Why I Write

          Some call self-expression an Art, a testament that some expressions of the self cannot be explained by others who see, hear, or feel it. But to the self that expresses it, it makes all the sense in the world.

          A refined way of this expression is found in the written word. Where one finds a sense of self, embedded in the rules of language, its grammar and structure, and is comfortable enough to constrain themselves more or even let loose the leash and roam free in the space of a page. Out poets, story tellers and makers, keeper of accounts, and creator of worlds are the ones who have found their home in words. Music created, not from notes, but letters; stanzas in sentences. Some search sounds that stand apart. Or find that rhythm, that call you hither, to come in closer, to hear heart beating.

I have no courage to call myself one of them; one who lives within the words. Yet the words flow forth from within me. So perhaps my home is here, in ink filled pages, word filled tomes, and adventure filled lives. 

Light

By Pedro R.C. Silva

     A man wearing a grass green tunic with a leather belt around his waist kneels at the base of a marble coffin inside a tomb. Chiseled on top of it is the form of a woman in her late twenties clad in a simple dress, hands folded at the stomach.  The man whispers a small prayer before standing and kissing the stone woman on the forehead.  

“May you watch over me in your realm, give me the strength to go, day by day, without you.” He whispers. The man places his fist over his heart and turns on his heels.  Outside, the sun brims the trees as the chill of winter settles in. He walks towards his horse and pats its neck. Taking the reins in his hands he leads his horse through the graveyard towards the entrance. A brisk wind sweeps the leaves upon each other like sheep being chased by a dog, the only movement among these dead. At the gate, an old man is sitting on a broken slab of stone as light snoring reverberates from him as he rocks back and forth, ever so slightly. Awaking to the sound of horse shoes on soft dirt, the old man looks up and says rather groggily, “‘ope the visit went well Sir Jauffre.”

     “Yes, as always Ulfe.”

 Ulfe smiles, displaying his missing teeth. “She loved ya, an’ ye can be cert’n tha’ she knew ye loved ‘er too.” Ulfe said. Jauffre looks at him with a faint smile.

     “Somehow I am reminded of that every time I come here, where others see death, I see love.” Jauffre lets out a half laugh. “My only wish was to have been by her side.” He looks back at the tomb for a moment. The leafless trees behind waves in the wind. “Take care Ulfe. May tonight be a restful one.”

“Like me neighbors give me any trouble” says Ulfe with a chuckle. Jauffre walks over a wooden bridge and down a dirt path.

After both the moon and the sun came out to meet Sir Jauffre on his travels, he arrives at a small village. He makes his way to the stables with a tavern across from it. He hears the hammer of the blacksmith tinking away and the merchants talking about who made the best deal as they were leaving the town square. He left his horse with the stable hand, placing two silver coins in the boy’s hand when he hears a scream from another end of the village. “Hide.” His voice low and upset as he looks back to the boy who still holds the reigns of his horse, “Now!”

 He turns towards where the scream came from. A man and a woman came running in his direction. They kept running with light feet meeting hard ground, passing Jauffre and looking over their shoulders. Jauffre looks back to where they ran from to see two men scuttling and dragging their feet. They look at Jauffre with a tilt of their heads. Now he understood why they ran like rabid rodents, they saw the undead, their flesh hanging from the bone, thin hair and eyes black as the abyss from whence they came from. One has his jaw hanging in a slant while the other has his brain visible to the world with black ooze dripping from their mouths. Jauffre clenches his hands into fists and stars at them, not giving way to the creeping fear in the back of his head.

The undead charge at Jauffre, his muscles tense up the closer they get. One suddenly lunges at him with ivory claws. Blinding light shines off of Jauffre, causing a force around him that pushes both of the undead back into the air, slamming down into the ground. The dust swirls in the wind as it clears away. Metal plates that are riveted and interlocked with a gleam of white pearl, Jauffres divine armor is now protecting him. A gauntlet that encases his hand grasps a bastard sword, which he points at the two undead. They scramble to get back up on their feet and again rush him.

