Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art. Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.
Of the Sword Blade in the Sun – Jonathan O’Farrell
Some unstoppable truths.
A sword blade has two sides.
The craft of sword making is an old one.
It takes many true and uncompromising elements to make an excellent sword, the right metal, the dark matter that is elemental carbon, white heat of the fire, cleansing waters.
The sword, a strong and mostly unstoppable implement of war, it has two sides. Without both sides it is nothing, not sharp, not honed, not fit for purpose, be it war, defence, or peace keeping.
But when it is strong, true and honed it has unmistakable purpose. And that purpose is not stopped by shields, maybe delayed, but not stopped, ever. As long as there is the strength of life in the arm that wields it, it will do its work.
Hold it up in the air, against an intense sunlight. If it be held broad side, you may see it. If it be held cutting edge facing into the sun, you may not see it. But at least in the radiant and uncompromising white light of day, you have a chance of seeing it, in all its very final glory.
A sword wielded in the dark of the night is the most dangerous, even to the hand on the shaft of it.
Be it either side of blade, day or night; done with skilled swordsmanship, or blindly thrust, in the dark, by a near do well, the result to the tender and open parts, at its journeys end, are the same, grievous injury, or death.
Wishing all parts of your being true honourable strength, wisdom and light.
Under the sun.
[Jonathan is the newest member of Sudden Denouement. He is a brilliant writer and a photographer. We are honored by his contribution. Please check out my interview with Jonathan. – Jasper Kerkau]
I seek truth in words created out of blank pages with blinking cursors—sentences crafted from the rib of despair and self-doubt.
Photo: Sarah Blanch Sweet (1896-1986)
It was all so fleeting. The expression on her face says everything. After a terse exchange, I sense that we were both beholden to the past; there is no escaping it.
“Do you think it would ever be different?” She looks puzzled, lost. I am befuddled and confused. Incapable of doing anything. Words become useless ornaments that get discarded. It really didn’t matter what I said.
“I am going to go.” I posit, turning to the door slowly.
“It’s all very sad you know.” I can hear it in her voice. The finality is a haunting presence in the room. She continues, “I don’t know what to say. I just really don’t know what to say.”
“We should talk when I get back.” I suggest, but she and I both know that we will be in a different place then. It would be water under the bridge, just a dark pang that stabs the heart periodically.
“Okay, that sounds great. We will talk then.” Slowly she wipes a tear out of her eye. Embarrassed, she turns as I head to the door slowly, making one last attempt to think of anything that could fix everything.
“I still think of you the same way I did then, that day. It feels like a million years ago.” I walk out the door, silence to my back. There is nothing I can do; there is nothing either one of us could do for that matter. I get a lump in my throat and feel the sun beat down on my face as I walk out.
Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
“Men seldom make passes at women who wear glasses.” Dorothy Parker
“…I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.” William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury