Funny how important that fact used to be to him. How he would strut around like the inflated peacock he thought he was. Funny how his ability to move beyond any excruciating pain defined the basis of his character. How he would think of himself as a tree rooted in strength with all the branches coming out developing his personality.

He knows it's a waste of time to think about her. All that ever did was bring an onslaught of negative thoughts that never failed to make his day somewhat worse. Has it prompted his return to the world of poetry? But it's not poetry, it's a desperate attempt for life.

I never longed for winter, your presence always made me shiver.

It's hard to believe that sometimes things change radically for the worse and sometimes so suddenly.

Sometimes, outside in the cold, you would never notice the chilly brisk in an afterthought of the morning breeze. The soothing winds in a blistering summer heat. 

Some mornings are harder than others, but he thought he could pull through it. Thought, past tense.

When the forgotten whispers started to undulate around you, the changes had already been put into motion

Some nights are better than most, the thoughts being drowned out by the overbearing weight of the rest of the sleepless nights. She was curled up beside him, her feet always cold, her body always smaller. The soothing presence only comparable to the stars that blinked above them. And when she's there, he sleeps through the night, sleep so deep it resembles only age-old trees silencing the forest.

The brisk thoughts that would arise from being in your presence. The overtone that changed my heart.

The nights she's not there, though. Restless sheep jumping through the air, no meadow in sight, crashing and breaking bones, no graceful leaps. These nights he can only think of the infinite studies for sleeping drugs that never work on him. The anesthesia isn't created from the other drugs that helped thousands though. It's created from the exhaustion of tear ducts, the natural development of logic turned to the heart.

The warmth everyone searches for never appeared when I was beside you. I was summer, you were winter. 

When he writes his poetry, he sits down in front of a pencil and paper. It is never a pen he uses because a pencil can be erased. And some memories that come out of the graphite don't deserve to hold on to an afterlife. They deserve to serve as a temporary reprieve and disappear forever into the eraser muck, they deserve to be banished from existence with the hand that draws them. The acknowledgment of bitterness turned into sweet nothingness.

You were the fading light in the midst of blue larkspur. I was the tanning sun amongst the patches of black-eyed Susan. 

While most days the paper never sees life, he will give it the attention it craves, for hours if need be. It's a mixture between the want of the remembrance and the hate of the memories, leading to the ultimate lack of scripture. But it's getting better, he says. He's started writing poetry again.

But every cold spell is fought with the warmth of homemade soup. And you adored my soups. And every desert needs it's chillier nights to give momentary respite to its inhabitants.

She's the inspiration to his recovery, the cause of his desolation. And the days she sat beside him. She's his best work, she's his worst thoughts. And the days she would have her hand curled up in his hair. She chases away the black, the very blackness that comes to her call. And the days a kiss on the shoulder was the replacement of the cigarette he would start craving. Her power fuels him, it sucks his energy out of him. And the days hours turned to minutes, when silence spoke of the unspoken love.

You weren't the yin to my yang because each of us had the other already in us, we were two semi-complete souls in search of our last missing piece. I was your old-comforting blanket, you were the ice in my cocktail. You were me, and I was you. 

But the seasons are changing and the wind is getting restless. I don't know how much strength my sail has left in it, how much life I can give giving it, the stitches are no longer holding it together. I've tried to give myself more stitches and I'm running out of thread. Stitches aren't enough for a broken heart. 

But why is it cold suddenly?

The whisper of your body leaving the room, the changes my life took in from you, the best unimaginable version of a person You created. You're gone now and 

That cold touch he recognizes. He's looking around, his vision blurry, his heart pounding.

You're gone now and I no longer have it in me to feel anymore. You are this 

It's too familiar, the breath he feels over his shoulder, the perfume he used to love smelling on her, the correct size of the hand he used to hold so often.

You are this poem, the winds of life you took with you. You are the

It can't be! He's starting writing poetry again to stop living in her memory. He can't have her in his life anymore, he has to stop imagining she's there with him. Deep breaths he's so used to going through to stop the inevitable anxiety attacks her memory brought him.

You are the life I no longer have, the soft light in a muted world. I'm tumbling down the dark crevice your death opened for me. I'm turning into nothing without you.

And yet, it is. She's here with him, he knows.

She was gone, he promised her he would live on. He promised himself he wouldn't be able to live without her.

But she's here, he knows.

Bringing her death to memory is much too painful, but he can't stop from chastising himself for being so bold to think she's still alive. Death is final, death is ultimate, death is the one unchanging shift in the continuous change of the universe. Death has her in a tight hold.

But she's here. He knows it's her breath he's feeling over his shoulder, he knows it's her perfume he's smelling, he knows the hand resting on his shoulder is hers, he knows those eternally curious eyes are reading the poem he's writing for her. The previously blackened room is dawning with her presence.

But, once more my love, you save me. You bring the cooling thoughts to my overheated heart. 

He writes for her, he writes with her. He's started writing poetry again.

Only this time, he's not escaping a reality without her. He's started writing poetry again to show everyone, to show himself, the wonderful soul that she was. He's starting writing poetry to feel again, to live again, to keep her alive.




-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Esther Alós-Ordiales © All rights reserved 

The Way History Breaks Us

The elevation of expectations gives way to the incoherency of desire. An urgent tendency to become something linked to the past itself, dreams that overrule logistics algorithms.

But what you've done quite mistakes the matter.

The curious resurrection of an infinite doubt, timeless in the passing of time. Pessimistic or glass-half-full regrets to mention the overvalue given to the revelation distraught.

Unkempt expectations that lean against the ribcage in a pounding of everlasting forgetfulness. The importance then bears down on the feeling of a state of surpass which unwillingly becomes a willful action.

 Curious how thoughts go through the process of distastefull descent.

How forgiveness, being the (soul) motivator to go back to the tasteful, pushes aside what leads to survival. The dripping into the well where expectations breed the overprotected wall the dam forgot to give attention to.

Because then the only solution for the grief is called to attention again by own pull.

The mistaken manner history forced the betrayal to blindside. Because of course, the other side is silent. Because of course, the expectations renew their energy into the darkest energy they have.

Pummeled into our brains to live out tough love.

Please don't forget expectations are merely specks of misinformation drained though imaginative mentality. The rare occasion of mislead expectations should shine through the rare connotations and foresee the unrare.





------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Esther Alós-Ordiales © All rights reserved 

A Shell With No Body

The walls echo with the silence of your steps. The windows only reflect the fading light in the morning. Birds sing empty songs and my body reacts with the absence of your touch.

They say time can heal anything. But how much time is supposed to pass then? Should I count the seconds since I last saw you or should I count the hours that have passed since the last sunset we saw. I could count the endless minutes spent in your embrace, when the minutes were hours and the hours days, when time meant nothing but a word.

I doubt I could describe what I'm feeling by saying I have a broken heart. It's more of a screaming match against my pillow 3 am. Waiting for water to boil and breaking down because there's still a packet of your favorite tea left that I see when I take mine. It's sitting on the bench because the bus is late and realizing you usually waited with me. Eyes wide open staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, numb. It's turning on the TV to distract myself, only to find the last episode of the series we never got to finish together.

