"The Definition of Love"

We all have different views
On what love truly defines
This is what I think
It means that you care
Enough to fight for someone
And I love you enough
not to let you go!
Unless you don't share this
 unconditional love for me.
I will love you enough
To let you go and
I'll go find happiness somewhere
Else where it is returned.
 You should also know this
I love myself enough to
Be with someone else who
Can love me unconditionally just
The way I love you.



Leo of I Rhyme Without Reason gave me a challenge , "I want you to write a free verse poem with no more than Five words to a line."

Rejection Gives Value To Acceptance.

"Every writer faces the challenge of work being accepted or denied. Take the position of one of those challenges and discuss the possibilities, opportunities and disappointments a writer would experience throughout."

 

As writers, we write from our hearts and truly believe in what we have written. Still, I only really started taking my writing seriously when friends gave me a push to follow through. I began dutifully submitting to contests and anthologies, but, in two to four weeks time, I would get emails back, saying "Sorry, we aren’t sure this will work." But in addition, each time my work came back, it was accompanied by a review and, if I was lucky, some tips on how to make it better. Then, it became a matter of polishing my craft.

 

A year ago my first piece was published in a book with many other writers from around the globe. It was a really big thing for me, because after all the rejection, it finally felt that someone liked what they read.

 

I have been rewriting the same book for almost two years now. Through all this I have come to deal with the rejection: It can either break you or it can make you fight back like a warrior that knows that her book is worth being in the book shops. And so, I keep going. Rejection only exists because the opportunity of success exists alongside it. I just sent another draft out to publishers in South Africa, excited and hopeful that someone will read my work and perhaps give me the chance to let my book see the light of day. 

 

Frequently, rejection can be the start of a relationship, rather than the end of one. I know there are many writers out there that think that when they get a rejection letter it means that they have failed, that they didn’t do their best. But I know that it's just the tricky part of the business, and that you should never give up. One editor said “Just by saying you believe in your book, it makes me realize that you are good at what you do, that you have the potential of becoming an published author.”  By saying this, he motivated me to push and push until my breakthrough comes along.

Writers are all on a journey.  We travel along a road over many nights, rewriting draft after draft, but we should never go off that road, even if at times, it can feel as if it has simply led us to a dead end. Travelers do not plan on getting lost, but even when they do, they don’t give up traveling forever. They simply take time to gather more information and devise a new route. And sometimes, getting lost offers a much more interesting journey. In that way, rejection is the path to success.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kit Mackie challenged me with "Every writer faces the challenge of work being accepted or denied. Take the position of one of those challenges and discuss the possibilities, opportunities and disappointments a writer would experience throughout. " and I challenged Sir with "How do you look at the woman you love, and tell yourself that its time to walk away? "


This revised by the Editor's of IndieInk 

Never Listen To Hearsay

I’ve been walking with this turmoil spinning around inside my stomach. It was like everyone’s words were sitting, stuck deep within me. I walk around with unanswered questions, confused as to why or how.
Life has become this big pain that never leaves me. My only hope of ever having the one that I love, struck down. She’s out there, but the fears keep creeping upon my soul. Emotions sway me from left to right.
I feel drained, run down, can’t carry on as a woman with this uncertainty hanging above my head.
Always questioning , “Does she love me?” I don’t know what to believe anymore. I hear everyone whispering let her go, let her be. She’s happy with someone else. Get over her.
All hearsay.
“He said, she said,” but no final word comes from the person they are all talking about. That one person I need to hear these words from. She isn’t showing any love, or looking even close to being happy. Yet the rest of the “Who’s Who” is striking me down for interfering in a love that’s supposedly meant to be. I’m outnumbered by those accusations, claims of standing between some types of real love.
“He said, she said, but it’s her word that is final.”
Her entire outward appearance says, I am not in love nor am I happy, says what I needed was someone to need me, someone to be there, someone that I can protect my heart with, someone I don’t have to give my all.
Those were her final words on the subject, but nobody hears it, nobody sees it. They don’t see her eyes, without spark, without life. Nothing but the dullness of wanting to be able to return to her one true love.
Why should I listen to the “he said, she said,” when the last word has to come from the one whose heart tells a different story?


For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Diane challenged me with "He said, she said, but my word is final." and I challenged Leo with "People who are meant to be together will always find their way back to each other. They make take detours in life, but they're never lost."

The Beginning

I always wanted to travel back in time. It was always part of my thoughts, but I never thought it would happen until I saw a strange light and, stepping into it, found myself in a time where my world was still a vivid dream cocooned inside my unexplored mind.
The paths seemed familiar. It was my city, just not my time. I knew the Gods had their reasons for this. It was faith which had brought me to this city called Cape Town many years back, and I was sure the person I was meeting was very important.

I saw a black car quickly approaching on the grey tar road where I stood. I couldn’t see the people inside, but I knew there was something that brought me to this place on this fateful day.
I built up courage and stood still, right in front of the car. It was headed straight for me. With both my hands out, I felt my heart rate suddenly speed up. As I watched, another car came from behind me. Before I could scream to make them stop, they crashed into each other in front of my eyes.
The black car had overturned and I watched as a guy tried to pull out a lady from the back seat. The look on his face made me fear that the worst had happened. It was then that the lady tried to move and he got her out.