Jauffre darts at them. When they are about 3 feet away he swings his sword down and right at the neck of the first undead, cleaving it straight off. Not wasting the momentum of the swing, his sword strikes the side of the other undead before placing a hand over its head. A light shines from Jauffres hand that makes the undead drop to the ground. He takes a moment to look at the bodies before distant clapping begins. He turns to face a pale man wearing leather pants and bones across the waist, neck, and arms. His hair is dark and long but kept behind the ears to show ice blue eyes that pierced down into the soul.

“Am I to assume that you are responsible for these?” Jauffre points at the undead with the edge of his sword, now with the taint of black blood.

“Oh yes, those are indeed my work,” his voice is high pitched and joyful. “I was hoping that they would have some fun tonight but, I was half expecting a man of the light to show up. Now, unfortunately, I must deal with you personally so that my pets can run freely, I do so love it when the villagers scream.” The pale man unsheathes a long sword. “But I can have some fun too, from time to time!” The pale man quickly raises his hand and an orb swirling full of darkness shoots right at Jauffre.

Jauffre quickly waves his hand in front of him and the dark blast hits a shield that glimmers on contact. “You are quite a powerful man of the light, not like the others I have stumbled upon. Yes, many of your kin I have killed, and you are proving to be quite the fun one,” the pale man chuckles at Jauffre with glee as he shoots three more orbs. Jauffre quickly sidesteps the three bolts before casting another shield about him as he kneels down. “What’s this now? Giving up already? And we have just begun to have fun!”

Three lightning bolts came down from the sky around Jauffre, and as they hit the ground three dogs with white fur and gold eyes appear at the points of impact. Jauffre points at the pale man and the hounds run at him.

“My, my! I have never seen that one before. I’ll just have to improvise then”. The pale man shoots the ground with a few dark orbs, the ground opens and five skeletons holding weapons made out of the bones drag their way up. Jauffre runs at the pale man, hacking down the skeletons in his way while the hounds deal with the others. Jauffre swings his sword up, the pale man turned away from it while swinging his sword sideways. It glances off the armor and the pale man takes a few steps back before swinging again. This time, Jauffre parries and swings harder at the pale man, just to have him dodge his blade. Again and again Jauffre attacks the pale man who seamlessly dances around the bastard sword. Jauffre takes a few steps away.

“What’s wrong, good sir? Are we not having fun? I know that I am. What’s wrong? Am I too quick for you?” the pale man laughs before noticing the ring of light on the ground around Jauffre. The Pale man lunges at Jauffre with his long sword, aiming at the neck. Jauffre takes a step back, allowing the pale man to miss his lung and have his sword pierces the ground. The Pale man tilts his head while looking at Jauffre, who grins. Now Jauffre took steps forward, his Bastard swords steel glints in the sunset and before the pale man has a chance to swing, dodge, tumble, parry, or even blink he fell to the ground with his right arm cut off and an open stomach. The pale man gags for air as he tries to keep his innards inside.

“No fair! I was the one who would win! You cheated! No no no! I wanted to have the fun of gloating while you were on the ground!” The pale man coughs up some blood before Jauffre places a hand on his head.

“May your passing be swift, Light forgive you.” Jauffres hand shines and the pale man lay motionless. Two of the hounds came to Jauffres side. The third lies on the ground with its silver blood on its pelt. Jauffre kneels at its side. “Thank you, my friends. Return now so that I may call on you again.” The eyes of all the hounds shine before turning into golden dust that rides the wind.

©2014 - Pedro R.C.  Silva - All rights reserved

Joe

By Pedro R.C. Silva

Joe was a man,

This man had a job,

His job involved his hands,

His hands made furniture,

His furniture was sold to the townsfolk,

The townsfolk took it to their homes,

In their homes were their belongings,

Their belongings were all made by Joe,

Joe was a man,

This man was loved by all,

All looked up to his beliefs,

His beliefs were good natured and for men,

Some men followed Joe,

Joe had followers who learned from him,

They learned about peace and love,

Peace and love was spread around the region,

Throughout the region stories were told about Joe,

Joe walked from town to town,

From town to town Joe was met with happiness,

To Joes happiness most accepted his beliefs,

His beliefs were shunned by few,

A few went out of their way to bring harm to Joe,

Joe was hurt by these men,

These men put Joe on display before he died,

Joe died with pain,

Even with pain Joe asked for peace and love,

Peace and love are still believed by some,

Some now even worship Joe and his message,

Joe’s message was spread by his followers,

Those who followed Joe,

And Joe was a man. 