I miss you.

I'm lost. Lost in the memory of your eyes, the way they lit up as if the sun were shinning in them. Lost in the memories of your mouth, where love crossed physical barriers. Lost in the memory of your ears, your nose, the way you always listened to me and the way you said your favorite smell was mine.

I miss you.

I still remember our lazy days. How we lay on the couch watching reruns between kisses. How we sat at the table in the dining room doing whatever work we had to catch up on, legs brushing between strokes of pencils. How we figured out how to cook that horribly complicated recipe we found online and we ended up having to open all the windows because we burnt it. Those days we wouldn't get out of bed because, outside the covers, only cold waited to attack us, intertwining our legs seeking the warmth of the other.

You're everywhere.

Home doesn't feel like home anymore. There are only empty walls around me, a house that is no longer a home. The bed is desolate without you, and I can't sleep anymore. Maybe one day I'll find that spot in the house where your presence lingers less. But, for now, you're everywhere. It hurts more at night, when I turn around to be in your arms, only to find cold air and empty sheets.

You're everywhere but you're gone.

I didn't think you could do so much damage. I didn't think you could move on so quickly when I can barely form any coherent thoughts about you. I didn't think losing you would tear my world apart. I didn't think that I would break down at random moments during my day. I know it's love. And love has been compared to a flower blooming in spring.  I believe in comparing love to a river. To me, love is a river that is eternally flowing, not a spring flower that blooms only once. I just didn't think it would hurt this much.

I love you.

I try to keep myself busy, but I always end up coming back to you. Every time I hesitate, you jump into my thoughts again. I've let go of any physical thing that reminded me of you but I can´t let go of the memories, I can't let go of our walks hand in hand with no destination in mind, I can't let go of your smile. I can't just throw my thoughts in the trash, I can't just walk away from you. 

I miss our conversations in the dark of the night, a bowl of popcorn balanced between us. When we would tell our deepest secrets and make fun of each other. I miss our conversations during breakfast, both too sleepy to talk about anything coherently, but trying to mutter plans for the day and wishing luck. I miss our conversations driving back home from having dinner out, talking about what now might have been. Those conversations about our future. The cat we would adopt and the bizarre names we came up with for our children, the first car we would buy together and the toys we would buy at Christmas. How you whispered in my ear, one cold winter night, that we would grow old and cuddle up together on the couch, seeing comfort for our weary limbs and finding it in the touches of the love we would share.

Solitary melancholy.

I feel your ghost standing behind me as I sit for dinner with my parents. You're their ghost too, one constant flashback conversation starter. You're in my brother's mouth, telling me to call you because he found one of the collection cards you gave him. My mother still has hopes of seeing you walk through the door with me, hand in hand, as if you never let go. My father still waits for you so you can fix his old truck together.

My boat is drifting and you left me without the paddles.

I even miss our fights. The adrenaline running through our systems, strong feelings overpowering are sane thoughts. I keep thinking about the way you would say sorry, drawing me in to the honest truth in your eyes. How the harsh words would vanish into our hugs. You were never resentful, while I was brutally honest. And now, I'm the resentful one, despising all the hate between us.

Love is so much more than three words.

I honestly thought we would have the whole world together. I see a picture of a cute animal and my first response is to send it to you. All those inside jokes nobody else got, little comments that would make us roar in laughter. I remember when we were joing around and you said I was your queen and that we would rule the world together. We honestly believed that once, we thought we would conquer everything, anything. But now I just feel alone, lost at sea, and I can't find anything to hold on to. You were once my one stable thing in my life and now I don't know where to hold on. I can't seem to stop bumping into things or forgetting the rest of my sentence. I never knew what people meant when they said they felt lost. Until now.

The walls echo with the silence of your steps. They echo a love left behind. The windows only reflect the fading light in the morning. They reflect what once was. Birds sing empty songs and my body reacts with the absence of your touch. We'll both tell our story one day, to someone else who has taken all our love once again. We'll tell our story one day, remembering only what joy it brought us. We'll tell our story one day, when we no longer break down at the sound of each other's name. We'll tell our story one day, you'll see.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Long absence, I know. Extremely long. Please forgive me, a lot of stuff has been going on in my life for a while now and I just didn't feel like writing. I'm back again though, and this time I'm staying for a while. For the few people reading this that know me personally, I'd like to repeat that while I do draw inspiration from things happening in my life, that doesn't mean that what I write is based on real events, even if what I write looks like it is.

I love you.

Read, enjoy, share, comment, love.

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

The Wind is Full of a Thousand Voices

And he has asked me time after time why the words coming out of my mouth are never honest enough, and he has asked me time after time why they don't seem real, why it looks like I'm constantly lying. And I don't know how to answer, I don't know what to tell him because maybe, all that's left for me to do is to actually feel what I'm saying.

And the nights pass and time goes on its merry way and the words coming out of my mouth are just what they were before, and I'm still the shell of a forgotten memory. 

And he asks me if I can feel or if the person laying next to him is just made of stone, if he has the power of Medusa on me. And I can see the joke but, underneath, underneath I can see the pain. He's hurting and I'm the knife that's being stabbed through his heart, like an eternity in the gaze of the sun.

He's dying out, and taking me with him, but how can I say he's the one killing me when I'm the water to his fire. How can I say he brings me pain when the pain I give him is the torment and torture of his existence. Until the very moment he tells me I'm dead. The very moment my shell has finally come to its end, and with me dying, he is slowly fading away, being me the the light to his shadow. 

But I can only hope to turn around what he says, and I can only hope that I am in time to make him live. So the last time he tells me I'm empty, I show him my computer, for I have managed to convince my decaying brain to function, and test the limits of my heart. For what he sees is my soul;

My heart can only respond to my brain, yet my brain can only respond to my heart. How is it that when I look at you I'm paralyzed, how is it that when you're the one feeling down, I can only feel the endless needles in your heart.

What you once told me has never been closer to the truth, for I can only write what I feel. And how can I even imagine to share my love when I have never been in love, and how can I carry the torch of hope when I barely even carry my own weight. How can I express the bare sentiments of love when love has never captured me.

But time is different, and thing change, and now my heart desires to let go and tell you my love. For the Medusa effect is long gone, and stone can be broken to reveal the true depth of a work of art. And even then, stone can be forged, stone can be ticked away and made into something never seen before. And to me, oh darling of mine, it is inclined to be the latter. Your love has chiseled me to become the very statue of David, it has made me what you so anxiously yearned for, and what my heart of marble has finally decided to say. 