I saw she was pregnant; both faces were traumatized.
“The baby…is the baby okay?” the guy shouted. He was panicking, touching the woman’s face.
Other cars stopped to help.
The woman’s eyes looked familiar. It was like I’ve seen them before.
Could it be her? It couldn’t, I told myself.
Suddenly the scene blurred and I found myself in a totally different place. I was at a hospital. I walked down the corridor and I saw that woman from the car, alone in a room. She was crying, but I could see her brown eyes through those clear tears.
I looked around me to see if anyone had spotted me. I entered her room silently and stood near the door. When she looked up, she saw me gazing into her eyes.
“Come in,” she said, wiping her tears from her eyes.
I smiled at her andshe asked me, “What’s your name?”
“Sarah,” I replied.
“Beautiful name.”
“Why are you so sad?”
She said it was the baby. A few months ago, she thought she was going to lose her baby.
I sat at the foot of the bed. She was pretty, I noticed. She was still young, and I could see it in her face. I knew that one day I would grow up to look just like her.
She was my mother. I was the daughter yet to be born who she was caressing as she talked to me.
I put my hand on her stomach but she didn’t mind at all.
There was something I needed to know, a question that I wished she would answer when I was all grown up.
“Do you love your baby?” I asked.
I don’t know why, but I had to ask. I wanted to know that when I did come into the world, I would have love in abundance.
“Yes,” she answered and more tears came out of her eyes. “I love my baby so much. This wonderful little girl is going to be a blessing to so many. She will have grace of her grandmother, a heart like no other, and I will be the proudest mother in the universe.”
The way she said that all in one go with such passion, I knew she would love her baby, love me.
It was her tears that I wanted to take away. I wanted to hug her and tell her that she didn’t need to worry, that God will save me from many things in my life. I wanted to tell her that I am her daughter, that I wasn’t born yet, but that I would be with her soon.

It was then I whispered these words, “I love you too, Mom,” so she couldn’t hear me clearly.
I could feel that my time with my mother was slipping away. I was almost ready to meet the world.
She shouted to the nurse passing by, “I want to meet my baby. Get her into the world now!”
Tears were falling, the same courageous tears from the car accident and the same tears that brought me into this world.

It was like time stood still as I was shifting out of that room, hearing my first cry.
I knew that I met my mother on two occasions. The first was when I almost died in a car accident when I was still inside of her, and the second was hearing her tears and speaking to her.
Those were the two memories that I knew the future me would remember always.
–


For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, kelly garriott waite challenged me with "You're given the opportunity to meet your mother or father at a point before your birth. Who would you meet? When? What would you talk about?" and I challenged Shelley with " Things that make you uniquely beautiful"

A Life Wasted

Look at what you've been through
Chasing after dreams
And never commit
What hard knock to fall
When you realized you've
Wasted another few months
The choices you've made
Not appeasing to your parents,
What an elegantly wasted life
Your optimism was at a peak
Walls came down
And made you fear
You try to refine yourself
Your characterized to be eloquent
No it's an elegantly wasted life
a life wasted not so much
The absence of her mind
Of everything unkind
Sort off excitement admiration
And approbation by symmetry.
a wasted life
No elegantly wasted
As a dove flying
Trying to be more submissive
Towards her choices in life.
Always a learning curve
And an elegant structure.

The Mystery Unravel

It was a dreary day. The clouds loomed as I walked the last mile to my house.

I'd been dreading the entire project, ever since I heard that he was a dodgy character, but still. I couldn't pass up the opportunity--I believed in the script and I believed that we could make it work. I'd thrown my entire savings into the production.

My name is Leigh David. I'd been working on a script for the past four years. Then I met Clark Hyde, the man who could make my work into a masterpiece.

That day, I notice it's getting darker. Just as I come to my front door, I hear the phone inside ringing. It disconnects, but immediately starts ringing again, so I know it must be important.

I shove my right hand into the front pocket of my jeans and whip out the keys to the door. I struggle to open it, but the key no longer seems to fit. I rummage in my jacket until I find another set of keys. Finally, I hear a click. Pushing the door open, I run toward the telephone.

"Hello."

"Leigh, we have a problem."

I don't want to ask what it is, but eventually I have to.

Clark hesitates for what seems like an eternity, but finally says, "They can't find the film."

"What do you mean? Without that film I have nothing. That's like my entire world. I will have nothing." I repeat, flabbergasted by the information. I know at this point that an argument won't solve anything. Yet I know deep down that I want answers, real answers, anything that can explain why my film has gone missing from their studio.

"I have to go," I say.

I take my coat that is hanging over the chair and lock up. Then I walk the two blocks to his apartment.

He doesn’t answer the buzzer. When an elderly lady comes out, I stop the door with my foot and slip inside, then walk up the stairs to the second floor.

I am about to knock when I see that the door is slightly open. I shout for him, but he doesn’t reply. So I walk in. I don't care about trespassing at this point.

I try to peer in each direction. It looks like no one is home, and nothing seems to be stolen. Everything looks the same as last night, when Clark and I toasted to our project, finally ready to be sent off for post-production in London. It was a big break for both of us. I was excited, but Clark? He was over the moon.

I still remember his words, "Kid, I don't think I could have done this without you. You've given me my life back."

I step into his bedroom, and everything seems in order. The bathroom door is shut and locked, but the door to his closet is wide open. Right away I see a lone roll film on the top shelf; it's got the same marks I put on the roll we sent away. I grab it impulsively and turn to leave.

Just then, I hear a gunshot. Panicked, I make a run for it, not even looking around.

Cut to the next day, when I hear about Clark's suicide. Shot in the head. Police making inquiries.

That's when I rushed to develop the film. That's when I realized everything I’d worked so hard for was gone. There was no trace of the footage we’d shot over the past 3 months.

Then the police came to talk to me about my visit to Clark's apartment. So that's how my "big break" ended--murder charges with a little breaking-and-entering on the side.

copyright Chimnese 01/03/2012

edited version

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kameko challenged me with "A roll of film found in a dead man's closet." and I challenged Mediocre Wayne with "a wall falling down"