Otettua

Kevyt

Kirjoittaisin vapaudesta,

jos en olisi kahlittu sanoihin,

niiden vuodenaikoihin ja tähdenlentoihin,

joiden pimeyden toivon lopulta yhdistyvän valoksi.

Lietso minuun hulluus ja unennäkö,

taio tie tunturin läpi,

luovu huomisen odotuksesta,

että saisit kaiken tänään.

Olivia Keltainen, 2021.

Lehdetön

Siellä

missä ei ole enää teitä,

mutta väheneviä polkuja,

ihmisen mentäviä elämiä,

voi 

kasvaa

satametrisiä 

ajatuksia. 

Shh

sillä äkkiä on ilta,

ja metsä vielävalkoinen,

nukkuu vanha mies

joka ei halua herätä.

Olivia Keltainen, 2021.

Fermaatti

televisiossa

kuollut laulaa

miten helppoa on elää,

miten helppoa on kuolla,

miten purkausta seuraa pidätys,

sointufunktio, pimeyden fermaatti,

miten mänty ripustaa väsyneet verhot

alastoman koivun ylle.

Miten tritonusta seuraa vapautus,

miten kaikkia teitä priimi.

Minä minä seuraan sinua,

Olivia, kun keinut vielä katolla,

ja olen vailla loitsua,

ettet koskaan putoa.

Olivia Keltainen, 2021.

Promethean

(Petrarchan sonnet)

As Father closed His eyes to sleep adorned

and Darkness opened Hers upon the lands

a shadow loomed with stars upon the sands

waiting it laid under Their will unfloored;

their will that spit´ and spat´ and spread´ and whored

without question unbound remained it´s hands

until there came a cry from Wasted Lands

and something rose from knees long ached and sored;

“I saw a piece of clay that caught my eye:

that spoke with voice never heard before

it asked to be touched; held by a butterfly

and sung upheaval that would rise from core.

´twas then when heart my ablazed with strange desire;

and I foresaw the Mountain burning with fire.”

Every dead child

(A poem)

Every dead child;

a night flower;

the smell of jasmine;

still. in the air.

DEIMOS

(Short fiction)

It was like watching through an old vase in a cellar; the dome surrounding the New Valles Marineris. The frozen dust particles filled the inner layers, dancing in the thin atmosphere. The setting sun over the Martian sky crept up the walls of the skyscrapers, turning their white facades into deepening orange. And while the Sun set, the light soared, passing the radiation shelters in the Valles Floor East. It flashed from the reinforced windows of the Central, brushed past the tallest scrapers of the Valley Floor West, before disappearing into the night.

The boy would not see it ever again.

“Remember to lock the door!” she said, putting on her jacket.

“Yes, ma.”

“I mean it. What good does a door have if it is not locked?”

“Yes, ma!”

“Lock it.”, she finished, just before the door shut behind her.

It was a good life, he had nothing to complain. Having an apartment from the 124th floor, West side, with kitchen, two bedrooms, and a solid door was something to be grateful for. After all, some people had to live further down the suburbs, in the East or in the lower sections of the scrapers. Some were forced to survive in the underground floors, where the dust infiltrated everything. He had nothing to complain about. During the sand storms, her mother stayed with him, when the shelters were closed, and she couldn´t work. And if she asked, he was grateful. As grateful as a teenager can be.

She kept nagging about stuff, though. Whether it was about the red folk that had disappeared sixteen years ago, dirty socks all over the floor - all over the Floor, she would say - or the constant VR-gaming, she kept reminding about everything. Because some things never changed. Teenagers and the Valleys of the world.

So, the boy got up from the couch and slouched his way to the steel door. He closed it and punched in the security code 23092074. Her mother had figured that it was the only number he would remember. He could forget his dad - and probably already had -, his chores, his helmet… She bet he could even forget about the next-door neighbor´s screaming cat at night but he would not forget his birthday. No one forgets their birthday.