For a statue to become waves riding smoothly through the ocean, for a mass of rock to become eagles soaring the sky, one can only begin to imagine the transformation. But such transformation requires great sacrifice and great energy, and the only energy ever enough to make it happen is the energy of love. Oh sweet desire of mine, now I can only begin to tell you what love is, now is the moment when someone as uncertain of love as me, is seeing what others say is the light at the end of the tunnel. But you must understand. Love for me wasn't simply something that didn't appeal to me, it wasn't something missing in my life. Love was, to me, nonexistent. And you must understand that the words flowing through my fingers are but fragments of what gift I now possess. For what other thing could love be but imagination filled with desire, what other thing can it be but the fragments of what one believes to me. Is it still not clear? Has my damaged heart not even begun to comprehend love? Alas, it is all that.

So shall I return to my nullified existence, where only the wind shall disturb my innermost thought, or should I put up a brave front and realize what never will be again. And after many sleepless nights, my darling moon, should I tell you that my running thoughts have only begun to venture into the deep abyss of love? Because you must know, of course, that we cannot be defined, and you must know, of course, that if love has ever been defined, thousands of hundreds of speeches, and poems, and songs and movies and books, hundreds of thousands of thoughts about love would have been a waste of time. So you can only pray, my sweet, that this slab of clay can manage to bring out what a never-ending list of talents has managed to borderline. Seeing all of this, you must understand, of course, the uneasy feeling in my chest for I shall never be good enough to express these emotions to you. 

But the emotions are running through my veins and I can't help but try to write them down. It is an overpowering illusion, a sentiment of freedom. And honesty. Honesty like you've never seen it before, that is what love is. Its the raw sensation of being naked to yourself, its a finally untapped bottle, laid after years and years on the most homely table to exist. 

Love is the power that is driving me to write this and love is the very reason we live. Yes, we might survive on our daily life. But think to yourself, are you really living? Are you being propelled forward by a force so powerful it has moved even the strongest of men? Why even the fiercest have waved the white flag to be free of this feeling of power? And I shan't go further, for only a firm disbeliever of love can tell you that love exists. Only someone who has argued hundreds of times of the creation of love, someone so convinced love could never exist and has been made for the most simple men. Only someone as myself.

So the stone perhaps is not stone, but a material who is guarded against the existence of something so fragile as love. As delicate as a new, blooming bud, love can move the wind. A feeling, a creation of thoughts, can change a person so. Anything like love can turn a person upside down, for let me tell you the example of myself. Let me tell you of a girl willing to do anything to object to love, who is now at the feet of her darling man. 

I have now flown to the sun, with no thought other than the one of a fierce determination that the sun cannot and will not burn me. I can pass through the sun because I am guided, not by a known god, but by my passion for love. I can swim to the deepest section of the ocean and never shall I be without oxygen. Because the only memory I desperately need is the very image of yourself.

So perhaps consider yourself to be the strongest magnet on Earth and I, the weakest metal, for your force of attraction pulls me towards you, and I can't pull away. I only want to keep close to you, even just talking would simply suffice. But when I'm with you, I can't help but hover around you, like bees flying above nectar, your presence only is enough to satisfy what I crave and just being in the same room my heart swells. I do not even need to touch you, just filling my eyes with the sight of you is enough, just being near is all I need.

And when you take me by the hand, I cant even imagine a better place for it to be. The way our hands fit together, like pieces if a jigsaw puzzle, that is love. And the way the palm of your hand rubs against my own, the way your fingers hug mine, the way it fits together, like they are never meant to be apart, that is also love. Perfect molds. But not only is it love, but it is our love, the most powerful of them all, the one that brings what should be together and glues the pieces of the puzzle. And while I am your glue, please don't  forget that the only glue that has ever held me together is you. Trust me on this, for a few glues have been by my side, but only you are the one capable of making me right.

And in this I say that I am something on my own but everything with you. I am a simple but unique girl on my own, yet with you I am the universe. And it is all I ever wished for, it is all I ever dreamed of, even when I did not know I was wishing for it, even when I did not know such a dream existed. It is you being in my every thought, every unconscious thought, every conscious thought. It is an everlasting sequel of the beautiful story of us, with scenes of the sensation that overpowers our every move.

It's like when we broke up and all I could do was think of you, like a zombie I went around, with constant thoughts of us. It's when we got back together and the world was suddenly turning the way it's supposed to, because some people are just meant to be together. It's the feeling of being lost without you, roaming a desert with no end, parched lips and dehydration looming, and finding an oasis, filling your stomach with water after days of desperation. It's going home to where you belong. It's going back to you.

So perhaps I have not explained myself very well. Maybe I have not transmitted to you what my heart desires. But I pray you can see that my heart, soul, mind and body are entirely yours, even if I have only managed to portray a tenth of what I feel. But that is enough for me now, because I will never be the same again. I have been hit on the head a thousand times with no result but my head is not as hard as it looks and I have been damaged forever. And it may be that damaged is not the word but what else can I say when you have destroyed me, burnt me and made me rise like the bird of fire. I have been damaged for life but I would never want any other ending for me. I cannot imagine myself being as I am without being damaged, because I cannot imagine myself as I am without you.

But maybe some things are just meant to be, and maybe I should admit that having you beside me is the way it should be, the way it was to be since the very beginning of our existence, since the first time we laid eyes on one another, since the first time our shoulders brushed against each other, since the first time our lips joined as one.  

And you have asked me time after time why the words coming out of my mouth are never honest enough, and you have asked me time after time why they don't seem real, why it looks like I'm constantly lying. And I didn't know how to answer, I didn't know what to tell you because maybe, all that was left for me to do was to feel what now flows out of my body with every movement. All I had left to do was love you.

And love you I shall, until the end of our time. Because you are my love.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

Forgotten Love

Anne,

How do I start this letter? I do not know. For it's the first letter I have ever written.

I hold no hope on you reading this letter, for the things I have put you through makes me cringe as I recall them time after time.

The only way of starting this letter would be saying the only thing that matters, I love you.

Before we saw each other for the first time, my life was empty, without meaning. And now, without you, I am nothing again. When you left through the door of that house, my heart shattered into a million pieces. I am ashamed to admit that empty alcoholic bottles litter my house completely, and have been littering it since you slammed that door in my face.

I have not gathered  enough courage to call you back after that disastrous call that took place the afternoon after you flew out of my life and should I try to plead forgiveness, dirt is thrown back to my very face, and fear now overpowers my every move.

I still  recall every second I have spent with you, though I know there are not many memories in your life associated with me. You've been in my life for a few years now, and it's not something I would willingly give up. 

Though I admit to making a mistake, I'm only human, and such mistakes, though not commonly, do occur, and mine was a minuscule one. I know if you're reading this, you're shaking your head no, it's a habit you have, to show your emotions before you even say them. And I know your eyes are clouded over, sad and tired, for you have never been able to hold in your tears for more than a minute. And I know you have been crying, we always seem to end up this way, with you crying and slamming the door, while I roll around in shame for yet another mistake I have committed.

You don't agree with the contents of this letter, you just think with rage and anger, overwhelmed by my misdoings. And I know. I know they're not only a few, but many and many, continuous over time.

