The Kiss In The Last Rain

Carrie a sickly girl met a tall, dark haired boy,

On a wet, rainy day she knew would be her last

Hands clutching the rail, soaked to the skin out in the open

Standing still at the staircase leading to the hospital door,

Looking up at the downpour cruel to hit a weak bone.

Boy stared on at this strange girl then

Bent over and asked, “are you waiting for someone?”

Tapping the umbrella he did not use on the gravel floor.

“No, just for the rain. Waiting for it…. to end”. Carrie softens.

The boy who had destroyed entire worlds with the calm face of a God turned,

Eyes like fire but with a cold darting gaze retorted,

“Why do you wait for the rain to stop….in the rain?”

Brushing off large dribbles of rain across her face,

Carrie let out a whimper as though her windpipe had trapped.

With only so much voice she could force through her tiny mouth,

She smoothed over to him, a final moment of silence to gather

Pushing together a final resolve, said

“Would you kiss me here because I know, when this rain is over…,”

“I would..never..see you again..”

Boy saw her vulnerability there and then and knew,

For he was the master to the lands and dwellers that had to die before him,

Taking souls off names and farewells driven for change.

So he held her hand, gripped her towards him into a warm embrace,

And gently kissed her on her lips,

Drops still beading away their unreserved face,

A satin finish to a slow, ending regret.

He was sure a last wish was heard,

When both breaths touching collide.

Then the rain stopped and it was clear,

Her last rain was with Death as he came.

And Death loved her and took her.

Death was not up to her, not even her expecting it.

But the kiss in the last rain, so near to Death it had been,

Moved the lonely God, who now made her,

His dear friend with the other Gods.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

Dead At 40 Part 1 [Thriller Story]

Part 1 written by Vander of Lifebly (All references and descriptions are fictional.)

Sometimes we just want someone to save us. It can be difficult. When no one else will. We begin the process of healing when there is somebody pulling us out from the brink of death. Truth be told, most people won’t ever save you on the count of self-reliance attuned as an obvious. You are supposed to know that as an adult well enough. Or better else behave, if not.

At exactly 26 December 2022, on my 40th birthday, I will die by my own will of hanging, on a noose of my liking at least. I have decided this to be the best way to end it, once and for all, in the cleanest most possible humane way I could think of should someone come forth bumping accidentally to unravel my expired body. Before this, on 25 December 2022, on my last Christmas, I shall have the finest feast on the table at my favourite bistro and drink up to gratified fulfilment, while admiring the extraordinary night view under the circumstances a messy exuberant crowd can never ruin the beautiful evening. It is a hypothetical fairytale of mine that should a man join me at this table in meeting this delightful hour, I may seek great pleasure in his brief acquaintance. But I guess, this won’t ever happen when my appearance falters in today’s virile expectations.

So, what do you think of an individual who plans one’s own death by their own will? Is it somewhat disappointing, a pity actually to be despised on, or an outpouring of empathy or sympathy from within? I have to say, it sure is everything and more you can imagine.

Now, I’ve had a displaced childhood. Basically, two decades of hurt, neglect, terrorizing trauma, tolerating as much as I could alongside abusive parents. Real parents turned crazy reckless ballistic, supposed-to-shoulder-domestic-responsibilities actual, biological parents. Everyday of my wholesomely tragic life, they would pierce halfway smoked cigarette butts into my arms and legs. On top of that, breaking alcohol bottles to slit and rip my tanned skin. I was born tanned, quite not in their favor indeed. Still, grievances have to run deep. Once I had a 9 centimeter slash near my elbow area bleeding so quickly till I lost my ground, plunging head first at the door I tried to hold still. Out of guilt, mom drove and carried me to the hospital. Life was completely turbulent and nothing could ever change. I shivered everyday in the midst of mom and dad’s presence as they smiled and threw a fit. I was the daughter they didn’t love; though they always said they did everything out of love, while dealing a razing blow to my flesh. I was always apologizing to people for fear they would hurt me like my parents at whatever I did. I had been wronged, but felt the world had been right like I absolutely, in annoyance deserved it. Yes, I was the girl who felt like the world gave her up, sold her away and disappeared. 

I let my hair down outside the terrace rooftop of a beautiful hotel in Paris, took out a lighter, pulled out a cigarette in my pocket and lit a flame to the stick. I don’t smoke, but yesterday someone at the lobby thought I could use one and passed it to me while I sat waiting for my room to be ready for check-in. Now as it is, a bright, airy, and warm morning at 8 am as I leaned my bruised arms against the rails of the roof terrace. From this height, I looked casually onwards the vehicle traffic accumulating downstairs while I let the cigarette burn its run, smoke curling, ashes scattering to billowy winds. The smell of tobacco rising had me wanting to throw up and there I remembered my parents’ ciggies indented into my epidermis. Again, a chill hovered through my bones and I was afraid to move. Beats of my heart seem to palpitate faster, and a feeling of sickened malaise followed. As if obsessed, I rolled up my long sleeves to examine the several bruises on my left arm including the scarred smears left by the countless cigarettes. Left arm held up pretty well despite the most pain inflicted to it. There were too many of these, and honestly, these scars hurt. Forever. Mentally. Depriving. So there it is, akin to a leper woman of lesions, never going to be a dainty damsel, saved by a knight in any armour. This ugly of mine can never tempt any wise hearts of gentlemen. 

