We Are Beautiful, Careless People
My attempt at some prose-poetry in the contemporary style
of free-verse vignettes. It will be seven scenes: three beautiful, idyllic scenes and three gritty scenes of suffering and pain.
The final scene will tie it all together, and show that we will go through the beauty of an unburdened soul at points in our life, and at other points we will be suffering: The door turns and turns, and turns and turns: so cherish when we are beautiful and careless, and be strong when we are not.
I. The Wedding
Golden rays of sunshine fall onto her now-glowing skin.
A cool breeze lifts her stone-white veil into the air,
Playfully promising to let it fly over the cliff edge.
A contented laugh ripples through the rows.
Lush green pastures tickle her feet
And her hands clasp the rough of her husband’s-to-be.
Below, soft blue waves carry shimmering sunlight and
Kiss the smooth rock of the cliff face,
Unfurling with a gentle sigh.
All the love that has ever known them
Is gathered here.
A hundred shared histories drape
Her shoulders in a quiet warmth,
And come to rest
In her mother’s soft, knowing smile.
From the flower-arch
Above her head,
A pink rose-petal falls
And is carried away
By the gentle breeze,
Without a care in this careless world.
The chaplain finishes his monologue.
She is pulled into her husband’s arms,
Into the soft embrace of love,
Into the soft embrace of bliss.
It is just you and I in this beautiful world, she thinks to herself.
II. Four Brothers-in-Arms
Harsh wind kicks up
Faded yellow sand
And pricks his cheeks.
The heat is sweltering.
He tastes sweat.
The desert stretches to the horizon.
Houses of earth-and-straw jut from the ground.
They are empty; the village is deserted,
Save for the four of them.
It is silent.
He tightly grips his rifle.
The heat is sweltering.
Sweat trickles down his cheek
And splashes on his vest.
He looks at his unit.
They are four-men strong;
Four brothers-in-arms.
Heat, dust, fear and adrenaline
Are shared in the silence between them.
The heat is sweltering.
Sweat slicks his hair.
It is a door-by-door search.
He adjusts his helmet’s chin strap.
His rifle is tucked tight
Into his shoulder.
The heat is sweltering.
His heart is pounding.
They are at the door.
Four brothers-in-arms.
Miles at point,
Coiled tight,
His daughter’s name in ink above his eyes.
Chen behind him,
Leg braced to breach the door.
He says some stupid joke, as always.
It works.
A moment’s calm.
Jonny at the back raises three fingers.
His hand wears a bracelet
From his mother.
His hand is shaking.
His hand is shaking.
The heat is suffocating.
The door goes flying.
The door is breached.
Chaos.
Miles rushes in. The others follow.
GO, GO, GO!
Four brothers-in-arms.
Instinct takes over.
The room is scanned.
Movement in the back corner.
CONTACT!
Something is thrown.
Chen fires a shot.
Dead.
Clink.
Fuck.
It’s closest to Jonny.
The door is too far away.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
Everyone scrambles.
Not Jonny.
Jonny stands still.
Then Jonny lunges.
Then Jonny hugs the floor.
Thump.
A pressure wave slams into their chests.
High-pitched ringing.
A cloud of dust.
Suffocating, grey smoke.
Silence?
Silence.
Three brothers-in-arms.
III. to come