Categories
Poetry

Inconclusive

So funny now
After a year of blaming one thing
We should now so easily
Find a cause of death
Inconclusive

Categories
Short Fiction

Business Advice

A short story by K. Samways

‘Thank you, Albert,’ Mr. Jones nodded, claiming his drink from the proffered tray perched upon his servant Alfred’s delicate fingers. 

He took pause from gazing over the city outside his window to consider the warm brown liquid nibbling away the ice in the middle of the glass. 

He gave it a swirl with his right hand, chuckling as the cubes clinked against the crystal walls. There would always be more ice. At least, the kind he needed. 

“Do you know how to ruin a family?” Mr. Jones, feeling suddenly sentimental, turned to Albert who had taken his customary place against the wall in the shadows of the room. 

“No, sir.”

Of course he doesn’t, thought Jones. All he does is stand there all day and take orders like an idiot, so his family can frivol elsewhere. Yes, by minimum standards, Albert was a well cared for employee, paid in excess with special privileges afforded to his wife and children, allowing them to lead a relatively carefree life — provided they obeyed the rules with which their new class came.

As for Albert, he was no more than a servant to Jones, being at beck and call twenty-four hours a day, only permitted to vacation when Jones was vacationing, often travelling with him and still working; he was never doled much time with the family he so well provided for. The man’s wife had probably taken several new lovers, Jones chuckled again.

“Simple. Opposition and fear.”

The snicker preceding these words cast a chill over the room, and Albert refrained from shivering. It was rare to see Jones act so cavalier about his generally sinister doings. A small silence slowly ripened as Albert knowingly stayed dumb.

“I’m bored. Call Victoria,” Jones snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Albert inclined his head a few degrees then left the room.

Jones again turned toward the window, regretting his impulsive display of emotion. His control was not slipping, he reassured himself, and soon his friends would see what they could accomplish together. He chuckled again, feeling amused — the idea that any of them were friends. He almost laughed out loud. Language is a funny thing. And it is fun. It was part of what made the game so arousing: the odds just unpredictable enough to allow for good gambling. He had to admit, he was dealt a good hand, but he was growing more suspicious that Smith had an equally good, possibly better, hand. 

He contemplated his suspicions as he finished his drink, his eyes devouring the city below.

“Mrs. Smith, sir.” Albert returned shortly after he left, escorting an elegant middle-aged woman held firm and youthful with an expensive and complex regimen. 

“Victoria.” Jones couldn’t help but smile, nearly genuinely, he thought.

“Mr. Jones. Lovely to see you again.”

They kissed each other on each cheek, long since laughing away fears around any illness. They sat at the bar with the view of a million twinkling lights poured out before them.

“What, may I ask, are you looking for?” Mrs. Smith asked bluntly, knowing Jones’ position all too well.

“Perhaps a little less conversation,” chirped Jones as he placed his hand at the ridge of Victoria’s knee just under the hem of her dress. Her legs uncrossed themselves immediately and she drew back.

Then, as if rehearsed, she took his hand and, walking away from the window, glided toward the bedroom. Jones could hardly keep from coming for the words still lingered in his mind and as a whisper on his tongue:

Opposition and fear.” 

Categories
Buddhism Poetry

Responsibility

Won’t it be wonderful
when we finally understand
cause and effect

Suddenly blame will not be
so effortless

by K. Samways

Categories
Photography Poetry

Lost Cleaning Practice

By K. Samways, 2021

Things that were difficult to clean
used to be household staples

Now they are replaced 
by smooth and glossy electronics
attracting dust within a square metre radius
making for more efficient chore sessions

We are like quick machines
switching from one task to another
only able to keep an instruction in our mind
for a very brief time 
because we must keep 
switching
switching
switching
on and off 
to this and that
repeat, correct mistakes
respond, complete task
submit
submit
submit

Our sleep is restless
and we no longer question our dreams
or if we do
It is in private, a shy task abandoned
before a journal entry is made on a public platform
until a journal entry is censored on a public platform
and we cry when no one reads our diaries
how unfair
how unjust
how unliked

We are like quick machines
lacking responsibility for our actions
for we were merely programmed by our society
conditioned by the ones we loved
so we are okay with it
because we call it
normal 
normal
normal
and if we are not normal, what will others label us?
what would I label myself?
Would I call myself
nice
kind
patient 