I do not know what to say to you, I only know that sorry is not enough to make up for all the sins I have committed, yet what else to do is beyond me. I came to you as a broken man and with your love I became sane again. I tried to be the best man I could ever dream of being, only for you, but I wan't strong enough, I wasn't able to become the man you wanted me to be. I tried really hard to change for you but you only kept uncovering the nasty side of me until you grew tired and left, like all who have come to know me. I don't blame you, I never have. I only blame myself. For being unworthy of you and not being able to give you what you deserve. You are beautiful and full of life, so unlike any other I have ever seen. You stand up for yourself and you stood up for me, when no one else would. You found me in a somewhat desperate situation and held on to me, while all I did was destroy you.

And that's the tragic truth, it was you who found me, though it should have been the other way around. I should have found you. And I started to, I really did, but you've come to know me, you now I'm not consistent with anything, though I tried with you, and lasted longer than I expected, even if there were obstacles in the way.

I love you with all my rotten heart, more than seeds love the wind, more than a garden loves its flowers. I love you so much my stomach works up a state of agitation when I see you or when I hear your name. Please love me back, even if it's only a small portion of my own love.

My dear Anne, forgive me, forgive this worthless father of yours. Forgive an old man begging for a second chance with his daughter, Forgive me for leaving you as a child, for being a drunken mess in your presence, for never being your father properly.

I wrote you this letter. I did not know how to start, let alone how it was going to come out. But I did it, I did it for you. I did it for my little girl who's grown to be a beautiful woman. For no one else would I write a letter, for no one else would I express my love so deeply like I would for you.

With a bleeding heart,

Your father.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm sure quite a lot of you have already begun 2015, so happy new year! I've still have a few hours to go, but I'm already excited for the clock to strike midnight. I wish all of you a perfect year, or as perfect as you can make it, and a very merry Christmas.

Thank you to anyone and everyone who has been reading my blog over the last year, and even more to those who have been with me longer. I started writing for myself, to express myself and let go of emotions. I still do that now, but you are a big part of what I write. I now write for you too.

Thank you to those who have left comments, it's something I really love doing, reading your opinions and thoughts. And to the silent readers out there too, for you are also special to me. Thank you to those who have spread my blog, even if it was only mentioning it to a friend. And I give a huge thank you to all of my own friends who have been supporting my blog and have had patience with my nagging them to read it.

I love you all. Comment, share, read and enjoy. May 2015 be awesome to everyone.

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

Bring me my leaving

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0kW4yIlmbY

A single note is heard throughout the whole meadow. So poised and refined, yet long and lasting, wanting to take on the real effects it single-handedly creates. Carrying on, desiring to release its ever lasting poison to the world.

I strain to hear it, seeing as it's unrealistically high-pitched. The edge it gives off puts any living being to shame. My thoughts drift to the times where playing the harp or flute were counted as normal, when my own instrument was between my two hands, crafted after years of hard work and determination.

Push away, get away. Don't allow it to get inside your head. Clear all thoughts, run away. Deadly poison. Deadly poison. Deadly poison. All of them, each and every one. Run away, forget, be save.

Teardrops glisten in the corners of my eyes. The sound is already poisoning me, it lures me. Addicted. Give it to me, let me hear more. I'm desperate, I'm paralyzed. I'm aching for it yet, I want it destroyed.

It's an Aaliyah, a beautiful form of divinity, created to last throughout helpless periods on to an ongoing journey, never to be stopped. A rhythm made to prolong agony, made to make you feel the vibrations it gives off until you surrender. A horrendous, deadly beast giving off shades of marvelous and lustrous rays. A weapon so captivating it brings you to your knees, makes you succumb to its power.

There were many placed strategically by the government, but they were thought to have disappeared with time. They were curiously shaped like the mythological creatures, the Nereids, innocent bystanders helping stranded sailors, half fish, half woman. Yet they had the voice of what one would say was an angel, Aaliyahs had the voice of Sirens, half bird, half woman. Greek legends who lured sailors to their death. The appearance of innocence, the harmonies of death, those were the Aaliyahs.

Think of something you desperately hate but at the same time love and need. That's what an Aaliyah brings out in me, that's what they bring out in anyone. The noise they make, it could be called a dashing hope of dreaming but it is known to destroy the very dream it creates. And to makes matters worse, there is one for everyone, a partner to accompany you for the rest of your days, created to match you, all while torturing and destroying you.

I want to run for cover, I want to hide from the deflected daemon sending wave after wave of power through me. Spring loses all its beauty as I scramble through the undergrowth, away from its breathing down my neck. The very nature of its confinement creates havoc in position.

To get away is the only power surging through my veins and I'm afraid if I stop, death will be upon me. But my lungs can not outrun this ongoing force, and my heart cannot pump blood fast enough to beat its score.

As I stumble to a stop, it's relinquishing, something I never even imagined would happen. I'm ready to fight, I'm ready to defeat whatever's invading me. The squeal it gives off makes me swell up with something I never imagined before; with pride, arrogance, spirit and dignity.

I'm ready to brush off its hold and push back whatever control it has over me, for I am strong and ready to fight back, but it overpowers me and I topple down, smashing my head into a puddle, making me come up coughing for air, and letting my gaze linger on my reflection on the water, producing a series of headache attacks and nausea. The Aaliyah is upon me, the Aaliyah is here. I reel back in shock and stumble backwards, half crawling, scrambling to get away from the presence from which I was merely inches away to touching with my nose.

I am in great distress, having to witness the fall of mankind, the weakness of all, the destruction of every being. This shadow is the end to everything I have ever known before, it is what controls and kills its owner and follower. Desolation and dejection cruises through my veins like a stream through a canyon. For before me, for before my very eyes, is the image of myself.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry there was nothing for October, I've had family issues and exams taking up all my time. Anyway, read, enjoy, comment (for all those silent readers, please) and share. Luv you.

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

Fall

Tis what life shall bring.

Let me be clear on what exactly dystopia means.

Dystopia:

An imagined place or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad, typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one. 

To make you understand better, I guess the simplest way of telling you what a dystopia is would be explaining the only thing that I have left in my life, if one would call it a life. This, is my story. 

It all started three hundred years ago, when the "internet" started to be developed massively.The time came when no one could have a life if not with their portable telephones. My distant relatives were firm believers of leaving behind that beast of a thing which sucked the life out of whoever held it in their hands. For them, it was merely an object to set aside. Now, those objects that were of so importance and vital for their living are now collecting dust in the very corners of the masers. Do you not know of the masers? Barely anyone passes by them, they are in the ruins of the old cities, those like New York, London and Madrid. I believe in the old language, the word for a maser was a museum. The older masers were torn down by the scum that filtered through the streets, merely a hundred years back, when everything started to go desperately wrong, for the ones who live the devastation left, is us.

For those who are to come, I fear for what may lay ahead. But for now, I may only suffer in silence, beyond what I have fought to avoid. Everyday I try hard to make amends with the society I now live in, but every day, I find it harder to survive. The sights all around me are like nothing you have ever seen before. The view from my very window would be considered an exceptionally unique landscape, except, for the fact that I personally dislike having rotten, melted rubbish just being dumped in front of my house for endless periods of time.

