While Forgotten [Six Word Story]

I miss you.
That's my mistake.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Surviving Without Sun [Prose]

My dear, what life you bring to a world so deterred with death. When shadows lick at the curtains and tease my toes you splash color into this room with breathless vibrance. You've become a survivor after I've killed so many others; you've yet to wilt or dare leave me. I hope you've made roots here, and consider this home a place you can grow. I know I'm a torturous host, denying you water and locking you within these walls, but I know what's best. Sunlight won't nutrify you nearly as much as my company. So survive, little houseplant.

You're the last of your kind here.

[Prompt: Tell a houseplant why it needs to live.] 

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Here, Here, & Here [Prose]

"I fell in love with you," he whispered, hardly believing that after all this time, he was finally saying the words aloud. He kept his eyes on the cloud spotted sky above, his hands tangled in the dewy grass.

Michael Mayes, 21 and head-over-heels heart-taken. It was impossible to focus his attention elsewhere; his thoughts all starred the blue eyed brunette from Oregon he had only met months ago. He had just returned from a two year tour in Iraq, and she from a school trip to Italy. A crowded airport, hundreds of people, thousands of luggage items, and theirs just happened to be the same one.

And when their hands had touched grabbing for the suitcase they each thought was their own, he knew. Michael had never been certain of anything in his life. But a single touch, a single glance, a single apologetic smile, and he was hooked.

"I know it sounds cliche," he said, rushing to get his words out before she could respond to his confession. "But I knew, right in the middle of the Portland International Airport, that you were the one, Rae. You were the girl." Michael watched a ladybug fly in a twirling, unpredictable pattern before it finally landed on a blade of grass, reminding him of the way his head had spun that day. He rolled onto his back, mentally making patterns in the clouds above as he spoke.

"Our hands touched, and I felt it. Right through me. Not here," he said, resting his palm against his heart, "But here." He pointed to his forehead, where a scar rested above his right eyebrow.

"They told me that after they removed the bullet, there would be some weird side effects," he said, tracing a finger over the scar. "But the only effect it ever had was that day. When I saw the future we would have together. I never told you, it sounds insane, I know, but..." he smiled, remembering the images that passed his mind's eye that day. "I saw how happy we would be, and I knew. Rae, I knew.

"I wasn't supposed to survive that surgery. They said there was a one in five shot I wouldn't end up brain damaged. A vegetable, the doc said. But when I woke up post-op, my nurse smiled, said it'd been a success. She said I must've had a guardian angel watching me, a reason to stay.

"That was supposed to be you, Rae." Michael rolled off his back to stare at the headstone in front of him. The cold marble was smooth under his fingertips as he traced her name, but all he wanted to do was smash it into a million pieces.

It wasn't fair, this shouldn't have happened. He was the one who had gone off to war. He was the one who shouldn't have lived.

A drunk driver and a rain slick road thought otherwise.

But he wasn't bitter. Not anymore.

"You've taught me so much, Rae," he said, his hand never leaving the headstone. He could feel her, her presence, resting her hand upon his shoulder as she always did when he was overcome with emotions he didn't want to express. But she couldn't pull Michael into her arms, couldn't kiss his forehead as she always did, couldn't whisper reassuring words that would bring him back to a better reality.

"So many people are telling me to move on. That I'm young, and that there's so much to life. That forgetting would ease the pain. But I will never," the word almost escaped his lips in anger, and he fought to control the shaking that was rattling his bones. He calmed himself, brushing away the tears that had escaped his eyes with the back of his palm. "I won't forget. I could never forget. Not you, not all you've changed in me.

"Here, here, and here," he pointed to his heart, and mind and ears.

"You'll always be, babe. I promise. The spark you sent through me, that'll live on, in me."

He kissed the top of the marble gravestone, as she would his forehead, and brushed his hand against the letters of her name once more.

"Rest, my Raven. I'll see you in the sky."

© 2012 | Jazelle Handoush

Stealing Stars [Prose]

Mission Log. Day 13: The scars on my hands are a reminder of the past four years. When I decided to set off towards the stars and attempt this so called career as an astronaut, I knew what the job would entail, but not the cost of my work. The craft has changed; there is no longer need for exploration as there once was. Afters years of studying space's history and discoveries, planning and practicing, I'm finally on my own mission. 

It was once said that possibilities are endless, but energy isn't, and neither are the possible solutions to our dwindling reserve. My mission isn't simple, but its certainly worthwhile: steal stars from the sky to add to Earth's supply. Each star is approximately 1.5 x 10^28 kilowatts, comparable to 1.5 million solar panels acquiring energy for three cycles.

