Shawna Gordienko
Creative Nonfiction
Free Bird That Sings
Who are you and who am I? I remember when we first met eyes, the color of light blue waves no bigger than the ocean. I judged by its cover and you sucked me in a painful whirlpool that almost drowned me. But I dived in on purpose because I believed I could save you. You and your damn inviting smile. Who knew friendship could be so bitter?
I should have never judged a book by its cover… Oh but what a beautiful cover! Then you mentioned a world called depression and I shrugged my shoulders. Then you shouted out suicide! I looked at you only to ask what language are you speaking. But I helped you and your drowning soul and yet you still dragged me into the abyss.
Tell me, did you get the self-sustaining river I sent you? Because that's an ocean and not a river. It contained a drowning innocence that once did favors for you, oh it did. Sorry I had to move but that's just life's calling. Not everyone’s life can be sunshine and rainbows. You aren't moving three hours away from your best friends. I am. So suck it up, because I had to.
I always wanted to write you a letter. It was going to be fake with a smile like a porcelain doll but then I was feeling bitter. It was going to be nasty. This time I wasn't going to hold back any longer. I think we should have taken a trip to the Sahara Desert in the summer. I don't think you know how it feels to be suffocating in a hot, long situation. Not to mention what a sunburn feels like. That pain lingers just like being abused all the time by a friend. You are lucky I was nice enough to burn that letter because I don't think you could handle the burn.
So I walked away and I'll walk the same road as you. I'll just walk the opposite direction. You once locked me in cage. A poor little mocking bird that could only sing a sad tune. Then I broke free to snap my fingers and dance to my freedom song! I became that mocking bird that could sing any song I pleased to anyone and everyone who asked and passed by.
Even though you might glance at me in silence I'll once again shrug my shoulders and keep singing my song.
Poetry
Sacrificed by Horns
Mysterious, yet compelling
to look at. White fur stale as wheat fields.
You stand proudly upon
crumbling cliffs,
where you stare dead into life.
Your curled horns show off beauty,
of blood from the lower class
wildlife that threatened you. Your gaze guides me
to the untold actions
buried away in those black berry eyes.
I admire you.
The passion stitched in the
flesh wounds and scabs marked upon your legs. There is
no motivation left on these splintered hands.
Show me the way to true salvation.
Guilty- is what I am
for watching your habitats wither by my shallow voice.
You have protected your own with justice
while I kneeled on gravel
and cried for the fallen.
I am brave to walk on
your land, in the misty afternoons on mountains,
only feet away to see my reflection.
You’ll tilt your head, taking charge
but I only begged for you to strike me.
You started with my torso, with
the sound of horns crushing my ribs
and blood gushing from my mouth onto your body.
My lungs punctured as you teach me
how it feels to struggle to breath.
Your chipped, dust stained hooves
crush my hands, my fingers barely holding on
and deep slashes cut off my nerve endings.
My kind has taken innocent lives.
They had a purpose that became neglected.
Ramming into my legs, you made
the bones protrude from my clothing. I can't move,
I lost the ability to walk in the right direction
for my feet never stopped for the dead.
I’ll never walk over the abandoned again.
You too have killed your own,
I have only done the same but for greed.
My eyes still open from death, where a rocky terrain became my grave.
Your eyes and mine now the same, soulless.
You did what I couldn't, you fought for tranquillity.
It Started With Cigarette Boxes
My youth made cigarettes appear harmless
until she left the basement empty for days,
returning either early or the middle of the night,
returning and not acting the same.
Looking at green Newport boxes
reminds me how close the labels clung to my skin,
how I'd scratch my skin open
grip the edge of the labels and tear them off.
Everyday they grabbed onto me,
keeping my knees from bending.
She would show up on the nicest days
to leave again suddenly -- doubling the labels.
Her toiling with drugs
caused the pain of headaches,
adding rocks in my brain,
forcing me not to end up like her.
I often cried when pulling them off;
they became worse with time.
With each tear I would grow rashes
that constantly itches below my veins.
My dreams were comprised of scratching for hours.
The blood, skin, and veins didn't bother
as the blood cooled the burning flesh
which stopped when I reached the bones.