Some time ago, the need for electricity grew, and, with it, the necessity for water to cool down all the engines and generators. Now, that meant the sea levels started to decrease with the sudden overwhelming drain of the water in it. And, as everything in life, the water supply wasn't infinite, not even taking into account all the continental water that had already been pumped out in all the ways possible. Thus being the fact, we were left without water.

Technology advanced, and with it, some of the needs for water decreased though, unfortunately, it failed to advance fast enough, and the Earth became the desolate desert I now live in. Plants started to wither and die, trees became less and almost disappeared altogether. Rain forests and forests ceased to exist, masses of green erased from Earth. I fear there is not much more to tell you, for the only knowledge I posses has been passed down through generations, each story unwinding and expanding from its author, creating twisted story lines waving back and forth through time. Paper books were abandoned for the lack of paper, and, though technology prospered, it only did so for a while until thing began to go downhill with global resources and economies, retaking us to past centuries where knowing things was as rare as having money.

What I can tell you is the outstanding increase of the human population. So incredible was it that many, many, spaceships were sent out with thousands of people on each one, but because we no longer had any means of communication, they were lost forever into the great darkness. Such drastic measures were taken in vain unfortunately, and the planet was still filled to the brim, causing the deaths of millions by famine, droughts, being broke or having no where to live and sleep.

My time is now different. Nothing would please me more than being able to tell you everything is going much better and the human race has taken over again, but I'm afraid I can't, for we are now fewer than ever, striving to live a life never meant for us. To tell you about the marvelous smells I enjoy as soon as I open a window would be lying. There is nothing but foul odors invading your nasal cavity sensory cells, the very reason it is impossible to step outside without being poisoned. Yes, we are still humans just like those who lived so many years ago and oxygen is very much needed still, which is why it is supplied by tanks who try to recreate its original essence, but in vain. Tanks which are only chemical reactions determine our live source. Tubes, tubes that let us live.

Huge embankments of garbage and trash the size of countries right outside your window. No fauna to be proud of, only those that managed to have a mutation and survive the bitter conditions. Drastic changes in temperatures at sudden times.

For this to be left to those that remain makes me shudder. I for one, cannot say we are what we used to be, for greed and wanting everything destroyed everything. Our everything, the green planet.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do not take the Earth for granted, take for granted every day will never be the same for it. Take care of our dear planet, it will not last forever.

http://www.50waystohelp.com/

http://www.begreensystems.co.uk/

http://www.kidsbegreen.org/

http://www.wikihow.com/Help-Save-the-Planet-Earth

http://science.howstuffworks.com/environmental/green-science/save-earth-top-ten.htm


Read, love, enjoy, share. Luv you

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

Regular Anomaly

He's at it again. But he doesn't mean it. Right? Wait no, no doubt. He doesn't mean it, yeah, I'm sure of that. Practically sure, almost sure. Almost? No, sure. Okay, stop it, you are sure, you are confident and you know it. You really know it. Go on, get up, go to the bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror. Yeah, that's it, with discretion, nobody is noticing , you're doing great. Stare into the mirror, go on. I see what I shouldn't see, I see a haggard woman, ridden with the years of continuous repetition. Mark. And spirits. My husband and alcohol.

For thinking it could go away so quickly, the punishment is to endure the pain for a longer period. Much to say about last night, yet so little to be able to tell. Imagine yourself in a dinner party with two old friends you haven't seen in a long time. Imagine a carefully set up table, with each tableware carefully laid out, each knife, each fork, placed with the exact measures required for the perfect dinning place. Imagine candlelight lighting up each plate with a exquisite delicacy, the amount needed to see the luxuries calculated on each place. A work of art, to be exact. And yes, I most definitely went all out to make everything perfect. Wouldn't you do that, taking in consideration that the friends coming to dinner were one of the richest and, I hate to admit, snobbiest couples around. To have everything laid out as it is supposed to is practically doing nothing for the great Mrs.Enriqueta Williams, note the sarcasm.

At the beginning, everything went as planned, with no reason to fear the wrath of gossip flowing around, sprouting from Mrs.Williams mouth. Then my dear Mark took out another bottle of red wine, and another, and another. Already Mrs.Williams mouth was turned down in distaste, and Mark's comments getting louder by the moment, reaching the level of shouting I was so used to hearing every single day, from dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn.

I know he doesn't mean it, he just really likes to drink, what happened last night was just another mistake of his, he doesn't mean no harm. Yesterday, an oddness in between the usual roughness of the situation, a disadvantage of sorts to the rest of us. Mrs.Williams acted affected while her husband merely looked looked down at Mark.And even they knew the worst was still to come, the starting of the parade was as commonly known as the introductions for the upcoming masterpiece, for the work of art prepared by the host of the show, in this case, Mark. And true to his word, Mark displayed an uncanny enthusiasm as he retold stories of the past, so enthusiastic with his wonderful past that the stores were being linked together in a nonsense of slurred words jumbling out in a hurried mass of misunderstanding.

I can not quite remember the number of the many wine bottles displayed on the table, nor can I recount the beers wasted in honour of the festivity. Shameful fact being the festive occasion used as an excuse, yet if not for a special night, many more would have been opened. I thoroughly hate, pardon my excessive use of the word unfortunately needed, anything to do with alcohol, ridden into my system throughout the years like a disease waiting to be cured, but never having enough funds to be able to get through the never ending bad patch. 

Throughout the night, a sour taste invaded my palate, in honour of my dear Mark. But he meant no harm, I know he didn't, he never does. It's only the alcohol taking, you can't blame him, it wasn't his fault. From many have come the words I now dread, one day he'll hurt you, don't take it lightly, it's a big problem, don't defend him, etc. But my mind may not care, for love has over-passed anything else, to even begin to ponder about the dangers only some people can bring on.

Rowdy and violent, desperate and loud, Mark is. But alas, never shall a fault of his be pulled to light by me. To me, he is but the divine perfection.The Williams wasted no time to flee the nest of destruction living in my household. If only but anybody else could see the halo around Mark, I wouldn't strive so for what is a building without its foundations.  And for what unknown fact shall I destroy the glue holding me together,  for which crimes should Mark pay, but for the one of loving me.

To me, the ruined table that lays in the dining room is worth but a mere thought, a bitter memory of a passed night. To me, the smell that still lingers throughout the house is like smelling yourself, you know it exists yet you are oblivious to the smell any longer. Yet, if I were to think about it I would smell it, and admit I must, the smell is slightly different. Lighter. For Mark passed out long before he could drink his daily share of alcohol, his rightful medicine, as he might say. A rightful sin, as others might say. A rightful life, as I permanently will say.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Addiction to alcohol is not something to be taken lightly. The character in my story was a devoted wife who never saw any harm in what her husband was doing. She will sometimes lose it and think that it is actually wrong, yet she will continue to protect and defend him.