©2014 - Pedro R.C.  Silva - All rights reserved

The Dark Well

By Pedro R.C. Silva

     My face is on the cold wet stone floor. I push myself up and sit. My head pounds with pain and I rub it with my hand. I smell blood and pull away my hand, rubbing my fingers together. Did someone knock me out when I wasn't looking? I stand, my legs wobble for a moment before I regain my balance, and I stretch out my arms and feel a cold, wet, stone wall. I follow it slowly, feeling some patches of moss from time to time. I reach another wall and follow it as well, another wall, and then another, all the same distance between each other and no door on any of them. I stretch my arms upward but the walls just go up even further. I try to find a hand or foot hold somewhere to attempt a climb, but all the walls are smooth and not made of slabs. I sit back down and begin to wait.

     I cannot tell how much time has passed. My head has stopped pounding and I can hear the dripping of water hitting stone. I move around to see if I can find the sound’s source. I move closer and a drop hits my hand, the cold of the water spreads just as far as the water does. I move my head to where my hand was and tilt it back with my mouth open. The first drop hits my cheek, awaking some of my faces senses. The second hits my nose, some even going up it, but I dare not move. The next drops go into my mouth. I stay there until I’m satisfied, I began to wait again. It is all I can do. There is no other way.

     Drip… drip… drip… It goes on and on, without pause, taunting me. It won’t stop, it will never stop.

     Footsteps. I hear them from above, echoing off the wet stone walls. I hold my breath to better hear them but now my heart pounds with excitement and fear. They've stopped. I hear a voice but cannot understand it. It sounds more guttural than anything. I call out to the voice, asking why I have been taken captive, what do they want with me, and if there was a chance for any food to be brought. A sudden thump in front of me made me jump to my feet. Laughter echoed from above, filling all the space between me and whatever that is. No answer to any of my questions so far, so I wait a little longer. Footsteps again, this time growing more distant with every step until only the dripping is left.

I begin to feel the floor with my hands, searching for whatever made that thump. Around the center I feel something rough, a cloth of some sort. I run my hands all over, it’s a bag tied off at the top. I wonder why they gave me a bag. I pull it up, practically weightless. I untie the top and open it. I run my hands around the rim before slowly putting my hand in it. Perhaps there may be some food. I feel nothing but the sack. Now it’s up to my elbow. I feel around a little more and don’t feel a thing. Pain, sharp stinging pain. The bag has closed around my elbow and begins to suck the rest of the arm into the bag. It moves quickly and is already up my shoulder, I can no longer feel my fingers and half of my hand. I cry out. No one responds, only my own echo. I try to pull it off but its grip is too tight. The mouth of the bag begins to open bit by bit to allow my body to enter it. I can feel it go up my neck. I place my hand on my chin and wait for it to reach there. It’s around my fingers now. I can’t feel my other arm. I try to rip it off my face, but now my other hand is stuck. It sucks my other hand in with ease. I can’t stop it. It’s now over my mouth. I try to scream again but the only sound I hear is the dripping water. It’s over my nose. Half my shoulder is gone. My eye lashes brush against the bags mouth. Half my remaining arm is gone along with a whole shoulder. The bag is now completely over my head.

©2014 - Pedro R.C.  Silva - All rights reserved

My Soul

By Pedro R.C. Silva 

So when we left him,

My soul on the cliff.

The weight of burdens

The sight of barriers

Past and future

Lifted off my skin.

To do all

Without morality.

At first a gift

And then

A burden in itself.

Seeing the hurt,

Huddled in the room,

With heavy blood,

With black and blue eyes.

Not knowing why

They weep

At the cliff,

I revisit

To get back myself,

I find nothing.

My breathing halts

No trace no whisper

Of the soul that was.

I look over and below

To see the shadows

The rags and splinters

On the ragged rocks.