My hate for labels began with cigarette boxes,
taking hold on my mother’s smile,
leaving the basement fresh with smoke,
and a memory of a child who played by herself.
The sight of cigarette boxes makes me cringe
and I fear the day the labels come back,
making my hands tremble like earthquakes
and giving me the urge to vomit.
They have ruined my life by ruining yours
and no fabric softener can make
your perfume and cigarette scent vanish
and wishing I could run from the smell.
I cling onto to your scented shirts
and refuse to wear name-brand clothes,
make friends with lowlifes,
and get close to any drug user.
Waiting with perfumed clothing,
a room to call your own,
a cup of coffee with extra sugar,
a hope to not dislike labels forever,
because you know
it started with a box of cigarettes.
Fiction
Exile on Setebos
The night was a black envelope that Blaze and his journal could slip into seemingly forever. It was nothing but the woods and the moonlight that made him feel at peace. He produced a cigarette to enjoy his thoughts in silence. “What a world I live in with these damned fantasies.”
As he took a deeper stroll into the woods, he sketched something unreal but fascinating. It was a room made with time itself. Blaze found his sketch quite enjoyable till out came a despondent sigh and his lighter appeared in his hand. With a strike of his lighter, he unleashed the burning sketch into the night. The embers rose to the sky, and he whispered, “Lie there, my art.” He smiled for a moment and continued with, “My family would have laughed, but apparently they aren't quite sane either. What can you do? Government decided to stir up in this Tempest, school is nothing but an enemy, and now it's me, my sister, and this corrupted journal.” The cigarette smoke floated gently through the air like there was no care in the world. Evening pulled at it like the edges of paper till nothing remained but tiny shavings.
A rueful smile crept across his face as he stared at his family’s journal like the squirrel who misjudged the distance, fell off the tree, and hit the hard earth. “Those ignoramuses at school will never understand that we once had freedom and that a little creative rebellion might change things. They’re too indoctrinated. They can only see the world as they are told.”
Blaze’s train of thought broke as he noticed his pocket was aglow. With one nonchalant motion he grabbed his phone. He stared at it for a second, sat down, and with a deep breath answered the call. “Blaze here. What do you want?”
“Blaze, it's Claire. Don’t come home tonight. You might not ever be able to come home.”
“Claire, is this a joke or are you being putrid? If so, the red plague rid you for learning me your language. You may have a higher stature than I and taught me art, but you are not in charge of me. Claire?”
“You are being watched. This world you live in has made you the centerpiece. You have created new words, drawn with heart beats, and expressed concepts that only exist in burned books. People recognize you now, Blaze. They will have no mercy with the punishment of a mental institution.”
“Know what Claire? I’m done with this conversation. Besides, I have more to write and things to do.”
The phone was silent except the beeping of a lost connection echoing in the woods. Blaze hung up and sat still. He listened and waited, but all he got was the friendly song the crickets made. Grinning, he responded to their call with a green sound. Spotlights instantly shot in his direction.
Blaze then sat up, wiped off the dirt on his pants and started to walk quickly towards home. “For the love of God, let this night end well. The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.”, he muttered tensely.
In a flash he stopped, glanced back, and saw the lights had gained on him. Blaze broke into a sprint, tossed his journal into the empty night and screamed in despair, “I’ll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth.”
In what felt like only a moment, he found himself running up his porch steps to be greeted by two robots who stood beside Claire. They gave him a white jacket and escorted him to his room. He passed metallic faces and creatures the world could never image. Yet, something was off about the few robots he passed. He felt a wave of nostalgia that turned his stomach. The last robotic face was enough to make him vomit as he saw what appeared to be Claire malfunctioning, repeating endlessly, “I’m sorry, Blaze.”
He walked in the room alone to be fascinated by the fact the whole room was covered in fluffy white pillows. As his knees kissed the floor, he felt the restraint on his arms, fell onto his side, and looked back at his sister who still reiterated her apology. Before the sedatives took hold, a gleam of defiance glowed in his eyes. He uttered, “Every third thought shall be my grave. My first two will be on overcoming you.”