Alcohol addiction can be caused by many, many factors, of which we have no right to judge but we do have to take precautions with those who live around us, and take care of them, help them and, most of all, love them through it all, just be careful to not overdo it like my character, because then it becomes a serious problem that is very, very hard to overcome. The most important fact os to help with the problem because as much as you may convince yourself, it IS a problem.

http://www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk/ 

http://www.helpguide.org/mental/alcohol_abuse_alcoholism_help_treatment_prevention.htm

http://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2013/09/26/steps-toward-recovery-from-alcohol-addiction/

http://www.narconon.org/drug-rehab/alcoholic-family.html

http://www.helpguide.org/mental/alcohol_abuse_alcoholism_signs_effects_treatment.htm

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

But never to touch and never to keep

She helped little Eion bundle up in his thin coat and covered him with whatever scrap of clothing she found. When she finished, Eion practically represented a little penguin, similar to the one he devoted his time to every single day, his favorite. You could sense the feeling of excitement that was being created among the residents, especially the little ones, maybe the only ones were actually those among those ages.

Lynn watched Eion scramble to reach the door first. For him, snow was something abstract, something he'd never seen before. For her, it was yet another sign of misery that added up to the years spent in that place. Eion's history was very brief, he had come from Africa with his aunt after a bomb had exploded in his home village, with him luckily away. He had come to know Lynn when he was just a sniffling grown toddler, and Lynn had made him the little brother she'd never had for the next three years of his life.

 She stopped him just as he reached the door and combed his already messy curls she knew would come back almost immediately. Lynn also knew that today was the day potential takers would come out and see which of the children seemed fit enough to take home, though those taken usually were always Eion's age, never more. Above six was an unwritten law clearly stating you couldn't take them home and those that were lucky enough never lasted much time outside the place. Located on the suburbs of Minneapolis, Freeman's Home for the Children wasn't generally known, which caused even fewer adoptions to happen and Lynn was determined to get Eion away as soon as possible. She didn't want him to spend fifteen years in an orphanage, like she had.

Moved from house to house, never fitting in, Lynn had had a horrid childhood. Used to being pushed around to and from places, she never knew the joy of a family. One of the social workers had once told her that her parents had meant to care for her but they'd never had enough money so they gave her up. Lynn had never believed it, it seemed as far-fetched as the stories fed to the younger children. Stories that made up the riches of parents but their accidental car accidents, stories that fed on children's hopes that their parents had actually cared and loved them. She wasn't as naive as they thought she was. More often then not, an infant was brought in, some even reaching the mere four days of age, having been found on the edge of a road or left by the dumpsters.No caring or loving parents, no matter the upbringing, would have left an innocent child like that. Abandoned was the only way to define it.

Lynn was considered as one of the workers now, at barely seventeen years of age, so much time had she spent there. Throughout the years she'd never had any of the staff giving her even more than a mere glance, let alone care for her or give her the love she so desperately needed as to not decay with time. She'd gone through abusive foster parents more than once, never to protest because, if she did, she'd be giving up the chance at a normal life, going to school and going out with friends or on dates. Her first kiss was given by a rotting foster father, determined to touch her body in more ways than one. and her first hug had never come.

Eion was happily playing outside, carefree, unknown to the world upon his shoulders. How she wished to have had a normal life, even arguing with parents was worth it to her. yet she'd grown up without love. She'd led an unforgiving life, being switched around in life, with barely three months in each home. Drugs and alcohol had both played an important part in her life, determining futures that went away untouched.

Lynn joined Eion in throwing around snowballs, hitting people in the face with a big flourish of snow and drops of ice. Eion had the face of one in pure delight, full of redness and joy, running around, dashing between people and squealing when a mass of snow hit him. How could anyone not want him? He was one of the happiest kids there, helping others reach the fulfillment of joy. Out of the corner of her eye, Lynn watched as a couple approached the front garden of the home and started to watch the kids. Oh, how perfect they were for Eion, a happy young couple filled with love to devote on him, how desperately she wanted them to take him home.

Lynn picked up the little squirt and started throwing him into the air, trying to get their attention. After a few throws, they looked interested enough and started coming closer. They started to speak to her and ask her questions about Eion, asking if he was her brother, how old he was, was he any trouble. Lynn answered as truthfully as she could without shattering his chances for adoption. In her mind, everything was going according to plan and it looked as if they really liked Eion, enough to take him home, to love him and to not let him turn into something horrid, ridden by the years spent in orphanages. No matter how much people did to change that situation, the only hope was to give love or take children home to be loved there.

When it looked as if negotiations were coming to an end, as if they were really happy with Eion and were ready to take him home with them, the tables turned. They went home and Eion was forgotten as their footsteps faded into the night. No other couples came.

Eion's first. Eion's first chance at going home with someone. Eion's first chance of being loved properly. Eion's first chance of getting out of the rejected kids home. And most importantly, Eion's first of the many times of disappointment to come. Lynn cleared away Eion´s tears, she too had suffered that disappointment too many times to count and each and every one of them were like a direct shot to the heart. It didn't matter if you thought they were finally going to be the ones, all that mattered was that you were never liked, you never were enough for them, for anyone. To Lynn it was clear that growing up and living the life she had, only brought endless pain and sadness, only brought solitude and helplessness. She begged for no one to ever live that.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Is it me, or do children in this situation really get forgotten? Millions of children all around the world suffer because no one wants them enough to give them love, to care for them. For millions, each day is a constant reminder that they're alone. Now I'm not saying we should all adopt, obviously I'm aware not everyone who reads this actually does have enough income to be able to support someone else, nor do I think all of you are old enough to adopt anyway. I just want to say that sometimes we can do something to help, even if it's only going to volunteer or making small places like mine known ( Freeman's Home for the Children, as far as I know, doesn't exist), enough for people to also come to the smaller ones too, to give those children the chances they deserve.

Read, comment and share, my little minions.

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

The very heart of you

Staring up into the sky, the creature's vision was blurred. It could barely make out the sun's rays of light pouring down on it, fighting to win the others over to reach it. It looked around its surrounding, wondering where it was, wondering how it had ended up here, yet nothing satisfied its curious feelings. Blurriness was all around it, and it couldn't make out the forms and figures around it. Desolation filled its mind, though it knew what little capacity and capability of power it held.

Its eyes filled with dread as it realized it was sinking deeper and deeper into a pit, an abyss it never knew existed until that very moment, until it was going under. Droswining. No, drowering. Not quite, but almost. Drowining, drowning! Yes! That was it, finally it had come to its mind. Drowning, that was they had called it. Its master had said it was a horrible feeling, something that charged at your insides till they were no longer able to properly function and complete the job they had been assigned to do. As usual, he had been right.

This thing, this feeling inside it, it was ghastly, almost as if death meant to cut off its already meager link with its master. The chill that went through its body raked up enough shivers to momentarily divert its attention from the fate that awaited it. The very thought of being pulled apart from its master was something that nearly killed it and it knew that if that action were to be fulfilled, it would most definitely die. The same went for its master, if this being died so would the lord that controlled it. The tie that bonded them held them so massively together that any type of force on either of the parts would result to the death of both, with no means to stop the unstoppable.

