Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary

Short stories and vignettes by Orlando Barahona

Showing posts with label death. Show all posts

Showing posts with label death. Show all posts

Seven

A seven year-old comrade was found drowned during an outing at a swimming pool organised by my first school when I was seven. No one knew how. All the kids went back to their parents, and there were charges filed against the instructor and the institution.

I did know little Esteban, but I also wished for that to remain a buried memory, something “dodgy” about it all. Funny to think about him now, when I've had time to forget.

To this day, after all those decades ago, no one has found the culprit, when the drowning was ruled a murder, nor did I follow-up on him or his family. Could someone have held him underwater and not remember? I've had tortured dreams about it, yet I don't have an answer.

Everyone was questioned about the incident, but I had nothing pivotal to share. With true anxiety, the incident came back to me with a vicious snap into my ID. Perhaps, I don't remember everything…

© Text: Orlando Barahona

© Photo: Robert Carpenter/Flickr

Creative Commons License This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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Kyle and Death

Kyle, there are many ways to interpret how I feel about you. The one that matters to me happens when I am alone, and everything about us becomes a paragon of docile existence, as if we were a real couple. It's possible that we are better than that. We always were.

You said to me once that you would never survive my death. Yours? Possible to survive, knowing I will meet you, when it's all over. What if Death is as final as many think it is? Have we been wrong all our lives?

I don't care that you are fading away, and that I have no recourse, no hope. May you spare me the rite of the last words, because I wish to knock on your door just down the hallway. Let me in.

Come to me and close my eyes to the upcoming terror that awaits us. Hold me, I need it. Until I meet you again, my friend, my lover, My Kyle.

© Text: Orlando Barahona

© Image: Josh/Flickr

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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The Exit

Image of the Nevada Desert during Burning Man festival

The sun greeted me in the desert with fire and music. A strong wind amplified the sound of my skin melting into a melody, entering me to seduce my essence out into its flowing ghostly voice. Thirst, hunger, and sunstroke took away my last breath.

I was carried gently into the ether, where I saw white doves fly above me and ominous-looking dogs running on the ground. My five closest friends waited many years for my return, and like the lights in a big house their existence dimmed and they met me in the desert, one by one. I felt them all next to me without the shell of my body, bereft of restrictions from facial expressions to show them how much I missed them.

My sadness became someone’s tears; my anger became someone else’s anger when I looked back through memories of my short life. Perhaps I waited for it to end impatiently, leaving myself adrift in negative emotions and deprived of smiles. A force I recognised intuitively emanated light and warmth at the end of my journey and guided me into a new consciousness; I found peace at last.

© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Guillermo A. Durán/Flickr

Creative Commons License

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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Marcus

To watch him fall in love was to watch a sky at dawn after a melancholy spell. He followed a dream made conspicuously clear in his eyes, sparkling on a face revealing the relentless pursuit of riches and pleasure, perhaps of someone new.

When he received compliments from others he was unable to use his own voice to claim possession of the feelings in his heart that paralleled the Universe in its enormous and infinite motion, to thank them for their aether flowers. Such contrasts between lucid intent in body language and charming vestigial shyness built an attraction that could shake any statue.

So sweetly has he given me in a few key notes of his keyboard the tears I needed to bring down a house of fear. Where shall he drift to now? I’m longing for our union of touch and sound, standing, waiting by the phone. The recording of the sentiment seems trite and soulless in the hot wax of words because it is spoken through the eyes and the lips; the hands and the arms; the unmovable, bittersweet faith of tender longing borne on my lips waiting for a kiss of hope.

But he did not wish to be better, to overcome his disorder, the spiritual myopia of Depression. He saw destruction as a conduit for a better life, contemplating it every minute of his inclement emotional weather. Death becomes flowers in the spring. Today, I remember his life and display the writing on my skin worn by guilty happiness the acridest sorrow of them all: that moment when I stopped being him.

Father Time, take me away to another place in my mind. My trunks are full, the vision is bright and the road is still unknown.

© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Chris Geatch/Flickr

Creative Commons License

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Join my page on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/luciusbod

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