Overslept

Overslept

When I woke up to suspend the wind bells, I could not fall asleep after that.

The sun had not broken her promise; the daylight trod carefully outside my walls. When I parted the curtains, the garden was only a stretch of white across an endless sky.

When I stepped into the open air and felt beneath my foot a paper, only then did I understand the meaning of the silence.

I had overslept.

I moved my hand towards the kingdom of clouds and it cleared away to show me a picture of a city I had no hand in making.

"Where are you?" I did not raise my voice, "My sisters. My helpers."

The castle of justice, house of prayer and all the markets and bridges and the only traces of life that I had ever known had been replaced by the incomprehensible.

I lost my balance and fell into gravity. Had I not remembered to slow the fall, I would have reached the realms under the ground.

I had created an unreasonable wariness because when I recollected my stance and measured the surroundings, I found the lands, which I had left untended, paved and clean and on it stood astonishingly tall constructions; architecture, the humans had called them.

A flock of white birds soared in a curve towards the peak of a building. And I sighed in admiration at the wheels that carried in its casing children and women to deliver to intended streets.

I approached a man that held a small trade on a wagon.

"H..Hot dogs." I pronounced outloud.

"How many?: the man shook and tossed the food that cooked on his stove. Then he glanced at me, "A quarter for each. No money, no hotdogs."

I turned to follow other fascinations down the street but I paused upon seeing an unmoving body of an elderly woman. I knelt beside her. The woman's face was cool and life had left her while she was on her way to visiting her daughter and grandchild. The city was a beehive of walkers and wanderers and the majority soothed their moral guilt by hoping that perhaps the next soul that would pass by the deceased senior will have more time to ask if she was feeling well. 

By a jewelry store stood three faces, two of whom I recognized hiding inside human disguise and they in turn saluted me when our eyes met.

"You asked us to wake you up as soon as the bloodshed had ceased," said the first dragon, "but the humans contained enough hatred to fuel their wars for many more years."

And now this boy is planning on stealing gold. We, as demons, did not find the need to coax or encourage him. The desire to self-destruct had been in his heart from the beginning."

"He will not steal," the other dragon hoped, "He will find the courage to change his mind and work honorably."

I turned away from the two quarreling demons to lock my eyes onto a march of women and men holding similarly meaningful signs: 

"There is no god."

"There is no hope for earth."

"Ruin is certain."

In a moment of fright, I smiled gently at one of the sign-holders but she paid no attention to me.

Toward the river bay, further from the parade, a palm reader was trying to inspire a desperately sorrowed widow to speak to her deceased husband's present spirit. And in the place of the imagine spirit stood the palm reader's deceased mother, complaining about the deceptions of her daughter and about how her real gift was wasted on fortune-telling.

I heard the weeping of a child as he and his father crossed the street into a dark alleyway, where the father hoarsely asked his son to stop crying and then he struck the boy on his face. When I asked the man why he had been angry, he advised me never to marry or conceive a child.

Our conversation was cut short by the arrival of the disturbingly loud conveyance that collects and empties the waste in the city. Beneath the waste container, two very young cats slept. To the driver's oblivion, one of the cats would soon be crushed beneath the weight of the vessel.

A beggar and an unsuccessful musician were settled on the sidewalk. And a few steps further, by the doors of a restaurant, another child shed hot tears from his eyes as he released from his hand the piece of bread into a disposal basket. His father apologized for not knowing that the child had stopped desiring this sort of food a week ago. 

When I asked the man why he hadn't thought of giving their unwanted food to the beggar or the starving musician, he fixed the attire of his son and told me that he hadn't noticed.

By the time I found the place of the ancient tree, I was weighed with sadness and a desire to go home and sleep. A temple stood with its entrance closed but not locked.

"Look unto me and I shall return unto you and complete you. For your soul was never made to remain alone and wounded."

This is what a young woman recited before she greeted me inside. Then she confessed to me that although god listened to her prayer, she did not always feel him near her. She gave me a keeping by which I will remember her.

"This will keep you safe. And happy."

I decided to rest after that so I ascended into the night sky. It was long ascension and the brightness of the stars hurt my tired eyes.

While I lay on my back that night, I felt the small wrap in my hands. The souvenir from the priestess in the temple.