Do you wonder what was in a woman’s mind
as she dusted her house each day
undistracted by Spotify or cell phone cry
surely not everyone was seduced by day-drinking
and of course they had
morals 
morals
morals
What was contemplated? Was it the same as
our current curse?
relentless, mean and negative
thoughts
thoughts 
thoughts

If I am like a quick machine
conditioned by culture
groomed by carrot and stick seduction
a good girl’s malediction
only one thing would be 
worse
worse
worse
And that would be to waste this opportunity
to instead program my minds to be 
peace 
peace
peace

love
love
love

joy
joy
joy

So I have filled my house
with objects that I need to
detail and clean with a fine tooth brush
so that I might learn to
focus
focus
focus
And to fill my heart
With precious living beings
I need to cherish and
love 
love 
love

To begin to set things straight, I clean my house
and my mind simultaneously
no status update needed

Categories
Visual Artwork

Happy Accidents

Abstract paintings whose stories depend entirely
upon the mind of the observer.
Please enjoy this acrylic collection!


If you are interested in owning an original painting, fill out a purchase form here.

If you are interested in owning an original painting, fill out a purchase form here.

Categories
Poetry

Remembrance Day Poem

First Place Prize, The Royal Canadian Legion
Remembrance Day Literary Contest, 2002

All the Poor Soldiers

Hopes Shattered, lives destroyed.
Ashes scattered after bombs.

Remember the suffering, the soldiers, the pain.
Remember the bombing, the ashes, the rain.
Will we not remember, on this one little day?
Of the soldiers that fought, while their families did pray.
The soldiers fought so we could be free.
The soldiers fought for a peace that truly could not be.
Eyes met those of enemies.
Here they needed bravery.
Dedication in a heart,
when with a family, he did part.
Sacrifice of sister, brother.
Missing one that was a mother.
Loyalty is in one’s soul,
when he feeds a loved one from his own bowl.
So now poppies grow among the graveyards of the dead.
Come pay respect to whom lay in heaven’s bed.
So do not laugh, but do not sorrow.
They fought and now we have, yet, one more tomorrow.

Categories
Short Fiction

The Hour

Prose laden with imagery, 2003.

The clock’s hand slowly crept around as the minutes passed by. Before long, the midnight hour was at hand.  The hour when Evil slowly crept out of the darkest places, the hour when the moon was at its highest, the hour…when Evil things lurked.

The sun was shining as Melanie stepped outside.  The air was warm and the breezes played in the trees.  The sun danced through the leaves and onto Melanie’s sandaled feet.  It was a beautiful day for playing jump rope with her friends.  Her mother would make her take her little sister to the park with her, but even that could not ruin this wonderful day.

The sun had completely vanished.  The shadows started to creep out of their hiding places.  The morrow would be soon here, but, for the next blessed hour, it would be Evil who ruled the night. A shadow passed over the moon, or perhaps it was just a cloud.  Bats fluttered from their daytime eaves, and owls hooted in the trees. An icy breeze floated over the scene. The air was heavy and dank.  Leaves fell, and an unbearable silence was thrust over the land.

Outside, at the park, children’s laughter was all around.  Kids were running, jumping, playing, their colourful clothing surrounding everything.  Melanie’s sister was playing hopscotch with some friends she had just made.  Melanie was using her new, bright purple skipping rope.  …Ninety-nine, one hundred! Did it! Melanie had finally completed her goal of one hundred jumps in a row and was now singing “Strawberry Shortcake.”  The leaves were green and so was the grass.  It felt soft between her bare toes.  Fuzzy caterpillars were crawling along the flower petals which were strewn with all the colours of the rainbow; their sweet scent was flung into the warm breeze.

The shadowed ground reeked of rot.  The movement in the grass was not the wind blowing playfully.  Thousands of worms and beetles had unearthed themselves to absorb the moonlight until they harboured an eerie glow.  As the shadows moved towards the cemetery, hands broke through graves.  Bones started to rise, move.  Parts of the air became thicker, wisps were seen floating by; unknown and nasty scents could be smelt as a spot grew suddenly cold. Mud oozed from every crevice.  Wind howled through empty mausoleums.  Evil grasped hold of everything, sinking its claws in.

Melanie glanced at the sky.  It was beginning to streak with fuchsia and pink.  The sun was setting, making patterns in the sky.  Melanie knew she should start home with her sister.  Their mother would have a supper of corn-on-the-cob and baked potatoes waiting for them. As they walked home, birds flew through the air towards their cozy nests.  Fluffy babies would be waiting for their supper also. A streak of sapphire went by as a blue jay took off from a fencepost.  Colours danced across the houses.  Melanie loved the way the warm sun set, cooling off the hot day perfectly and dazzling the world in a rainbowed array of tints.