Mission Log. Day 35: I believe I've chosen my target star well. According to the scanners, this stars, so named 生存 (shēngcún), will suffice our Earth's civilization for centuries. For no, I'll flat in the space between stars; reaching Shēngcún and acquiring it properly will take some time.

Mission Log. Day 48: I wonder if people realize how brilliantly the dim light they see in the night sky above them dazzles. The smoky haze that clouds our atmosphere makes it difficult to see the true effulgence the stars sparkle with. To think within a year's time, Shēngcún will be mere stardust, filling the tanks of our transports and powering every light the city needs to blind the night. 

Mission Log. Day 64: When I signed up for this mission, I was unaware of the disservice I would be doing to the world. I was told I was adding our survival, but in doing so, I'm destroying one civilization to aid another. Stealing stars from the sky, carrying them out of space and watching them crushed to stars dust, all so we can turn on the light. 

No wonder we're in the dark in the first place. 

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Paint-Stained Leftie [Prose]

He always adored the way she held the brush in her left hand, lazily spinning it between her fingers without a care for the flecks of paint that kissed her skin like aquamarine freckles. She had a six sense, able to find an entire story kept captive within a blank canvas, and she swore it her artistic obligation to bring it into view. And like a mirage, slow forming from a dusty infinity of nothing, it always seems a trick made of the mind, at first. A wisp rises, just a single streak that stretches against the canvas to start the story.

And his little artist might purse her lips before continuing, her cheeks pulling inward to show off her bone structure. He knows that's what must be there, bone, but to think she's built of broken rainbows and unimaginable shades simply makes more sense. Her skin is already stained with so much, both past scars and pigmentations from paint splatter. He imagines the rose work that occasionally clouds her flawless face with a blush must be painted on as well, another wisp that couldn't be contained. As she tucks her brush behind her ear, a wet pecked kiss of tangerine licks at her hair, adding some color to the almost winter white strands. Seeing the contained smile against his lips, she reaches towards this spot, her fingertips caressing the paint like her brush does the canvas.

A tender touch between lovers to make an otherwise unrealized masterpiece.

She laughs, the soundtrack to his life, and dips her fingers in a swatch of neon green. Her fingers run through her hair, leaving waves of color in their wake. Reaching the end of the strands, she curls her fingers, ringlets of greens and tangerines bouncing against her sun-colored bare shoulders.

And then a look takes to her eyes, a blue that changes shade so often, he'd gladly suffocate within them just to define the name. A similar swatch sits near her easel, her fingertips dipping in for a taste.

His hair, and heart, would never be the same.

Not with this paint-stained leftie keeping his life in such a vivid coloring.

A reminder that every mess has its masterpiece.

You shouldn't be so concerned with the clean up.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Crowded Fireflies [Prose]

Hundreds of bodies, cold and slick from standing in the rain for the past hour, pressed together in attempt to get even an inch closer to the stage. The crowd buzzed with each individual voice convinced it could talk over the next, causing any conversation to be inaudible beyond a few syllables. Four glittering disco balls spun lazily overhead, reflecting off the neon stage lights and casting a trail of multi-colored squares across the walls.

Standing on my tiptoes to see over the heads of the vast crowd, I watched the crew continue their set change. The mysterious black-clothed figures took their time as they fiddled with setting dials and tapped on microphones, often sending a deafening screech through the speakers. I dropped my heels with a sigh, landing on the soggy soles of my cerulean flats.

It had already been twenty minutes since the opening act had left the stage, and the buzzing was growing louder with mixed anticipation and impatience. My arms folded over my chest, I rubbed a palm against the black, see-through sleeve of the top I wore, though the friction did little to warm me. 

All around, girls tried to fix their frizzy hair and rain streaked make-up they had spent hours preening before queuing for the concert in the rain. Some used their phone cameras as mirrors instead of losing their spot in the crowd by heading to the restroom. In a group of guys to my left, a tall blonde shook his long hair back and forth, spraying his friends around him like a dog after an unexpected bath.

A hand suddenly clasped my shoulder, and I bit my tongue to silence a girlish yelp no one would have heard anyway.

“Jess, when’s the Firefly Guy coming?” Morgan yelled in my ear, the stench of straight alcohol hitting my nose like a strong right-hook. I tried to step back, instead knocking into a tall brunette in the process. My friend grabbed my shoulder, pulling me through the crowd towards the bar, deaf to my protests. Her long, dirty blonde hair lashed at my face as she turned back to flash me a smile, stopping only once we had found our mutual friend at the end of the bar, two clear drinks waiting in front of her.

“Water for you,” Kanu said, winking at Morgan as she passed the glass. “But none for you, little duck. You’re already a bit wet.” Kanu patted my head as if I was some ignorant child, and the girls laughed, both oblivious to my annoyance.