On that particular evening, I feared the idea of sleeping in the utter dark and so I spoke to the moon. In the beginning, he could not recognize me, but he agreed to pass by my window.

The solid, enclosed wrap shook and made a sound in my hands, almost as if it held small stones inside.

Under the weak moonlight, I carefully read the words on the bottle: "Venlafaxine."

"Sleep well, my Goddess." the moon whispered.

Author's Note

Image: Endless Dream
Artist: Christophe Vacher

Venlafaxine is an antidepressant.

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/DevR

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This was posted 2 years ago, but for the first half, I was thinking it fit 2020 perfectly. It's almost as if in a dream that I look around at what has become of "modern-day life"! I love how this piece starts as if waking from a dream & then grows in power & clarity as it goes along, until it's fairly marching with crisp satire & observations which seem innocuous on the surface, as if just parts along a journey, but there's so much harsh judgment pouring forth, in a good way, calling out people who are not living in good faith or who are hopelessly deluded, whatever. You use many sharply defined profiles to make your points . . . so biting, yet delivered with almost a softness, like a caring tone. Makes for a weird juxtaposition which really works for me, as far as creating discord inside my head which matches the discord you're pointing out. This piece is so intelligent, I'm blown away! (((HUGS))) fondly, Margie

[Josie E. Cook M. A.]

Time has passed
before one as risen
I felt it in your words
and the story became very
much a fantasy not unlike a lingering dream.

[StarNinja]

I oversleep all the time. Such a bad habit! This story was excellent. Time that has passed us by is always a powerful theme and even more so for the gods and goddesses. Every encounter was haunting in a different way. And the ending was quite clever! Thanks for sharing. Two thumbs up, five stars out of four!

[Coyote Poetry]

A amazing story shared my friend. You create situation, strong characters and I liked the story line. You led the readers to a proper ending. No weakness my friend for sharing the amazing story.
Coyote

[wordman]

you painted some lovely images here

[H L Rose]

This is definitely intriguing. The language is lovely and I enjoyed every moment of reading. However, I am confused on the setting. I don't quite understand the premise. Much of the context reminds me of something like the rapture, in which case the idea of this piece is utterly terrifying, but other aspects told me I was probably wrong about that. Overall, I am a bit confused about what the overall meaning of this piece is, but it has been written beautifully and that alone did hold my attention.

[YouoweYoupay]

Hannah, your review helps me improve the quality of my writing. I think things should become clearer after the last line I have added to the story at the very end.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read: Overslept.

[H L Rose]

Of course! I’m glad I could be of help. The last line does offer some clearity.

[Cherrie]

It has a graceful flow of moon and sun.

[JayG]

• When I woke up to suspend the wind bells, I could not fall asleep after that.

When you read this it makes perfect sense. But you know where the action takes place, and all that led to it. You know who’s speaking, the time of day and year, and lots more—including how large the bells are, why they aren’t hanging, already, and what their perpose is. In short, you have context. The reader?

I have never been wakened to hang wind-bells, then return to sleep, so I have no idea of why one would wake up with the purpose of doing so—or what brought them awake. I don’t know who this person is or why it matters enough to the story that I must remember it. I don’t know if it opens in the middle of night, morning, or… So while this works for you, I’m wondering why the bells matter.

But I do know why this person couldn’t sleep after that. It was the jangling of the damn bells. Good sense said to hang them when you get up for the day.

My point? If this person is to be my avatar I should know what they know. And because you provide no context, you’ve confused the reader on line one.

• The sun had not broken her promise;

Poetic? Yes, but meaningless to the reader. They know of no promise. It can’t be to rise, since it does that every day. But again, you felt it important enough to mention. Shouldn’t it be important enough that the reader has context? Remember, once we hand off our words, we, our intent, and everything about us becomes irrelevant. It’s our words and what those words suggest to someone we know nothing about, based on what the words suggest to THEM, based on THEIR background.

You’re presenting this as if the reader knows the situation, and is watching the film you mentally watch as you read. But…for you, each line points to images, ideas, and memories that reside in your mind. So for you the film plays and words take wing. But pity the poor reader. For them, each line points to images, ideas, and memories that reside in YOUR mind.

The short version: Poetic language is a blessing and a delight. But it must be in service to the story. And that never made it to the page. Place your reader into the story, living it in real-time, and they’re happy. Add in vivid and evocative language and they’re hooked.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/