©2014 - Pedro R.C.  Silva - All rights reserved

Devil's Elbow

By Pedro R.C. Silva

     The leaves crunch under my feet as I walk slowly down the forest path. The leaves all around me colored red and orange as the seasons have changed. Winter is coming soon. It reminds me of when I was a child and went from house to house on hollows eve to collect candy from my neighbors. It was a much simpler time back then, when the child with the biggest and fullest bag was declared the lord of hollows eve. I wish I could relive any part of those moments. It’s too bad I haven’t found a wife. Of all the times I’ve tried to be a suitor, each of them brought me no fruit of love or companionship.

There was a time in my younger days that I sought the favor of a girl from a village across the bridge. Her name was Charlotte, eyes of the ocean after a storm and hair as golden as the rays of the sun which curled ever so slightly. In the month of December, with fresh snow just settled in, there was a Christmas ball and everyone went. I went on the off chance that I would see Charlotte there, even a glimpse of her smiling or laughing would make my night, but I never suspected what would happen there that night. I ended up talking and dancing with her. By the end of the night we somehow ended up at the bridge, watching the snow fall and melt into the river. Yes we did kiss, and even talked some more, but I can’t remember what we talked about. Either way it doesn’t matter. Two days later I heard the news of her engagement to an Admirals son and they moved to the city before New Year’s Day.

My luck with women has never change, but who in their right mind would marry me now? A middle aged, balding, bearded, history professor. I reach the end of the forested path and reach the cliff that overlooks the ocean. I sit on one of the benches provided for those who enjoy the view. There’s a guard rail running all across the edge of it now. I remember when the cliff stood alone, and the path leading to it was still grassy. My friends and I would call this cliff the devil’s elbow because of the way it sloped up and abruptly cut down again in an angle away from the edge. We saw who was the bravest by seeing who would get closer to the edge. One summer’s day we were doing exactly that, and there was a rivalry between Ralph and Carl. Time after time one would get closer than the other, but this time they went into it while being furious at each other. Ralph said that Carl took the silver coin that his father gave to him, while Carl called Ralph a liar. On that day, most people say, Ralph pushed Carl over the edge and Carl grabbed Ralph, bringing them both down, but I was there. I saw how Carl lost his footing and how Ralph outstretched his arm to grab Carl. Ralph couldn’t keep his footing either. That’s when the village ordered the guard rail to be put in.

I sit there on the Devil’s Elbow, looking out at the ocean, hearing the wave’s crash and the seagull calling each other over the slight breeze. So many memories we keep to relive at any moment’s notice, even when we don’t want to.

©2014 - Pedro R.C.  Silva - All rights reserved

Talking Heads

By Pedro R.C. Silva

     I awoke to a rainy day, water flowing down the windows of my room, a good day to stay in or to go to a museum. I decided to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; it’s one of my favorites that I go to as often as I can. During the summer I usually walk through the park to get there and make a whole day out of it, but today it would be better to go by subway. The museum holds many different objects of art from all across the world and our history. It is the art students’ study hall and the art lovers’ special niche. And they have some good food whenever you’re hungry. I enter the museum, dripping wet, and am met by the sound of hundreds talking at once. While making my way through the crowd I catch only parts and phrases of conversations. I place my met badge on my coat pocket. I look in all directions, all of them familiar, until I settle on the Roman and Greek statues.

Slowly, I move between those set in marble, posing their bodies for all to see. After moments pass I’m standing between two pillars and facing a closed courtyard. The gray day and rain drops are visible through the glass covering the wide center. The whole thing is supposed to make you feel as if you were in a real Roman courtyard. I sit at a bench in the middle of the courtyard. I’ve always like this area of the museum, to sit and gaze upon the statues of old, to see the two Herculeses’ watching one another. To walk about the busts of women and men that have the chips, cracks, and scratches added to them by time and men. The smell of this room always calms the soul and nerves. I only wish they made more comfortable benches.

 After resting I began to walk around the courtyard, taking moments to stand in front of each statue, as if meeting them and asking if they would like me to analyze and compare them. They tell me they get analyzed all the time by students, sketching them away on their pads with their pencils. Ah, but I am not an artist, I would respond, I am a writer. I can make people see you through my very own eyes in all your marvelous detail; I can make people notice you for more than a glance. Oh how they would laugh at me and my claims, especially the hero’s and Gods. They all mocked me, saying that such a feat cannot be done, all except two.

