The embrace

A woman was singing a melancholy song while bathing in the river, everything was coming toward its eerie end, that night all his children had made a circle round praying not for his life rather for their own, everything was heading toward uncontrolled chaos, what would they do without him, he managed everything so well when he was in spirits sound, the animals of the forest were looking at her while she bathed and they heard the song she sang with seemingly vacant expressions, reality had changed its course for him, he was totally at sea because he seldom fantasized, forlorn he felt because he knew how to socialize only in the real world, fancy was a mead stranger to him, a cup whose ingredients he always refused to partake, he believed that it was careless and irresponsible for men like him to live in its embrace, ah it was so sad that a man so sure about all the things big and small in life had given up before this that night, at around midnight long after when all had left his side, when all had scurried away except the woman who was still singing a dreadfully peaceful song in dreaded silence, her voice was shaky and the tempo was lazy, and his youngest who had to be there in his room to keep their safety in check, he felt wild creepy sensations, it was a serpent like creature ardently weaving something round his toes, he cried for help, his son woke up and told him to go to sleep 'I'm tired' he said, he then mumbled some gibberish dreamily, then he resumed his squabble, demarcating his feet and the tail of that creature, he was on the beach lying with his face dumped in the watery sand fighting for breath, the woman was lying naked beside him with her hands on her breasts, it felt as if somebody was sitting on his head, his hands were tied up together round his back, in that plight he got wind of his grandchildren's gleefulness as they were bathing and playing, so he thought it's not real, his struggle is unreal, he is in the pink, because if it were real they would have seen him and would have come for rescue, but a thought disquieting traversed his mind like a shot, unsettling him, what if the same being that was sitting on his head had its hands around the back of their necks playing its perilous play and instead of rescuing him they needed rescue for themselves, this thought was much unnerving, he wanted to know sorely, began to work hard in hoisting his head up against the implacable force that was keeping it tucked deep in the sand, his neck was unfeeling, he vociferated once again, it was more like a dog's whimper, but then heard his son's coarse voice, 'old man for god's sake go to sleep', his whimper became weaker not because he felt safe rather because he thought his son's also gone by the boards in the battle between the real and the make-believe, he told his son not to worry, we'll figure it out, his son had stopped talking, it felt ages have gone by since he talked to his son, he descried his son with his head raised from the pillow immersed in his shoulders, seemed like a dark outlandish jungle overshadowed by the pointy like structures, there were mountains, but somehow it looked like his son who was doing his damnedest to speak but was struggling to find his voice, he was lip-syncing, he felt pity for him and at that precise moment he also felt love and sadness and strong yearning to hear his voice again, but soon his son gave in hurling his head back onto the pillow, the patterns were strangely satisfying and abysmally frustrating at the same time, amidst that the old man heard the wailing sadness, a silhouette peeping through the holes in the wall, her hair was windswept, she was munching her arms off and blood was oozing out from her mouth and she was grinning like a Cheshire cat, she swept him off his feet therefore exultantly he beckoned her to come over and catch forty winks in his arms but she seemed reluctant, he suddenly felt deceived when he saw those who were told to be dead, a few decades ago, alive, a tempestuous Brobdingnagian mountain sprang from the sweltering ground, he started climbing it and shortly after footslogging a few paces he became awfully furious because it had no peak, he wanted to see its top, he was panting stiffly and it was so frustrating, those people talked to him, he invited them over to his house for a cup of hot tea but they refused and he thought somehow he's done something that had made them cold toward him, in the meantime, the uncanny music was soaring from the desolate jungle, he could see it transforming into waves, their hands were outstretched, episodic, melodramatic but beautiful, those notes were so much alien to him, his whole life flashed before his eyes, he was trying to conjure up a picture in his mind of the instrument which had produced it before, 'old man you talk...talk talk...talk...talk...talk...STOP...Beep...the woman was bellowing, the song was at its best. 

Author's Note

This is an attempt to describe the final hours before you leave this world. It's intentionally written obscurely. If you're reading this I'm thanking you :) Peace out.
And oh, feel free to comment and share what you think about this topic.

Reviews

[.]

Stream of conciousness indeed! That was the first thing that entered my mind once i started reading this. I doubt many here will understand that concept. It is a very difficult style to write in and you have done it quite well here.

A fascinating story; obscurely written with wonderful language and flow. It reads like the jumbled stream of thoughts of a man in the last throes of life, when we assume that our past flashes in front of our eyes for one last time.

Very unique and original writing, Suhd. Well Done.

[Suhd]

Thanks a lot, my friend, for your kind words and for being patient with the mess I created. You hit the bull's eye, indeed this is an attempt in stream of consciousness.

[barleygirl]

Yesterday I was reading a book about writing & one of the exercises was to write a single sentence that's multiple pages long. I did not do this, but here you've done a pretty good job of it. Frankly, I don't like this "run-on sentence" kind of writing becuz I have to remind myself to pay attention when I find that my eyes are just following the words, after a while. But as far as this kind of writing goes, you've done a good job of it, using commas well to create pauses & breathing room & shorter exclamations to break up long passages. Also, there's sort of a storyline with son & father, yet your rambling also seems to wander off into strange corners, all interesting & plausible. I was thinking about how little we really know about what it feels like to die. This is an interesting possibility! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Suhd]

I did this just to test my skill and also for the fun of it. You're right, it gets yucky as you advance but headier too in my opinion. Anyways, thanks for bearing with it.

[danny]

this it feels too me like looking at at an amazing house imagining the family with in only when you ring the bell and no one answers you push the door to o in and find it in ruins hollow but standing some what fake

[Suhd]

Thanks a lot for your insight Danny!

[User]

The imagery you use in all of your work is unrivalled in beauty. You’re truely talented. Thanks for sharing.

[Suhd]

Thanks for reading. Thank you so much!

[EcstaticEuphoria]

I really like the way you brought it all together and to the end...the song was at its best. Beautiful, only poetry and well written words can bring together things so eloquently in their own right. Thanks for sharing!

[Suhd]

Thanks a lot Rosalee for this warm review :)

[Joanna Matilda Barlow]

The final hours of someone's life is nothing to preach about as it's all about someone in process of giving up their ghost. Giving up on living and about to pass. Leaving those who loved them behind. Broken hearted and devastated. I all in all... find this to be rather deeply inciteful. Outstanding work. Truly.

[Suhd]

Oh Joanna thank you very much for taking out time for this and leaving such a nice review and sharing your deep views :)