Tag Archives: #shortfiction

Of flitting

Cw: implied intimate partner violence, allusion

I think you thought it was me who had a tendency to flit around. Maybe you were too polite at the time to say it. Sometimes I see it in my writing. My entire flittiness. Is that a word? Is that of consequence? Prescriptive linguistics are a bore & offensive.

See how I flit?

You did it too though. Didn’t you? I never got a chance to say that your light switch 0 & 1 reaction to my multi-dimensions wasn’t exactly grounded. Was it?

Your flit

Like a live

Electrical

Wire

Dipped in

Libation

An explosion

From

Misinformation

Perhaps the most poignant indicator of it all: the refusal of acknowledgement.

The victim-blaming.

I’m a poet because I hate lying & I want to leave impressions more than I want to offer any fixed answers.

But I say victim-blaming in plain language, because we need to say it more just like that.

You know?

The funny thing is…you do know.

& that’s what hurts the most.

That someone who should know better, hurt me more than almost anyone else.

Didn’t you care that you were my comrade?

Didn’t you care that threats are not love?

I’m not selfish for knowing that. For being clear about any of it…clear when I was also the most confused.

I write these letters to you. Unsent letters to you.

Not because I think you’ll listen to psychic logic. No.

But so I can believe myself.

So that I can actually believe myself.

I do more now.

I do.

You dropped me carelessy while looking away & pretending not to.

Is that not a flit of all flits? Was I not responding to it?

Flicking. Flicked.

Thrown by the wayside. Me by you.

I managed to swim.

Back into my own watery disillusioned self again. My lost body.

Disillusionment.

You took from me: illusionment.

Is that a word? In this day & age that should be of no consequence.

I’m still swimming to here in what seems like perpetuity.

At that time, my words for you were shaky. Like I was. In such physical precarity, I wrote from the heart. For you.

Comrade, that you betrayed what we had, it kills me to this day. Not that that means anything to you.

As spring arrives, anticipating blossoming, I remember our future as it left us because our beginning began too soon.

Everyone hates an I told you so. Maybe less so when it’s a note to self.

I’m less shaky nowadays.

After the night of me, the afternoon of me, the morning of me collapsed into myself, somehow my flutter finally returned. 

My silvery wings of sheer mettle. Renewed radiating energy; on an eventual return to reality, the unreality of we; the spell, finally leaving me.

© Niliema Karkhanis


For Your Daily Word Prompt: flit


Flit & flitting definitions


Featured image by Paweł Czerwiński from Unsplash


💜 You leave it in the corner 💜

You leave it in the corner and wonder if you will ever get back there to that corner of the world. Small places have less corners to fill. But you try still, because empty places feel temporary, harsh, undecorated.

‘This is all temporary,’ you say. 

They don’t look away from nothing important on the television […]

You leave it in the corner

© Niliema Karkhanis

You leave it in the corner

You leave it in the corner and wonder if you will ever get back there to that corner of the world. Small places have less corners to fill. But you try still, because empty places feel temporary, harsh, undecorated.

‘This is all temporary,’ you say. 

They don’t look away from nothing important on the television because they don’t want to hear that. 

Impermanence is the thing we’re all ignoring while it’s happening all around us. 

There’s nothing to disagree about between you & them. So why not question existence? This is how people pass the time isn’t it?

You take up painting not long after that. And they slowly move out over the last few weeks of the month. It was a gradual move. You hardly notice until years later.

After those years go by, you find yourself remembering past times. Nostalgia comes around now & again, mostly because things have changed with you kind of pretending nothing could. It was like you couldn’t face it.

Then you notice little things about yourself; changes which accumulate over time, while you are trying to forget yourself altogether. Things which aren’t obvious. Suddenly you are curious about yourself because you realize enough time has passed & you remember yourself. 

You decide you are there & you need to walk away from the ghost. So you mark time in journals, pay attention to how you like things, remember your favourite everything. You live again. Somehow.

© Niliema Karkhanis

A map

A map

1

over a blough

the air spins 

lake air 

over a treasure

a memory

something 

of value

a story

they will all be here one day

to remember something forgotten

buried over & under the tide

running inside the waves

the tide

is a constant

mo(u)rning

2

she followed the map she had found inside the wall during a recent renovation. it was done by hand & it was simply made but detailed. having recently moved into this house, she didn’t exactly yet feel familiar with the immediate environs.

She walked carefully along the dirt path through the trees,aiming to suss out the bumps & roots, bracing her limping gait on the cane & in the path itself. she stretched her feet & made each step with intention.

there were parts on the map which described the way the forest was, where there was an old, broken tree bent down, now a shelter for moss & lichen.

it was just beyond one bent tree,she came upon where the map led to.

There was a small house there, oddly not far from many things, yet completely hidden. It was late spring & the forest was blooming with the perfumes of wildflowers wafting on the breezy forest air.

she entered the small house & was surprised to find it was as if it was inhabited in the present.

It was tidy & there was a floral blanket on a bed, a table, 2 chairs & a small kitchen all in one room. Light streamed in through the big windows.

There was no one else in the small house. There was an envelope on the table. She set the map down & picked up the envelope. Inside was another map on a piece of torn brown paper.

She saw there was some coffee, water in a large jug & a gas stove. She was tired from the walk. Her legs & feet, sore. She boiled water in a pot & made the coffee in a press set out on the counter.

While the coffee brewed in the press, she sat at the rustic wooden table & studied the new map. this map led out to the nearby bloughs & indicated there was something buried there. She would spend a night in the small house & leave in the morning towards the water’s edge.

she poured herself the potent coffee into a small blue ceramic mug. As she sipped the coffee, she felt the pain in her body leave her. 

She laid down to sleep contemplating her morning journey.

https://link.medium.com/huRHyO34Qdb

© Niliema Karkhanis