The first one looked at me sternly. His brow cast shadows over his eyes as he stared at me. His nose was completely gone along with some of his upper lip. My eyes trailed to his badge of information, a Roman of the first century with no name. Who are you? I would ask. After some moments of silence he answered me. I am of those who built Rome; I am of those who remained in the shadows of the Gods and Caesars. I am of the workers who pushed the slabs of stones to build Rome from the ground up, the traders who trekked across the empire for goods to bring back to the center. Gaze into these immortals eyes, for I have seen the Roman Empire at its prime and watched it fall. This Roman man shows and says this to everyone who crosses his long, concerned stare. And that is what he said to me when I stood and questioned him.

 What set’s you apart from the rest of the busts? Why are you hidden behind a pillar and a bigger bust? I could see the smile in his eyes for a moment as he prepared to answer me. He asked me what set me apart from the rest. I retorted that I knew who I was and what I’ve done. He smiled and then whispered that he did not know of himself before returning to his stern stare. He continued to say that the rest know the stories and myths, as you call them now, that they represent. The busts of the Caesars of old carry with them the reputation of their name. As for me, I am a mystery yet to be solved. All you know is where I am from and that I am a man. Now go and talk to a friend of mine, you will know him when you see him.

I was perplexed at being sent away by an inanimate object. I continued to walk around in the courtyard, standing before all the busts and statues as before until, as if by accident, came across a man’s head with a short beard. I looked at his badge to find that he was a Roman from the early second century, he also had no name. Hello, it said with warm eyes. It almost made me jump back. Oh, apologies! It was not my intent to cause fear. You must be the one the old Roman sent, are you not? He seemed worried now, as if he was always the worrying type.

I stepped closer and smiled; yes, the old Roman sent me. I have some questions, if you don’t mind answering them for me. The kindness returned to his eyes as he nodded and waited for the questions. Who are you? I asked. His answers came with a smile; I am of those who expanded the borders of Rome, of the young politicians who had everything to gain and nothing to lose, of the landlords who took care of their surfs, of the lanistas who treated their gladiators with respect and discipline. I am of those who used the foundations of the old with great ambitions to bring greatness to the Roman Empire. When he finished, the brightness in his eyes could illuminate the whole room.

Then why do you sit here next to the column, as if your placement was of no consequence. As I asked this, his faced grew worrisome. Ah, now you have come to the subject of my worry. Here I am, in all my greatness and glory, and yet I am placed behind a poorly made coffin, which everyone believes to be a master’s work, with no one to look upon me. It is as if the Gods themselves hold me bound to this torment. That is why I have agreed to talk to you and answer your inquiries. With luck and your writing, my presence can once again be known. I bowed my head slightly. You’ve given me too much honor and respect, I am just a man. His voice grew loud and retorted. And yet man was able to conquer and hold vast lands, build great cities, and even tame the wilds. Look around and see the glories of man and his ambitions. His words echoed in my mind as I was taken aback by his anger. After some time he dismissed me. Now go, tell the tales of me and my friend. Let them know we still have weight and are due the respect we truly need.

I returned home, as wet as a rain drop. As I showered I contemplated what had just occurred at the museum. The two busts of the Roman men, they spoke to me as if they haven’t had a real person to talk to in some time. They both represent a time no longer remembered, but of a time that is studied by the scholars of today. They are both made of the same marble that came from the earth. Yet they both tell different stories, much how the style they were made in differs. One was powerful, proud, and had a presence that if he walked into the room, everyone would know. The other was more docile in nature, keeping a wary eye to his surroundings yet his mind often on more important matters. How often would he stroke his beard in thought? As I sit here now and write, I wonder how well this text will convey their image. If people who read this will go to the museum to see if they can discover the Romans I have talked to. How alike and different they were from each other. I will have to visit them again soon, maybe ask if they know of any others in the museum who have been neglected. Till then I will keep what they have told me in my thoughts.

©2014 - Pedro R.C.  Silva - All rights reserved