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November 1, 2013 7:14 am  #11


Re: The Gifting- a fantasy about the power of tears, love and remembering

I still like it. It is interesting that you are writing in the you form. Usually I don't like long stories for example Karl May who goes on and on about landscapes and some religious stuff, but describing feelings, tears you just need more words to create the atmosphere. Are you by any chance the one who posted the video about the pocelain tear catcher somewhere on this forum? So hot!
By the way I am speaking some sort of german as mothertongue

 

November 1, 2013 12:22 pm  #12


Re: The Gifting- a fantasy about the power of tears, love and remembering

I don't remember if I did.it could be.


Tears are the last gift of true love.
     Thread Starter
 

November 1, 2013 12:23 pm  #13


Re: The Gifting- a fantasy about the power of tears, love and remembering

I agree stories like this need to be longer in order to bring the reader into the emotion.to feel with the character to have to know why they are feeling things, not just watch them being sad.


Tears are the last gift of true love.
     Thread Starter
 

November 1, 2013 6:13 pm  #14


Re: The Gifting- a fantasy about the power of tears, love and remembering

In one hand he is holding the amulets tightly to his chest.his other has gathered a fistful of your skirt and he clings to you, almost pleading.
   The sight, the sound of him crying for the brothers he loved pierces you and yours the greif you have been denying for so long in your quest to help him.Your mind wanders to the year before.the birthday of the youngest. He had just come of age to be inducted into the King 's guard.You prepared a celebratory feast. Your husband asked for attention.he stood and raised his goblet.
"Father would be so proud of you brother. You have become every bit the man he would have wanted. I know you will serve with the distinction and bravery for which our family has been praised."
The other men raise their glasses and beam at him, you join it the toast. The eyes of the youngest fall on you. He clears his throat, running his fingers nervously through his shaggy hair. He stands. He's still lanky and awkward, the eyes of a boy with a squaring jaw.. So young. So eager. Still fresh faced and freckled, untested by the wider world and yet in the eyes of his brothers and his king he was a man. Your heart flutters. He's your kid brother now too.
"I want to raise my cup to our hostess. Sister, when our brother brought you into the family, we were a wild untamed bunch. Without our mother I fear we had grown , well, uncivilized."
The other men share a knowing an snicker. "You brought a taste of home back into our lives, reminded us what it felt like to be worried for and fussed over, to have my birthday engendered with warm food and song. As the youngest I probably needed that more than the others. So for tolerating our invasionof your pantry, or dirtying of your rug, or the many other ways we, and especially I, have molested your home and intruded on your person, for all if this and for this fine feast, sister, I thank you."
    The memory warms you and cuts you at the same time.The sweet boy. Was he afraid when it happened? Was he in pain? You feel hot wetness scalding on your face, quiet breathy sobs escape you as your tear drops fall in your lap, some joining the growing wet patch beneath his face.
   "I miss them too," you whisper as much to yourself as to him. He is quiet for a moment, raising his sad soggy face to look at you. A deep understanding fills his gaze, as though it only just occurred to him to what extent you felt the loss. And there was something else in his face. Gratitude perhaps, relief, a realization that he was not swimming in this pit alone, that you needed him as much as he needed you. You look at each out they a long moment before breaking down again together. But this time he wraps his arms around you, and you bury your face into his heaving, quivering chest, grabbing fistfuls of his tunic and finally giving voice to your own ignored loss, though your eyes and chest are still sore from the ritual weeping that brought him here. Your mouth is dry as the water in your body has been flooding from your eyes.how you have missed being in his arms, feeling loved and cared for. Your head is tucked beneath his chin and you feel his heavy tears hitting your head and trickling down beneath your hair. The sensation is foreign but welcome, the cleansing feeling of being caught in a warm rain. Both of you have broken open. It is desperately painful and yet an unfathomable relief. Dissipating the silent unbearable tension that had gripped you. You close your eyes for a moment and whisper to the souls of the dead boys Thank you.

     The next few months are hard.they are so hard but so beautiful in a way.he cries allot now. Everywhere he looks there is a memory. Everything around you both is touched by their gasping absence.You cry too. But you're free to do so now. There is no more hiding and worrying. When his voice breaks you grab his hand and squeeze.when his muffled sobs wake you in the night, you stroke his hair, comforting him in the knowledge that his tears have witness, that his cries are heard and his grief is honored and validated. And when you find yourself with tears escaping as you cook a favorite dish of one or light a candle for the birthday of another he is there. His shirts have soaked up as many of your tears as the lachrymatory back in the cave.  After a time,a long long time, something magical starts to happen. Here and there sprinkled among the weeping and the wet sighing, there is laughter. You reminisce together On their antics. Their teasing. And while the tears still for, constant companions that they have become, you can smile with them and he smiles back. There is healing at work. Bittersweet, but beautiful healing. The sadness and greif are always there but they have become a welcome presence, an old friend in your home rather than the menacing best it once was. You welcome it, embrace it. Together you have learned the sounds of greiving as music for the soul, sobbing,  moaning wailing, or even soft breathy crying, or the sounds of stories told in a quivering voice that moves between laughter and greif as easily as a breeze moves through the window.the sounds mend the jagged edges of the brokenness inside. The tears he once denied and you once shed in secret are free flowing now whether the occasional drop or the heavy streams. You don't bother to wipe them anymore. Neither does he. You take in the feeling of them as they run. Down your neck into your collars, or pooled in little puddles on the table where they used to sit.You let them water the seeds of your new reality planted in the ashes of what was destroyed. And little by little you both begin to bloom.

     It has been five months since the gifting. At last he is feels return to his battalion. He stands before the mirror in uniform.his hair pulled back again. He is nervous.  you can see that he sees your reflection coming up behind him and turns to look at you. He wants to say something but he is struggling. You take his hands and wait for him to find his voice. His voice quivers as he speaks. "I am the last." He says heavily.
My family

   "My family has served our kings for generations. Even after father died, none of us ever questioned that our destiny was to serve his grace in this uniform.bearing armor with his pennant. The four sons of honor they called us." He draws a shaking breath his eyes brimming again with the tears to which he'd become accustomed. Which he knew he could spill for you but not before his men.
  "This is the first time I've worn this since...." He chokes out a sound and then, with an effort masters himself "........and now I'm the last of my family to wear it."
   He meets your gaze and shrugs his shoulders helplessly, sighing.
   "No," you say bringing your hand to rest on your abdomen.
"Perhaps" you say," not the last."
  He looks at you, confused and you watch in amusement as understanding moves across his face. He reaches out to touch your stomach,his mouth opened in wonder.He starts to laugh.And to cry. He is sobbing and giggling all at once and you realize seeing his face that finally he has known tears of joy. He grabs you and gives you a watery passionate kiss and you know somewhere looking down on you, 3 young men are whistling and snickering good naturedly. Their way of giving you their blessing to live again.

Last edited by inmyarms (November 1, 2013 7:13 pm)


Tears are the last gift of true love.
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