Chapter One - Lunar Dreams

Chapter One - Lunar Dreams

A Chapter by Warren L.G De Mills

The leaves seemed to bow in reverence to the morning sun, though unwillingly. All volatility had drowned under the torture of the rain. The weight of the cold night bent their backs as the dew left them desperately awaiting the grace of the dawn. It seemed like their god, the sun could somehow burn away the weight of the whole world on their shoulders. This to make them stand upright again. Tall. Confident. Righteous. Ready for the next morning. Only to do it all again. To be forced down as clouds and darkness momentarily swallow the evidence of their salvation as hell is rained down upon them from the heavens - the very dwelling place of their temporarily invisible redeemer. It was like a daily test of faith, their will to endure. Surely, despite the overwhelming shadow cast by their nocturnal doubts, the government of the sun remains supreme. Even if it's radiance goes unseen. It is certainly there.

The bovine eyes of youth, hardened prematurely and stained by the tints of experience stared out pensively... at nothing. The plane of grass expanding before him with the rising sun brought boredom for every familiar blade. Hardly is there an affection, a fleeting moment of cessation from the tedium of his mundane life. Though there are some things that bring bliss to him, they are as diminutive as the tiny stars he sees through the blanket of the night sky. Every now and then, something seems fall, to come crashing down in a conflagration of light and a passion that flares and flares until all is burnt up-dead-and death is that star, the great star which shines the most and never falls, a beacon of hope to the broken, surety to the uncertain that there is some order to things. That everything is for a reason and to each their own season. It is a mark of consistency in a changing world, worthy of worship is death. Lunar dreams.

But the dead do nothing.

Jabari screamed to the moon like a worshipper disappointed in his inactive god. Like he simply seems too far away. Like a God rendered apathetic to the banal qualities of human life, possibly by the repetition? The reverence that is convenient and conditional rather than appreciating and understanding. Maybe by the faith that mitigates once our appetites have been filled. The straining harmonic overtones of his voice told a story of resentment in a soul so young.

"What is life but the process of prolonging death?" he exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh. "the dead have completed the process they were born into. Their purpose fulfilled. "

The hauty proclamations of his heart were almost always written down. He hoped someday to be quoted like some sort of Scripture to the depressed and the damned. He aspired to be like an unrisen Christ, of sorts. A man whose words echoed through the hollow chambers of eternity. Though his gospel would not inspire change or motivate the hopeless. His word would offer consolation in the form of empathy. An understanding shoulder to cry on which said "You're not alone." Words he wished someone had already written for him.

He then began to think of her...

Triumphant tears trickled along his dark cheeks against any suppressing efforts he could muster. The sulfuric sting of salt seeped unto his tongue. Memories welled up inside him like a river bursting its banks. He could see her struggle. The fear in those eyes that faced themselves... Death incarnate. She knew she was ill. She knew that moment would come yet that only seemed to add more dread to the day. More suspense to anticipation. There was no one around to see him cry but he made a habit of keeping his innermost feelings on paper. Though he attempted to construct barriers, during a flood the levies are always broken. That early morning he penned "Best To Die" and signed it with tears.

He gathered his things, quit his whining and returned to the house. Dad would be waiting. It was just a short walk away from the field. Only two.... One person knew about that spot. It was his special place. Humble as it was, it was indeed special. His mother used to take him there and they would have mother and son time. Under the mangoe tree. Now that she was gone, only Mai knew of that place.

The apartment plannings in which he lived was nothing spectacular. The buildings rose to five levels on average. He lived on the third. Each building was labeled between A and F. His building was the penultimate, E. It was also the closest to the community dumpster which added, delightfully of course, to the aromas experienced in the morning. Such variables he had come to experience. Such exotic fragrances like a blend of burning weed, old rotting left overs from KFC topped with fresh piss and a side order of expired milk. Life was not exactly what anyone would call "great" or "inspiring" but it had to do. What choice did he really have?

"Bari, I made dinner. I have been waiting for you but when I realized you weren't coming I ate alone." Michael, Jabari's father failed to make eye contact as he breathed the last part of his sentence. Like something within him was disturbed by what he said.

"Dad, why do you keep waiting on me? you know there will never be another family dinner." he sighed and followed his dad's stare to the ground. "Mom is gone, dad. It's just the two of us from now on. We won't fill up the space around the table and I miss her food. Dinner will never be the same"

"I know, but we can still try. We have to try...for her sake. In remembrance of her." He insisted half-heartedly, finally making eye contact again. There was a subtle sparkle in his eyes. In them, Jabari saw his reflection.

"No dad! we cannot. She's gone...and I miss her too but dad....we have to move on. I'm only seventeen years old and I have a future to aspire to, things I must achieve. Dad we must go forward!" 

He placed his hands on his father's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Dad, she's gone...." With every cell in his body he wanted to cry too but he needed to support Michael. He needed to be the strong one today, maybe tomorrow it will be dad's turn. Maybe after some time, they won't have to take turns anymore. Maybe someday, they will finally stop missing her, or more likely they will cry every tear their grieving body's could produce...until that day, they will take turns being strong for each other.

© 2012 Warren L.G De Mills

Author's Note

Warren L.G De Mills
Tell me what you think guys! my first attempt to write some fiction :)

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Added on September 9, 2012
Last Updated on September 9, 2012


Warren L.G De Mills
Warren L.G De Mills

Port -Of Spain, Trinidad and Tobago

Warren L.G De MillsPromote Your Page Too Like that page!!^^ Warren L.G De Mills is a seventeen year old Poet/Musician. Born in the far off Caribbean island of Trinidad and Tobago, He was raised .. more..