#

After a semester struggling to make new friends in a foreign city, I was relieved at the thought of familiar faces. Though we had been inseparable in high school, Kanu and Morgan had left to the same college, leaving me alone. Hearing the girls would be visiting Orlando for the weekend, I spent the time finding alternative means of entertainment besides the usual tourist haunts, but it was evident as soon as I arrived at their hotel to pick them up that I had made a mistake in my choice of venue. Leaving me in the car for twenty minutes while they “got ready,” the girls finally stumbled into the back of my Honda, both of their usually pale faces flushed with a rosy pink. Giddy and giggling, they ignored my hellos, instead continuing their conversation about the best clubs to hit after they were done watching over “little duck.” Both had graduated from Florida State the previous spring, the three-year age difference between us meaning that “little duck” was titled the default-designated driver for the night.

#

What fun. Looks like I’m the one responsible for the “watching over” tonight. I glanced back towards the stage to see if the crew was done yet, another screech of the mic answering for me.

“Where’s Firefly Guy?” Morgan asked again, nodding towards the now vacant stage. A dark haired girl wearing an owl shirt shot Morgan a glare as she left with a soda, and I shook my head. I had purchased the tickets after asking the girls if they were fans of the band, but it appeared that a free concert trumped their musical preference.

There goes fifty bucks I’m sure they’d have better spent drinking. I eyed their glasses, realizing they were both already drained.

Kanu continued spinning back and forth on the barstool, searching the end of her long, brown braid for split ends. Morgan traced a finger over the countertop, creating faces from the water ring her glass had left behind.

“Just stay here,” I said, though neither looked up from her riveting activity. I snaked my way back through the crowd, ducking elbows before finding my previous spot beside the rowdy group of college boys. Unfortunately, a skinny brunette in cheetah print stilettos stood where I had before, her heels rooted to the spot. Finding enough space to stand behind them, I took my Nikon from the camera case hanging on my shoulder, occupying myself by finding the optimum settings for concert photos.

An old picture appeared on the screen, taken a year ago during my summer spent in Jacksonville. Morgan and Kanu had grabbed me to stand between them for a photo on the beach, the three of us wearing genuine smiles against summer tans.

I turned to look back at the bar, seeing them between gaps in the crowd. They were chatting up the bartender, laughing and still oblivious to my absence. My finger clicked “delete.”

I’m entirely alone in a crowded room.

A hush fell over the crowd, the buzzing dying down as if a hive of bees had been inoculated, chamber by chamber. Stretching onto my tiptoes again, I watched as four figures walked onto the stage, silhouettes against the shining blue lights. They each stood before their respective instruments, tuning and warming up as the blue beams of light quickly changed their aim to the audience. I clicked on my camera, holding it straight overhead and pushing the zoom all the way forward. Mic in hand, Adam Young entered from stage right, and the drums began to beat strong enough to shake the earth.

“How you doing tonight, Orlando?” Adam yelled into the mic. My camera managed to capture the smile on his face, despite my position in the back of the room, two feet from the edge of the crowd. The audience suddenly stirred to life, awoken from a momentary slumber as we all screamed in reply. The drums pounded stronger, matching the rhythm of a hundred excited heartbeats before the drummer surrendered his solo to an accompaniment by neighboring bass and guitar. Soon more joined the chorus, keyboard and vocals providing their own flavors to the dish that was Owl City, served sweet to the entire crowd.

I listened as the band played one of their newer songs, smiling as I tried to savor every detail of the moment. Each of my senses gave in; though I couldn’t see the stage, I could see the music’s beauty, taste every tantalizing note, feel it snake through my very veins. Though the song was a track from an album that had only been released a week before, the house knew every word, every infliction, every note. Onstage, Adam’s hands were flying, the music visibly extending from soul to arms and reaching out to every member of the audience to touch. I mouthed the words, swaying with the music. As soon as the first song ended, another began without so much as a pause; the melodies melded together as if they seamlessly belonged with one another all along.

I pushed onto my tiptoes, catching only glimpses of the stage. “Hey! Can’t see?” one of the guys in front of me asked, pointing to my sore arms so I could understand despite the music’s sheer volume and the screaming crowd. I shook my head, rubbing the back of my neck with a painful grimace. He smiled, and I recognized him as the one who sprayed his friends with rainwater earlier. He stepped aside, offering his spot in front of his friends, all who loomed at least two feet over me. I took the spot without hesitation, thankful for a moment of kindness in a room of strangers.

Except they weren’t; not a single person in that room was a stranger once the music started. We had made one another’s acquaintance over lyrics we each felt even a slight connection to. Our souls recognized these words, each individual note creating a binding between us. Without realizing it, we had a kinship, the melody like branches that extended our family tree to reach through cities, even beyond oceans and unconnected countries. Except there was a connection; well-woven words and an understanding of these songs provided a peek at each of our individual stories.