The darkness waited.  It preyed upon the weak.  Birds didn’t sing.  Good refused to come out of hiding. As Evil ruled and lurked, bats flew and spiders crawled.  Death hung in the air.  There was no light except that from the moon. A lone howl pierced the night. Fresh meat. Rotting flesh. Devouring meat. Predators roamed and all things were bewitched.  The Hour was upon them.

Melanie’s bed had never felt so cozy. After a long, wonderful day of playing, the soft mattress embraced her tired body.  The blankets settled around her like a warm mitten engulfing a smooth hand.  She snuggled deep under the covers as darkness descended upon the room.  The radio lulled her to sleep.  Everything appeared perfect.

Melanie’s eyes snapped open as a clock struck midnight.  It wasn’t her clock.  Everything was silent in her home.  The quiet enveloped everything like it was trying to suffocate her.  She shut her eyes to try and block out scary shapes making shadows on the wall; they seemed to crawl towards her. Melanie felt such a fear as she had never felt before – one so tangible it brought tears to her eyes. The Unknown threatened to paralyze her. She pulled the blankets close around her as chills raced up and down her spine like the sensation of bugs crawling on skin. She clawed at her neck trying to make it stop.  She bit her hand in an attempt not to scream at something that ran across her bed.  Why did the shadow grow closer to her? Why did her chest feel like something heavy was pressing against it.  Evil was in the air, she could tell, though she knew not what it truly was.  It was as though mud was oozing into her lungs.  She lay back as she struggled for air.  Darkness hung heavy in the room that hour.  Unknown scents danced in the air.  Colours were smothered by grey and black.  Air was destroyed. Breath was crushed.  Evil had cloaked the room.

Categories
Conception Statement

Snowflake Project

12.11.20 – Conception Statement

I have an idea for a new poetry collection: The Special Snowflake Project

It’s kind of supposed to sound stupid. That’s the trickery of millennialism. How can you value anything the same when you’re about to die? Though so are we – we have not the same awareness of death nor the self-grasping. Although we’ll get there without help. 

Really, I see this project as an illustration of dependent relationships. That’s why I’ll describe how the project came to be.

Nothing exists from it’s own side.

I’ll drop you in the middle then.

Language was created, and we desired communication. We desired written communication. Written word was developed. It evolved. We moved from letters to books. Oral tales no longer enough. Writers inspired authors. Authors inspired Marian Keyes. She was moved to write a specific book that caught my specific eye when I was browsing in Chapters (Coles?) at the Conestoga Mall, a little heart broken, healing, day-dreaming, therapy-shopping, and I purchased The Brightest Star in the Sky. This book sat on several different shelves over 10 years, as I moved from place to place. Finally I put it up for yard sale, and it was still left untouched.

So I decided to carve it into pieces. Festive 2020 decorations made of the books I’ll never read, I think. Yet, after I punch the pages into new shapes (snowflakes), a strange desire to read them does arise in me. I use a sharpie (which also has a long history tied to communication we won’t go into now…) to block out words I don’t need, and I recycle inspired work into inspired work. Creative writing dependent on a long chain of personal and worldly apparently material but in fact entirely mind-made events. 

This project is designed specifically to engage an awakening audience.

Glad you could join me. 

Final Note: There is nothing wrong with recognizing yourself as a special snowflake. What could be more true? In this form, you are completely individual (with your own karmic path), yet eventually you will melt and return once more to ethereal connectedness with all other water droplets. Your true nature. Separateness was always an illusion. But you’re special nonetheless. 

Categories
Poetry

Love Your Narcissist

by K. Samways, 2020

Anyone who has suffered
at the hands of 
a narcissist
will understand
its great benefits

Let me tell you
about the
kindest boss
I had
so many insecurities
had she
that easy to manipulate
was she
only she also would
Manipulate me

oh the game of the 
narcissist
round and round
whisper whimper
hit the ground
She fed me lies and half-
truths, yes, but
also gave me
special public
opportunities
I’d be her plus one,
her pet
I looked good back then and
the leash was invisible,
You see

oh the game of the 
narcissist
round and round
chains and whips
hit the ground

So it was my eye not hers
that caught some others
wooing community 
members and benefactors
secret attendance
wallflower at times
but there, by her kindness
as her shadow
by her side
How dark and cold it was

oh the game of the
narcissist
round and round
ice trays crack cubes
hit the ground

Her kindness granted me
so much special aspect
special responsibility
not more than I could bear
but by then I 
did not know
up from down
what could I bear?
it all seemed too much
So she gave me more

oh the game of the 
narcissist 
round and round
kindness smothers
hit the ground

I’d go into work and drag
my feet until someone
came in and my pert
presence in 
reception was 
the only light
to cut the tension in
the office
a palpable, tangible plight
She plunged with us

oh the game of the 
narcissist 
round and round
wearing grinding
hit the ground

Here’s another opportunity
public events committee
the ultimate opportunity 
to display woman empowering 
woman in public spaces
closed door meetings aside
She pushed me towards
a brighter future – again –
how kind! Although I admit
She could work on the delivery

oh the game of the
narcissist
round and round
push and pull
hit the ground

But back in office
worse than before
ensuring I’d quit maybe
make a scene something more
pushing prodding
poking digging
although the ignoring 
was even worse – that’s how
they broke prisoners,
You know

oh the game of the
narcissist
round and round
lean in for kill
hit the ground

So right before she could
revoke the niceties
she tried to lend 
to me
I snatched them 
for keeps
and ran as far as I could go
not that far, it seems
our circles rubbing 
Edges still

oh the game of the
narcissist
round and round
try to escape but
hit the ground

Okay I’m still not 
entirely grateful 
she told some she fired me
when I would have preferred
they heard tales of 
my bravery in 
facing the beast
feeling fire’s breath
and walking away head held high
And by choice

oh the game of the
narcissist
round and round
liar liar
hit the ground

Yet once more
to appreciate
the actions of before
the kind cruelty
she bestowed
truly empowering and emboldening
and my compassion ever
growing for beings
like her
For their need is greatest

oh the game of the
narcissist
round and round
eventually they
hit the ground

Anyone who has suffered
at the hands of 
a narcissist
should understand
its great benefits

Categories
Poetry

Stained Pages

by K. Samways, 2010

In my hands I hold my tears,

Along with all my grief and fears.

Sometimes they shine so awfully bright

With their awful silvery light.

Other times so dull and black,

Like the bottom of an empty sack.

The weight is heavy in my palm – 

Feeling stressed and not so calm.

Always looking for a break,

Where’s my peace and where’s my cake?

Life’s not the breeze they told me about:

Here’s to hunger, sorrow, drought!

Happiness has long betrayed

This lonely body here to stay.

Drive the knife across the wrist,

Swallow pills, cross name off list.

And here we are each dawn, each day:

Struggling through, finding a way

Over the next mountain we find the strength to climb,

Somehow manage every time.

No will to vanish, just exist,

Hand with tears, clenched jaw and fist.

Bite back the words, hold back the punch.

It’s all you can do to stomach lunch.

Write it out or carve it in flesh;

Life’s not so simple as you say, John Tesh.

Dislike to hear, dislike to know

The easy joy in which some flow,

When simply living is a chore,

When faking happy is a bore.

It’s all I can do to just press on:

Smile brightly, stifle yawn.

Today I did my hair for you

Doubt you noticed, I’d forget to care too.

Find someone to love you more than you they,

Or you’ll be disappointed every day.

Never feeling good enough,

Life gets hard and fights get rough.

Soon it’s over, just as fast as start;

Healing after becomes an art.

Maybe one day “existing” won’t be hard.

Maybe one day I’ll pick up the shards:

The pieces collected on the ground,

Swept under rug, but kept around

For the day I’ll find it safe to say

I’m ready to feel, to be put on display,

And someone will take my hand and show me the way,

No more lies: I’ll stop putting on a play,

And I’ll live and smile wide,

A spring in every step, in every stride,

Suddenly less shame and more pride.

One day I’ll look back and grin

Not recognizing who I’ve been. 

For now I’ll wallow, and I’ll get lost 

In the murky fog and dusky frost:

So unsure of where I’m going, 

Hard to see when it won’t stop snowing.

But when all is light and not all black

I know hope’s still here, it’s not turned back.

I’ll face the road that lies ahead;

I’ll read a book, I’ll get out of bed.

Maybe tomorrow won’t be as dark.

Maybe tomorrow the trees won’t bark.

Let the hallucinations leave me be.

I want my peace, I want to see

The world for what it truly is:

Both good and bad, the pop and fizz,

The cake of life I’ll finally eat,

The peace I’ll get – it’ll be so sweet.