Eyes turned upwards, mouth towards the exact opposite direction. Already it could feel the very air it breathed striving to reach its wavering lungs. It still didn't know where it was, why it was there and, especially, how it had gotten there. It figured its master had turned, and quite suddenly by the looks of it. It didn't consciously know that if its master were to change his side of mind, it would disappear and let a darker being, similar to it, replace it. The darkness would fill its master in such an increasingly alarming rate, that its center of existence would fade almost intermediately.

It would have never expected to be in this situation, where something as underestimated as air was extremely missed. Water, or whatever liquid that surrounded it, clawed at its lungs anxiously, trying to take out whatever smidgens of air that were left inside.

Its very existence depended solely on its master, yet its master was nothing without it. The beings disappearance would dictate the end of its owner, he would die if the creature ceased to exist. Its master was who controlled it, who had a say in its destiny, even in the was it behaved or the consequences behind that behavior. The creature was what kept its master living and thriving on life, it was what defined its master. When it drowned its master would be no more. Together, both were united by a force so strong, it was unimaginable to anyone else.

Desperate attempts were made to reach the surface, desperate measures that brought no happy endings. As the creature's eyes closed for a final time, it realized the importance it held and why it held. The last meaningful moment.

The creature was a soul.

The soul had died, forever ceasing to exist.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Read, enjoy, comment and share. It really means a lot to me if you comment and share this. Love you.

                                              Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

Beaten by you

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiUQE5bJKFU

The wind flew through the hair of every person on the street, creating whirlpools and knotting it up. Strands of hair whipped all around heads and delicate umbrellas were reversed. The cold seeped through clothing and odd garments were plucked from their owners and sent on the way of a fast-paced journey. Gloved hands and woolly hats could be seen all around. Trench coats soaked with water and suits carrying wrinkles. Rain splattered down on all moving things and drenched those who didn't move, adding shivers when mixed with the frosty air.

Business men hurried from one side to the other, yapping away on their phones, all caught up in the rush of work and oblivious to the rest. Girls fidgeted with their hands, anxious to go into stores and buy them out, while mothers tried to pacify howling infants on their shoulders, without avail. The sidewalk was crowded with obvious haste noted everywhere, and the cars did little to soothe the surrounding chaos. All around, vehicles honked and swerved to pass others in unbelievable ways, while cabs stocked up on the side, bikers twisted and dodged through the mass and  drivers yelled to pass through, let alone the buses, all barely moving from the mess and dying out their horns. 

Yet in the corner, aware of every detail but still to take part in it, sat a helpless pauper. She was a sight to see, yet nobody did stop to see her. Sodden hair clung to her face, being washed, for the first time in many days, by the deluging polluted water. Desolate eyes that stared at each passerby, with a tingle of hope to fulfill a dream of food, a dream that once was the nature of life, being consumed and fulfilled every single day, at least thrice. She knew nobody was going to stop and help her, nobody even had a second to glance at her. Many were the times when she thought to have encountered a helping hand, to discover the absence of a single look. She had been living there for four months, and knew the cold face of solace and abandonment, with each day passing as a blur of unknown faces and shattered hopes.

She had once known a safe home, far from the horror of the streets. She had once known the delight of a warm meal, two times a day. Something that now was impossible, and she knew that perfectly well, yet something in her sparked up every time she caught a passerby glance at her, a fleeting look. Long gone were the times when embarrassment overthrew her and didn't let even risk to plead, long gone were the days when she hid her face, in hopes of no recognition, the days when she tried to quell her uneasy hair. She used to be a proud woman, sure in her territory and deft in her skills, whatever they were. She used to be a lioness, in charge of her domains, and as mighty as any hunter that existed. Now, she was the last part of the line, the edge at the end of a cliff. Whatever once had been important, was now a bittersweet memory, left alone in the crevasses of happy days.

She had tried, she really had, she had tried to survive. but that had only brought more solace and desperation. Her eyes had seen many misfortunes, quite a lot of them hers to claim, yet she still had hope, hope that one day all those looks of pity that she received would do something other than that, something other than looking. She wished her life had turned out different but deep inside her she knew, she knew she would never get out of this circle of misery. Her life had been tested, and she had failed the exam, without knowing it was even taking place.

Her hands were kept warm inside her armpits, but still, numbness was a constant. Her fingers were wrinkled and worn from the street life. Age had suddenly taken action and her once defined and prided gifts were blended to age’s touch and desire. Dried chapped lips and shivering limbs were her day to day.

The rain pouring down on her did little to help her situation ,only now, it wasn't just cold what overcame her, but frigid sensation. Chill. Frost. The tattered clothing rescued from dumps and rubbish bins, allowed the air to seep through them and invaded her prickly, sensitive skin, acknowledging the incessant goosebumps.

She stared up at the many people passing, all oblivious to the water that trickled down her forehead, creating a mass of salty foul water on her dirty cheeks as both falling river-works, from the sky and her eyes, merged together.

Of course nobody would notice her, it's not like she expected them to. She knew that before even trying to get attention. As soon as she stared up into the face of a lonesome glance, she could read the pity and the sadness, yet those feelings never overpowered their owner, leaving her without the small change she so desperately needed. It was a perpetual tradition, an unspoken, unbroken rule among people of higher classes; to not give money to those in need of it , to not waste hard-earned money on homeless when just around the corner a Starbucks awaited, never mind the non-stop empty feeling in each of their stomachs. She lived in a society where money was destined to whims, where she was just a forgotten body awaiting food, left on the side, like a corpse left to rot.

Hypocrite women stared her down, with their charity events they raised money to help those in need, yet they ignored her and stuck up their noses, passing by her without a care to her trembling body filled with an entire wish of warmness. They stared at her, the purest sign of poverty on the street in front of their very noses, but nothing was done.

The freezing storm attacked her limbs time after time and she hunched up as tight as she could, closing her eyes and evading the harsh reality. This was the longest time she had gone without food,maybe a week or so, and her body strength was weakening. She even risked lapping up the water falling from the sky, knowing the diseases it carried.

   

She was left alone to survive on her own through the misery, till the eternal darkness put her out of it. Oblivious to pain and suffering. Hardened hearts leaving at their own will. Destinies to put in the hands of others.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Speak the truth, how many of you have passed a homeless on the street and avoided their gaze? How many of you have felt great pity when going into a building, having seen a beggar at the entrance, diverting your gaze in hopes to not see them? Admittedly, so have I. We choose to not help those in need, we choose to opportunely forget there are those in worse conditions. We try to save money when buying food or clothes, some not even that, when that little fancy we're craving is just the money someone else needs to be able to have something in their stomachs, after days on end without anything. I'm sure you've all heard the famous line, "Keep your coins, I want change". We should definitely apply that to our lives, even just a teeny bit, every small bit counts as help, even if you doubt that statement. I just ask for you to think back and change something, no matter how infinite. 

Any way, enjoy your weekend!So yeah, comments down below and stuff like that. Thanks for reading, love you!

