Things that can be said in monologue

Things that can be said in monologue

Poetic story about realization and transformation of trust towards things we carry within ourselves.


Romance / Women's fiction


Anna Smetanenko (Ukraine)

The August air was so full. It poured transition and yet as all got absorbed by lungs, I was filled with summer present right inside. Exhaling autumn, on the edge of unrecognized hope. There is something special about August evenings. Summer is enveloped in all of the green, and yet the wind carries upcoming glimpse of a colder season. Melancholic happiness. Mine was cubed. As sea-weed stuck on the legs, it pulled me to come back to the lake. Sitting on the shore, my feet slipped into the water.

How to know when something starts? When does August slide into the warm September? I could still smell presence of that air, unrecognizably carrying it with me, like a leaf stuck to the shoe. Seemed transitional, as something I could scratch off as a dog, or dissolve in the upcoming seasonal change. As I walked through months, surfing on the lines I read upon, the same lake water, as a current, kept coming back. At first- ankle deep. Could still step out in run towards the books and greedy with questions mind:

“It is so beautiful to think. It is so important to balance on the thin rope of a complete deduction of what previously, on the grid of social and personal history, has been found important. To balance with the highest adoration of every treasured moment. To grasp with the still turbulence of every breath the thin collaboration between these opposing elements. First slices down to the very core whole human potential with its observation and gives rise to the possibility of new. The second fills up with the importance the (in)visible in our most every day, traces of human thought. It fills up and nourishes our stripped souls.”

To run is to splash the water. To let it drip on the home-comforting environment. To let it sponge into the carpet and branch out deeper than just August-remembrance air.
I must’ve brought it home with me. Lake, concealed in the pouch of the pores, staring in the yes presence. Water was coming through the ceiling, sliding down the walls. Knee deep, in the entire radius of my regular inhabitant. To fight with elements is quite a challenge. Pouring out water with palms or buckets did not help. So I placed several thick carpets over the water line and numbed out a goodbye. Exhausted from heavy lifting of trying to cast out water, I fell asleep, right on those carpets. The top ones were dry and relieve flowed over me.

I woke up from gentle tickling. As I opened my eyes, I discovered green and blue sprouts, highlighted with hope, glimmering in emergence. I stood up and all was covered in thin like cables thriving for air plants. Reaching towards me and senses. Sprouts spoke in previously unheard voices, altogether in choir, bouncing off a slightly fogged, yet a strong inner longing for immersion. That air, lake-august air, thread out inside, covering the already forgotten protest. I was splashed out in music, accompanimenting surrounding me singing: “Embrace this field and be of our consistency”. Legs placed me horizontally as sprouts went through my body.

Seasonal change brought into my room not abundance of August air as I expected, but the wind. It carried seeds. Days before, in moments of protest, I tried swiping them out. In the struggle they started falling out of me, too. Now I laid in sprouts, breathing more than August air. It was a longing, hunger for the swim, the lake immersion

Having spent days in covering up spreading green cables, I started blooming too. Feet much lighter and easier moving. Neck extended towards sun and eyes eating light. I was opening up, like a wound, extending from within, having shed the old skin and protective carpets. Comforting waters bathed me bare as I now was swimming.
Frist movements clumsy, as learning how to walk. Bumping into the perimeter of my safety. Scared to run out of air, I kept coming out to the surface, only to witness sprouts getting stronger. I laid on my back and watched the liquid sky. Soothing hand of the lake, pulled me back, helping to swim. Learning to trust the element, I’ve extended my safety confines and grew gills.

The water was speaking, surrounding my being, familiarizing and softly introducing to itself. To speak as spoken was my regular ground and I pulled a chair, spending evenings, soon days, in conversations. The sand was warm and massaging. Flickering colors of fishes swimming by visualized the sound. It was an unknown, yet a familiar tune, covering my mind with comfort.

I pulled my head towards the surface of the water and noticed something. Sprouts reached their firmness. Heavy heads, filled with inner food, crops stood in confidence. I took a few out of the ground and brought to the bottom of the lake. As water covered the crops, harmonic sound appeared. Started slow and whispering, soon they grew voice as I swam deeper and deeper. Two chairs now stood there. Surrounded by the crops music, I sat on the chair, waiting.

Competition: June 2015 Pen Factor, Round 1



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