Stepping back into the room, I took out a diary and placed it on a round table next to the bed. The “diary” is a cheap notebook with empty unlined papers, scored off a little bookstore down the street. I wrote some notes into the page on the decisive plans to die on my 40th birthday. Soon to be happening next year. It’s October 2021 now, and the novel coronavirus from last year had weathered out pretty successfully, unbound from its shackles after a potent vaccine was introduced in early February to be distributed worldwide for release. It was also last year that removed me from my job as an air stewardess, a pandemic misfortune beckoning resignation after 5 years up in the air, waiting on VIP passengers in private charter planes. Our uniform black long-sleeves and long pants are like the stately enemies to wealthy clients, but they hid my scars well and are blankets of comfort.

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.

Wall Of Hands Part 1 [A Horror Story]

Part 1  written by Vander of Lifebly (All references and descriptions are fictional.)

At 4 am, I saw a ghost of the past on a chair. It had the slightest grey tint of a shadow with white hands resting on the armrest. Completely still, it bore an air of ill displacement and sad misfortune. It’s frayed old attire suggested someone from the 1930s or 40s period, but I couldn’t even tell for what decade the dress code was as a person dropping out and having flung history lessons. I narrowed my eyes, fixated but drew it back as I got tired identifying the clothing’s era on that apparition. Learning and remembering history was mundane pain in class even as a college freshman who bothered to pen notes on paper on the side. Yes, call me dumb in my head, but truthfully honest and innocent at heart. You may perceive me as pure, I don’t know. And oh, by the way. I hate ghosts. Not because I fear them, but I see them all the time. Most days, they just have a little unfinished business and keep a distance. This one though, had a grieving darkness I could not quite grapple and understand. Something like a thicker fog, which never clears the path but grows heavier till it wolfs down everything. It had an overwhelming tenacious weight that could suck you in instantly, like a magnet being pulled into the unknown which likely kills in a second without warning, if one may imagine. 

Now, you may ask me. Why the hell am I looking at this ghost right now? Well, I was, working on my term assignment. It was homework at the ungodly hour, burning the midnight oil away. I had troubles sleeping so I got up to work on it two days before the deadline was due. I needed to get it done now, so I could use the extra time for a new part-time job at the ice cream store that just opened two weeks ago. I’ve nailed the interview for that, and it starts tomorrow, after class. Jolly great. Saving more money to move out of my step-parents’ home. Right, my current mom and dad are not my real parents. Just my parents’ friends who had indulged in collective sympathy, adopting me home into their household one day after the car accident that left everyone in my family dead, including my baby brother, here I solely survived. I was not at the scene, and I wasn’t really crying my balls out even then. Staring at the ceiling for almost a year and remaining practically mute throughout wherever I went was all I did, basically, for mourning. 

Gawd, this ghost looked a gruesome dead. It reeked of a peculiar sour stench, like a decayed dumpster of overexpired carcasses and all foul things in a morose. As I sniffed and unassumingly let out a leaky outlet of nasal sounding, the ghostly figure turned its face at me as though it heard. That thing revealed its eyes in a split second, parts of its eyelids exposed in convulsing flesh while registering my presence. Stunned to the bone in sobriety, I let out a scream. Bolting across the living area, tripping over my sleeping dog (this one’s absolutely too stoney for it’s own good) albeit balancing my fall with sturdy arms aligned to a pivot crawl up the stairs, I darted straight to my room, ducking right away into the covers of my bed. Trembling and fumbling at any pillow to hide my head properly well, to brace contact if it arises. That…….that, that, tttthhhh, that…that was a hideous, Machiavellian face of resentment and rancorous destruction which lost the whole damn darn way, possibly a hell’s league from anything quite remotely good. Or should I say already tarnished the sacred? I panicked, heart racing in action for a fight or flight. The whole night I quivered in fear and did not shut either eye for an hour. By morning, my drained energy drove me quite insane but I picked myself up for school anyway. Shit, I’ve actually hustled to school on time. On both numb, jellied feet.

The event of a ghastly encounter last night kept me awake all the way till lunch. It made me irrationally pacing back and forth, destabilised and frightened than ever at the mere thought of it where our eyes met, discharging a repulsive terror none the least anticipated or preferred. My lunch tray which was a sandwich and a milk carton was left untouched as I huddled alone in a corner at the noisy canteen. That memory of a creepy insidious face compelled my turtle-shell life to end ruptured in chaos to confront and vouch if whatever that entity was in any, anyyy bit normal. Sure didn’t look like Halloween rehearsal! Hours later, when classes ended, I rang up the ice cream store with the best excuse of being sick in period pains, scoring the day’s off successfully, the smartsy bailed part-timer. I must investigate that nightmare of a figure I saw. Now, my curiosity is leading the madness in my head. Going towards the school hallway and into the library doors, I removed my laptop from my tote swiftly turning it on and sweatily start looking up on that evil with monstrous white hands. Mentally hungry for clues, I banged in the keywords that came to my mind and a pool of related search results appeared. A linked article caught my eye instinctively at interest, insinuating me to select a news headline which said, “Scientist, dead in hill’s house found with collection of murdered hands”. As I begin to read on hastily, an intense wave of fatigue caught on, snapped me off and before long, my body caved in as I collapsed on the floor of the library.

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.