He Stares At The Ceiling, A Scratched Melody Bleeding Through The Thin Wall. To His Right, The Wall Was

He stares at the ceiling, a scratched melody bleeding through the thin wall. To his right, the wall was unadorned, in an almost naked, dehumanized manner. A lonely flower was limply standing in a vase, giving him big gloomy eyes, sitting on a small table. The porridge sticks to the spoon that he brings to his mouth. “Mr. Rodler, I will come back to give you your medication in half an hour” The white sheets are stiff against his goosebumped legs, he runs his hand on them, trying to decrease them, pressing his palms against his thighs’ skin. Weekend in a whirlwind weekend in a whirlwind weekend in a whirlwind “Weekend in a whirlwind!” “Mr. Rodler, I beg your pardon?” He bites his lip as the woman takes a last glance at him as she leaves the room. He rubs the back of his left hand against his lips, smudging the porridge bordering his lips onto his hand. He takes, or rather he grips, the spoon and circles it around the ridge of the empty bowl, letting the utensil schizophrenically scratch and screech against the bowl’s metal. He finally takes the bowl, rises it with both hands to his eyes’ level, and looks at his reflection. “Weekend in a whirlwind”. The nurse enters the room once again with a glass of water in her hand and a small tray in the other. “Can he play something else? I don’t enjoy ragtime.” “Mr. Rodler, what are you talking about? No music is playing.” He nervously turns to the left wall as puts his hands onto his ears. The white nurse stares at him with a composed incomprehension. “Why don’t you play some chess? Mr. Saito would, I bet, love to play against you.” “I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking.” “But, Mr. Rodler, it’s just a game.” He vigorously shakes his head as he nervously tugs on the sheets that were tightly held back by the sides of the mattress. “Don’t look at me that way, I beg you.” “Mr. Rodler, do I need to bring you to the upstairs ward?” He stays silent because he knows very well what goes on in “the upstairs ward”. He looks at the nurse and hisses: “Weekend in a whirlwind”.

weekend in a whirlwind | © Margaux Emmanuel

Ton reflet dans les douces vagues scintille, teinté par la couleur de l’horizon froissé. Une lettre violacée se repose sur le ventre bombé, montant, descendant, de l’océan somnolant. Tu la suis des yeux, te demandant quand est-ce l’océan l’avalera, quand est-ce les mots fondront dans la marée. Tu te dis que peut-être la douleur partira elle aussi. Tu regardes de loin la mer tourmentée, les vagues se cassant sur l’horizon, un mirage lointain, et tu tiens une photo, couverte par la peinture jaune du temps, dans ta main droite. Le vent enlace ses bras frais autour de toi. Tu as voulu garder tes chaussures même si l’eau vient jusqu’à tes genoux, ton pantalon colle à tes mollets. Tu ne sens plus rien ; tes lunettes, dont les branches te serrent un peu trop aujourd’hui, retiennent tes larmes. Tu jettes un coup d’œil vers la photo ; il est là, assis, fumant une cigarette entouré par des cyprès inclinés. Il finit un vers d’occasion qu’il t’offrira plus tard. « Je trouve que c’est dommage qu’ils aient déterré l’abricotier quand ils ont construit la résidence, il te dit. - Mais sans la résidence, tu n’aurais jamais rencontré Agathe  - Ah, mais le bonheur ne serait pas le bonheur s’il n’était pas accompagné d’une pointe de tristesse. » Il tenait beaucoup à ses aphorismes. L’odeur marin légèrement salée, légèrement amer, te réveille. Tout à coup, tu te laisses tomber en arrière dans l’eau et la photographie s’échappe de tes mains. Les étoiles commencent à s’allumer; il était grand temps.

l’ombre mouillée d’un voyageur, une impression | © Margaux Emmanuel

The way your eyes would bite my neck during the cigarette break when there was nothing between us and the moon except for the smell of stale tobacco.

© Margaux Emmanuel 

Writerscreed Discovery of June 2018

Writerscreed has been digging through the Tumblr Writing Community to find more writers to feature on our blog. Here are the talented writers we have found during June who deserve more attention! Check them out and give them a follow, and as usual, Keep writing everyone! We cannot wait to see who will make the list in July.

@armchairpoet28

@oscarsins

@thepyschoticgirlsworld

@theinscrutableescapee

@rehnwriter

@my-dragoneyes

@insteadofthis

@annytyx

@beerkatt

@shoolster

@domesticatedwanderer 

@dreamingonclouds

@poemsmostly

@driftwards

@aviatowl

@bhumikasingh

@dreamingonclouds

@cocoagoddess331

@poetrybybee

@writingioana2003

@shebleedsblueink

@misanthrofray

@ughizi

@agenderturtle

tonight we’ll see the stars

“What’s his name?”

“Suzuki…Or was it Nakamura?”

Edvin didn’t say anything as he opened the matchbox that had been in his pocket and carefully plucked a match out. In an abrupt motion, he struck the match. A small flame kindled at the end of the wooden stick. He carefully observed it, letting it take his full attention as his thoughts went blank. He didn’t want to think about her. But he couldn’t control it. His eyes crawled towards hers. An uncontrollable smile formed on his face as he broke out in a nervous chuckle.

“How do you say ‘fire’ in Japanese?”, he asked, feeling the tears bordering his eyelids.

“Do I look like I fucking know?”, she answered, her voice slightly breaking on the fucking as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

She blew out the match. A small cloud of smoke slowly whirled, tinting the darkness. Edvin watched the smoke dance with the cold breeze and almost imperceptibly inhaled it.

“You’re probably tired of me”, she suddenly said.

Edvin didn’t say anything and threw the match on the cold ground with a bitter smile.

“Your eyes… they’re not quite blue are they?”, he asked avoiding to answer to what she had just said.

She turned to look at him. The only source of light being the streetlight down the street, she could only make out his silhouette.

“It’s just that, at the party, they seemed a little lighter”, he added, his voice cracking with emotion, justifying the question he had just asked.

She remembered the party. She was haunted by the smell of beer in her nostrils, by how his sweater brushed against her chin, by the foggy music’s unclear words that seeped into her skin and mind…

“No, they’re blue”, she answered, as she got up and walked away into the night.

© Margaux Emmanuel

note to self

a glimpse of melancholia

in the lukewarm saké

of a child’s laughter

© Margaux Emmanuel