The music slowed, shifting into a song I knew too well. The drums were almost silent, keeping beat as the pianist took the spotlight. Overhead, blue and yellow lights flickered in and out, the crowd taking a collective breath we’d all been holding. That song lasted a mere moment, so easy to miss between all the others. The lyrics, two lone lines, were a shooting star in a sparkling sky; blink and we’d have missed it entirely. All other senses broke beyond the sound of the piano’s cry, in mourning for our attention.

The music faded away as our moment of grieving neared its end, and I watched through my camera screen, focusing on Adam’s face. His expression was remorseful, and I was sure that many of the faces in the crowd, including my own, matched his.

It was only for an instant, that silence and mutual mourning, before a very familiar melody picked up, spreading an infection of excitement through us all. I looked back, the boy who’d offered his spot smiling back at me. On stage, rows of fairy lights flickered in and out, the disco balls making it appear as though dozens of little bugs were blinking all around the room.

But that was much more than “The Firefly Guy’s” final song. As the music itself twinkled along with the lights, I canvassed the room, my camera still acting as an all-seeing eye. Tracing over the heads of the crowd, I didn’t see a hundred individuals sharing a space for a concert.

A single entity, well-formulated notes, and an amalgamation of instruments held the power to awaken each individual soul in that crowded room and unite us all. But we weren’t individuals; together we were ten million fireflies that lit up the world. At first we were little, flickering on our own, but as the final notes sounded, I realized we were one light. Even as fireflies.

The band members waved as they left the stage, the crowd screaming and cheering in goodbye. For a moment, Adam lingered, his gaze tracing over the crowd.

Finally, he took the mic in his hand and said, “As a nobody from nowhere, from the heart, thank you,” following his band-mates off stage.

One of the guys beside me, barely audible above the screams, was the first to voice what a hundred hearts were screaming.

“One more song.”

No one heard him other then his friends and myself, but that was enough. The guy who’d given me his spot clasped his friend’s shoulder and chanted with him.

“One more song.” I added my voice, each of his friends providing to the collective as well. It spread, another infection that attacked us all, leaking from the back of the room and rolling forward, picking up victims and volume as it went.

Suddenly we were a collective, a collaborated entity that formed one voice.

The music started again, louder this time.

I was part of this crowded room; a sea of people brought together by a single common interest.

“We’re burning bright, as we all unite...Don’t let the fire die.”

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Muted Myself [Poetry]

I'm never 'the one who got away,'
nor am I a fish in the sea worth catching.
I'm another lover unloved, so many
scars on my skin from being betrayed,
from unsent letters screaming at me with papercuts,
from the weapon of unspoken words aimed at my own heart.
I'm never the one who got away because
I never stepped forward in the first place.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Nevermore [Six Word Story]

Its always just
'almost'
with us.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Survival Instincts [Poetry]

I've gotten too busy
searching for comfort in my own skin
to find a place I fit
within the intricate web of society.
I try to belong but simply get stuck
in one edge of the web or another
amongst spiders who want to drink me dry
until I find a web
where I'm no longer placed as the prey.
When I'm there
will I try not to be a predator on the innocent
or is that the only way to survive?

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Invisible Lines [Six Word Story]

Always just a friend;
nothing more.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

You're My Lead Suspect [Six Word Story]

Conducting an
investigation
into stolen hearts.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Moon’s Shadow Holds Secrets [Poetic Pieces]

She's the dark side 
of the moon;
she's a mystery and a muse.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Message Failure [Six Word Story]

Some messages 
are better left
unsent.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Blood Ties [Excerpt]

"You get that 'lost in deep space' look about you sometimes. Whatcha thinking about, Pidge?"

Alaska barely heard him. Her fingers placed with the two wedding bands around her neck, and a slow sigh escaped her lips. Nox watched her for a moment longer before understanding, then wrapped his arm around her and hugged Alaska close. He pressed a light kiss against her temple, then left the room to allow Alaska to reminisce. She missed them, that was obvious.

Every time she got that far off look, though, Nox swore he lost her a little more.

Too many people gone. Too many chips in the porcelain.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Ways She Bleeds [Poetry]

She wears a stoic shell
Impenetrable
One she sheds only
Within the words
She spills as tears upon page
And in the paint she bleeds
In retrospect shades on canvas
Kept unclean.
In the notes her voice flies for
In lyrics she leaves with empty unanswered
In bright lights that shine every elsewhere
In-between the pages she's never read
She sheds everywhere, in all art forms
But seeing her body
They see a shell grotesque
Cracked
Contrived
Instead of all the masterpieces she leaves inside.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush