The Rain

by Mitzi Danielsonkaslik 

sparkling water

I like it when the rain falls,

It fills the unfeeling silence,

With a soft ethereal sound,

Like a nightingale in the morning,

A winters morning,

When the sun is out of sight,

And the air holds a chill,

A crisp chill like ice cream,

On a hot summer evening,

When the sun is low in the sky,

And the rainbows have gone,

But the rain begins to fall,

I like it when the rain falls,

It fills the silence with hope.

Nights in White Satin

by  Mitzi Danielsonkaslik

cold tea

 

The sound of hurried talking emanated all around as the locomotive screeched to a halt beside the cold grey stone of Platform Three. I gazed at the people, some hand in hand, just what I’m going through, they can’t understand, what happens now? I can’t remember what to do next. What do normal people do next? I waited. A smartly uniformed guard trotted along the edge of the platform and opened the heavy blue glossed doors with huge brazen handles which flashed in the vicious bright sunlight and waved his hand welcomingly. The happy people in bright clothes with big suitcases interjected his action with a smile and clambered aboard the train. 

Now I had an action to perform, I too hurried aboard the train via the little silvery scuffed step dragging my old battered suitcase behind me. All I had in the world was in the bag. Everyone’s bags were bigger than mine and I could only assume they were only going on holiday. Finally, managing to move my suitcase aboard, I followed it and entered the smart, clean carriage before me. Next instruction? The happy people in bright clothes with big suitcases lifted them and shoved them unceremoniously into the huge metallic racks above the crowds. Was that safe? Too many bags and that rack would collapse, not that I could get my case up there anyway, I haven’t had to lift anything in as long as I could remember, I wouldn’t have the strength to perform the task. What to do now? I waited. A young gentleman approached me a few seconds later and asked if I needed any help. I simply smiled at him. He happily launched my suitcase up overhead and hopped away back to a young woman who looked rather taken aback at his helping me. She was dressed much differently to me in bright shades of rose red and blushing pink with dashes of white here and there, while I was clad in a grey knee length dress with a sort of matching throw over the shoulders. It was odd. The young gentlemen and the young women took seats at the front of the carriage. I had my next plan of attack: find a seat and sit down. I sat on a navy-blue velveteen scuffed seat just beneath my suitcase where there was no one else.

That was scary. At least I’m okay now. The deafening sun grew lower in the sky as its shade changed to a deep amber with blueish notes running as rivers through the air and began to blind me. I’m not accustomed to such brightness. As I closed my eyes to shield them, one thought remained in my mind. Him. How he formed his letters. The strange words he used that id never heard before. I remember his smile. It can’t have changed that much in a year, can it? I wonder if I’ve changed. I can’t remember much of what happened before. Only his smile. Not even the sound of my own voice really, I’d learnt to hear it inside my own head. His voice was there too. It was as if he’d grown as I had over the time we were apart. He was a part of me. I hoped had remembered my voice so he could remind me how to sound that way. Not long now. I’ve waited this long, I can wait until this train pulls in. I shan’t get bored. I’ve spent a year with nothing by my mind, his voice and our letters to keep me sane. They thought I was insane, but I ask you, could an insane person write a letter everyday and find a way to get it into the mail and equally find a way of receiving one every night? No. I didn’t think so. To pass the time, I reached into my pocket, took out a little black notebook and pencil and began to write him a letter. For old times’ sake. My last letter. I promise myself. Wait. I should try speaking. How? What to say? What if I can’t? No. None of that matters now. I left that behind. I looked out of the window for inspiration but was met with my own reflection. My eyes caught his. Of course, there’s only one thing to say “Oh, how, I love you.”. It came as a great shock to hear myself to bluntly. So truly. The train picked up speed. Not long now. 

Gods and Monsters

by Mitzi Danielsonkaslik

spring water 

In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel, living in the garden of evil.

A great rectangular table stood along the shortest side of a huge room in beautifully formed rosewood heavily laden with mountains of food upon silver plates and platters in an old elegant fashion. Beside, a massive assortment of cocktails in bright shades of blushing pink, decaying yellow and envious green in perfectly clean glasses; small and tall; wide and thin, adorned with heavenly decorations. Angels halos.

Unlike the cocktails, the guests and hosts and visitors all came in one of two formats: either handsome tall men in ironed tuxedos and polished shoes with neat brushed hair gelled perfectly into place or beautiful girls with long flowing locks and perfect shining shallow eyes gleaming in the low light, white skin plastered over so it appeared brilliantly unblemished  dressed in cocktail dresses of wonderful shades with glamorous low cuts and elaborate matching jewelry.

Above the table, a huge crystal chandelier refracted the darkness which streamed in from the large windows preceding the table. The darkness gleamed and winked from all corners of the room, wandering its way between the lovers and brawls and drinkers and gambler who lusted and fought and drunk and bet all around. The chandelier glistened and blinked up above as starlight within the midnight blue of the ceiling.

The windows themselves were flung wide open and allowed all the bright lights and noise and merriment of the amusement outside in the garden to enter the busy hall. A huge carousel stood with flashing lights all around the crest in a multitude of colours which cast their own limelight down upon the guests as they spun ever round and round. Always seeking more. Forever. Eternally. Hair flowing in the dull breeze whipping it back as they flew in their sickening cycle. The inanimate horses towered in shades of black and grey with bright saddles and reigns and harnesses as they flew about with angry cursed looks of furious horror plastered upon their faces and their manes and tails projected in a place of perpetual movement with their hollow muscular legs and harsh hooves raised high as if galloping. As the carousel whirled, a chilling high-pitched waltz played from an unknown source up above. A sick herald to the heavens. The visitors on the carousel beneath gossiped and giggled at they spun their sickly pattern as a break neck pace with an oddly angry cursed looks of furious horror plastered upon their faces beneath their stupid painted smiles.

This is Heaven, what I truly want, its innocence lost.

Innocence lost.