The doorframes began to glow faintly, but the boy was already back playing his game.

“She's dead”, a thought struck him.

“You will never see her again.”

“Shut up.”

“She´s dead. Dead dead dead. Like gone gone gone!”, it continued.

“Shut up!”

He kept playing and emptied a magazine to the head of Tra$her69.

“Dead.”, almost like a whisper.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

“No.”, the thought whispered.

”You see, the red folk had her. They got her off-guard, near the metro tunnels and now they are dragging her into their lair and her lifeless head swings from side to side and there's blood everywhere and…”

“Stop it.” he said, aloud this time.

“What if I don't?”

“I´ll hit you.”

“How can you hit yourself, you stupid deebag.”

He paused the game to answer, but the voice was gone. All that remained was the sound of the air-conduct vents, circling the precious air. He got up and threw the controller away. Suddenly he did not want to play anymore; he wanted her mother to be back home already. He walked to the wall-sized window and tried to see if she was on the street somewhere. She wasn´t, and wouldn´t be, for another six hours. There was only the dusty wind and there was the silence, and the lights on windows, all the way to the 50th floor. Below that you couldn´t see anyway. There was the silence. He decided to stay there until she returns. Leaning his hands against the window, he closed his eyes and saw the empty streets and the entrances to the metro tunnels. He envisioned how the stars would lay down their dim, comforting light, this time next month, and how the spring would clear the dust and he would go and see his father again. He felt safe again.

When he opened his eyes and pushed back from the window, he realized that there was something wrong with his reflection. It seemed misplaced. Like the face of an old friend, whose name you cannot remember. Then he realized what it was.

It was the colors.

The colors were wrong.

They were too red.

There was something moving in the corner.

He turned around to see the doorframes in the hall glowing brightly.

“No fucking way.” he whispered.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

Late Night Corridors

(Short fiction)

At first I thought it was nothing. Just a part of the process, I guess. Now I am not so sure anymore.
It´s the little things, you know? Like how the toothbrush keeps getting back to the bathroom closet.
Or how the dog gets up in the middle of the night and starts playing with itself. I can hear the ball bouncing in the corridor. What a clever little chap. I never taught her that trick, you know.

Grief is a powerful thing. It can really get you. I´ve heard about it on TV.
There are endless Dr. Phils making a profit, solely out of grief. Asking how you feel. Over and over again.
A powerful thing. It takes you and hugs you so tight you feel you run out of air. I think that sounds poetic. Not that I am a poet myself.

Anyway, it's the little things but it's the big things as well.
The house isn´t the same anymore. It feels empty. It feels wrong.
Dad just sits on the couch and keeps staring at the same shows he used to hate and mom cleans the house every day after work. Not a single spot on the back drawers, no, sir, there ain´t none. We manage.
Each in our own way.

A peculiar thing, you know? That toothbrush. I threw it away again yesterday and there is a new one already in the closet. It seems unused but how can you tell? I am not a toothbrush expert. I asked mom about it but she didn´t say anything. Just stared out the window. I didn´t want to push it, you know.

I could have let it go. Accepted the fingerprints on the mirrors when you´re taking a shower or the occasional self-flushing toilet but lately I have started to wonder.

I am not allowed to go the garage anymore. I sure as hell wouldn´t want to drive the scooter but they won´t let me there anyway. No real reason, the doors are just locked. I think I can sometimes hear weeping. Well, I think since there´s another door before the actual garage and the sound is faint but you know.

I overheard them the other day. They kept saying things about something called PTSD. It means post-traumatic stress-disorder. I looked it up on Google. It was common for the soldiers returning from Vietnam. I am not stupid, you know. I can use the internet. I hear and see things.

They said we should move. All the way to the east coast. To get some fresh air, they said. The doc thinks otherwise. She thinks the problems would follow. I know they would. I hear and see things.

I am not stupid, you know.

I gotta go. I hear the ball bouncing in the corridor again.

I'm gonna find out some truths tonight.