Esther Alós © All rights reserved 

Because I live so

I whimper as I slide and my body is rasped by the floor, causing me even more pain. I lay still and try to recover a bit. My breathing is heavy and my chest moves up and down quickly.

I look around the room, trying to see where I am. It's like a dark space and there's hardly any light coming in, it's the same room I've been in for so long. I feel small in this room and it seems the walls push against me, coming closer and surrounding me, invading the space I already barely have. All I see is gray walls all around me. Gray walls that have obviously seen better days, with crumbling wallpaper and rotting corners with mold. And the smell. God, the smell. It's like too many have died in here and their corpses have been left here to rot. Generations of cruel assaults and blows. It's also heavy with the scent of blood that hasn't been cleaned. Blood that sticks to your skin while it rests on the floor, telling me without doubt that I'm not the first and I'll definitely not be the last. I don't want to be in this humid and scary place any longer.

My mother, she used to tell me stories. She used to tell me that the children who didn't behave got taken away by a mean man. Sometimes, even if you behaved, he took you anyways. I was very careful after that for a few months, especially after my cousin left with that man. His mother cried after him, pleading mercy. That was what my mother did with me too. Barely a month or so had passed since Jacob when I was taken away too. My mother was frantic and very nervous, she didn't want this for me. She kept crying and begging but the horrid man never stopped to listen to her, everything she did was in vain, even trying to trip him. She knew the consequences of her acts and of that attitude, with a silenced shot completing her punishment.

I cringe when I remember her eyes as I was being pulled away, they were filled with sadness and grief and she was exhausted. As I rested my eyes on her for the last time, she closed her eyes and collapsed on the floor, never to open them again. Seeing your mother die, leaving you her last breath isn't easy, but little did I know at that time that being the cause of your mother's death wasn't even a tenth of what was to come. I would endure the pain of my mother's eyes filled with sorrow a thousand times than continue being under his hold.

There is suddenly a pressure in my ribs, leaving me gasping for breath. I look up and see lifeless eyes staring back into mine. The pressure is increased and I shift my eyes from his to look down at my own mangled body. Blood surrounds me in a puddle, rippling from the effect of laying on top of it. I'm not sure it's all mine, though most of it probably is. I whimper out in pain when the pressure of his dirty cleats, purposely glued onto boots to inflict more damage, is preventing the oxygen to get to my lungs. When he finally realizes that if he continues, I won't live to keep being his personal punching bag, I feel the air rushing through my nose again, a laugh reverberating above me. 

My body is marred and mutilated by the vile creature towering above me. Two months, two months have I suffered him. Eight weeks has my body been crippled through and through by him. Sixty days has blood seeped out on the floor from all my wounds. A thousand four hundred forty hours has he been punishing me for the mere fact of existing in this world, when I never did anything wrong. I didn't even have time to make a mistake before being violently taken from my mother and given the treatment for a criminal. It actually seems like I really am in jail. A jail where no criminal would survive.

Maybe he has finally had enough of me and will let me go, maybe he'll just choose another and let me wallow in my misery alone. Maybe there's still hope. Wrong, how very wrong I am. I flinch when he practices his aim with my stomach, yet again. Sometimes, he just takes a swing and leaves. Other times it's like he's a robot who mechanically swings back and forth, bringing me countless pain. This time though, he chooses a more direct approach. 

His foot smashes into my stomach without any care. Up, down. Rising, striking. A never ending attack. .Each time harder and each time worse. When he stops for a second, I'm crying out in pain, which only makes him give me a hard, cruel smile while he yet again rams his body weight on my tiny body. 

I feel really weak. I can't even lift my head up and my body weighs too much. Before I have the opportunity to get up, he thrusts his boot into my side, extremely hard, and I close my eyes while I'm plunged into a deep abyss of darkness and pain, with my limbs thrashing out searching for any crevice to grab hold of to help me out of this fetid hell.

He bellows out profanities when he sees I'm no longer fighting him, when I don't even have my eyes open. He spits at me and stomps out of the room. It isn't the first time he does this, going away without giving me a second glance. I haven't eaten in days and my stomach is empty, with the infinite amount of food that I've been able to eat thrown all over the floor. Apparently, if enough kicks are thrown at your underside, whatever it held ends up on the floor. Now, it's just another constant pain joined with the others. I'm not even given the luck of going numb, I feel every bruise, every wound. I even feel all the broken bones that that bastard has given me. I never did anything to deserve this.

My eyes are closed but I know it's dark already. The days pass as a blur here and time no longer holds any meaning to me. I try to open my eyes, and only manage to see through a very thin line, seeing as they are really swollen up. I no longer recognize my body as it's been broken and pulled and slashed all over. I'm not who I was. My energy is rapidly decreasing and even I can barely hear my heart beating. My throat is sore and dry, my tongue leaning on the side. The heavy pants have stilled and I try to muster a bark unsuccessfully. Even my bark, the one thing left to define what I am anymore, has left me. I used to think that being what I am, I wouldn't have to be at the hands of evil. I wished I'd never been wrong.

I uncurl my two front legs and stand up unsteady, only to collapse back on the floor, which only causes to reopen the temporarily closed wounds again. My eyes are thin slits and there isn't a part of my body not tangled. I try to drag myself over to the door but I even fail at doing that. I heave heavily. Any part of me that I try to use is too damaged. I feel dizzy and I know it's the end. I take one last raspy breath before closing my eyes forever.

----------------------------------------

Animal violence is not a subject to be taken lightly. All over the world, even in the most civilized areas, animals are beaten to death or hit countless times. When you wonder the reason for these brutalities, the answer you try to grasp is that the animal did something wrong. That's a mistake we all make. No mater what the poor creature has done, making another living creature bleed should never be accepted, especially since it probably has no idea whatsoever of what it's done. It would be like beating your neighbor for opening his front door. Yes, it's as ridiculous as that. The next time you get mad at your pet, don't punish him for doing something that comes naturally to him. Remember, it was humans who first introduced animals into our households, taking them from their habitats and forcing them to live a completely different life. The next time you see someone hurting their pet, don't look away disgusted, just act on it, only a few words, that's all it takes. The puppy in my story never did anything wrong, he just was a the wrong place ate the wrong time. The amount of animal victims that fall into cruel hands in incredible.

Facts that might interest you;
http://www.americanhumane.org/interaction/support-the-bond/fact-sheets/animal-abuse-domestic-violence.html
What can you do?
http://www.aspca.org/fight-cruelty/report-animal-cruelty/top-10-tips-reporting-animal-cruelty
http://www.aspca.org/fight-cruelty/report-animal-cruelty/report-animal-cruelty-faq
http://www.aspca.org/fight-cruelty/report-animal-cruelty?creative=41403209118&adpos=1t1&device=c&network=g&matchtype=b&gclid=CLKX1c6CzL0CFTMetAoda1AA_w

Anyway, thanks again for reading, I really do love you all.

P.S. I'm going to Portugal for Easter so I don't know if I'll be able to upload. Oh! And  my birthday's the seventeenth!!! Yay!

Esther Alós © All rights reserved