I’ve waited so long to just stop hurting,

Maybe to trade for careless flirting

Rid my veins of jealousy.

Destroy every piece of animosity.

No more enemies, just friends

And joyful acts, for means may justify ends.

For all this I truly work,

Though sorrow be my gloomy quirk.

I want to smile, I want to say:

Life’s a pleasure every day.

Cut out the part that wants to die,

Remove the part that wishes time would fly.

For I know that on death’s bed

I’ll wish for more minutes to be ahead.

No more wanting to end my life,

Finally glad I was a wife.

Embrace the truth, embrace it now.

Keep every promise, every vow.

Talk to strangers, talk to mom.

Drop the grudges, don’t drop the bomb.

One day we’ll grow up big and strong.

One day our life resumé will be long.

Don’t spend time unravelling the tapestry;

Pick up the needle and thread, it won’t go disastrously.

If only to try and not give up,

If only to brim fill up the cup

And toast your neighbour and toast yourself;

Hide regrets upon the shelf.

Take the one life you were given to lead;

Love that life and never plead

For it to end, or you to die;

You may be precious in one eye.

It’s all it takes to move along,

You’re not alone, don’t need to be strong

All by yourself for there’s someone

To listen, to care, who you may summon.

Be it spirit, mom, or friend,

They will be there until the end.

As you can tell, this struggle is tough;

Words are said, but is that enough?

The silence in which fills the space

Sometimes says more than words can place.

So read the hurt between the lines,

The hardships, the sorrows, the “I said I’m fine”s.

Through all the lies, and the grief I’ve caused

I’m most sorry, and so I’ve paused

– How can I clean up this mess?

Surely on my own, it won’t be best.

I’m asking please don’t let me be.

Don’t let me go, I won’t be free.

The chains that bind attack in solitude;

In loneliness, I am their food.

I’m gobbled up and strapped down tight,

Cannot move – it’s an awful fright.

I don’t ever want to live this way,

And that is why I’ve come to say

I’ll write this poem, I’ll write this rap

It’s not a message or a trap;

I just want to spill over the edge;

I want to pour my soul over the ledge.

What most of all I want to share

Cannot be written here or there.

The words inscribed are on my heart;

I cannot translate – I’ve not found the art.

And so from there they won’t depart,

They aren’t so sweet, but not too tart.

Just listen here and place your hand

Over my chest and understand

I’m not so normal, rather odd – 

I see agreement; I see you nod – 

My whole life I’ll look for words;

I’ll write and write of things unheard,

And still not manage to make it clear

Just the thing you want to hear.

What we want, it can’t be found,

And so this emptiness resounds

Whether in poems or words unspoken,

Whether in promises whole or broken.

All will come to disappoint,

All will come to smoke the joint

To pass it to the left or right – 

Or I don’t know because I was picking fights.

I feel the need to stop and say

I’m sorry to someone, every day.

My life must be some kind of mistake;

I stay up to think and next day shake

My head and say, what’s it for?

This life I lead, and do I just want something more?

And then it comes the time to end,

To wrap it up to post or send

Away these foul and idiotic words – 

To a friend, or to the birds?

Do I crumple them up and throw them out?

Sit and reread to sob and pout?

The ridiculous notion that these can matter,

That these may get someone off the ladder

Or off the bridge or maybe save the kid down the hall,

Don’t you wish we knew they all

Would go home safe and lie in bed,

Sleep ’til morning, good dreams in their head?

But this will never be the case,

So I’ll try and sleep, and not pace

Like someone is doing on this night.

They cannot rest, they had a fight.

Their life just sucks, they can’t pay bills,

Too much to lose, can’t down the pills

It’s not that easy, that way out.

It’s better to stay, to scream, to shout,

To cry the words and how you need help,

To swallow the pride and cry and yelp

Like the wounded creature humans are – 

No matter if they’ve travelled far  – 

To take the pains and trials here

To face the demons and the fear

To hold the tears in each our hands

To give the liquid to the lands;

To close your eyes and finally rest

Try and lift the burdens from your chest,

To breathe and not hear strangled cries,

To stop the cursing, stop the lies

May be the goal that all achieve

And let last breath be of relief.

The last word be of falling rain,

The cleansing power it maintain,

And wipe the sins from off my head

And I will rest upon this bed

And no more write these wretched words:

Put down the pen and end absurd-

ities, though they remain

Inside this notebook as a stain.