diaraz
diaraz
Diana / Era V. Roman | 27 | Romania / Sweden
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It’s been a while, but I’m back with exciting news!! I published my first book 🎉 Check out Tales of Strange Women - a collection of short stories about… well, strange women! 😱
🆕BOOK OUT NOW➡ https://tinyurl.com/3ttm55pz
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From cold waters, you try to carry her home.
You've seen dead things before, wounds:
A woman and a woman and a woman.
At the doorstep, her mother greets you.
With foresight, she's laid out her bed:
A crib too small to hold her body.
You contort her in strange poses.
The ice of her skin clings to you:
Over the doorstep, you still carry her.
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Dialogue Excerpt
Heather turns to face Emily. “You followed me here?” she asks as she shakes her head.
“You think I’m a fool and treat me like one, but I can help you with whatever this is!” Emily protests, getting closer to the other woman.
“I don’t take you for a fool, but you can’t... I can’t ask this of you.”
“You are not asking, I am offering. I want to help you!”
“No,” Heather says definitively. “He is my friend. This doesn’t concern you.”
Yet, Emily’s face lights up with revelation. “So it’s about James then…”
Heather falls silent for a few seconds and lowers her gaze. “Yes,” she finally mumbles, irritated by the fact that she allowed herself to be discovered. “He’s being held prisoner here.”
When she looks back at Emily, she can see the surprise on her face. “I need to save him,” Heather concludes.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s save him then!” Emily gives her answer without a moment’s hesitation.
“Now?”
“Yes! We’re already here, aren’t we?” Emily exclaims, and Heather can see her stirring into action.
“Emily!”
“What?”
“You can’t just go in there like that! How are you going to rescue James out of a place you have never been into? Jesus, you don’t even know where he's being held!”
There is sign of opposition from Emily, but Heather promptly continues her lecture. “Listen to me, we go home now and think it through; then we come back tomorrow and do the best we can.”
Emily keeps quiet for a moment but before long, a sly, satisfied smile appears on her face. “So you will let me help you then?” she asks.
Heather eyes her intently and lets out a sigh. “Yes,” she replies. “Against my better judgement.” Yet, somehow deep inside of her, she feels relieved and fortunate. She was never one to ask for help but, this once, she is glad to have someone together with whom she can shoulder the burden.
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my soul is a riverbed people go to bury their shame into
I carry their name engraved in the side of my ribcage,
droplets of their confessions clinging to my skin.
from water to water, it pours into me
and I take it in with a wish to live anything at all.
I fear I may break like the fragile handle of a pitcher
and remain forgotten far away from the source,
spilling myself into the dry and unforgiving earth.
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My MA thesis in Digital Narration ✍️
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Here’s a follow-up of my previous thesis 🎉 I will write about Black Sails as much as I can.
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From the body of a youth who knew too little life I watch the house of my birth decaying. The stones turn to dust, the steps grow mossy, the bodies living in it become fragile and small. In my memories these things seem everlasting. The house is a monument, a culmination of the ambitions of my ancestors who, after centuries of bearing the open skies, mastered the elements and provided themselves with the safety they could not find in the wild. Now, this house is a celebration of decay, a glorified pile of rot, a fall waiting to happen. And I see the bodies living inside it holding on to it so tight that maybe they will morph into one another, the blood and sweat they poured into building these walls merging with the clay of a brick gone soft. As a youth, I am to inherit it all like a legacy. And although my blood and sweat are in these walls, so are my tears, but I don't ever want them back.
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Art piece by designer Elizabeth Perez for Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. “The spine is screen-printed with a matchbook striking paper surface, so the book itself can be burned.”
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For the longest time, I thought I was like Odysseus: on a long journey home. But ten years have passed twofold, and there’s no land in sight. No monsters, no witches either. Perhaps, the open sea is where I will find my peace.
Era V. Roman
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Blue
by Era V. Roman
You are the blue in a Van Gogh painting.
I want to take you someplace promising and fated
where eye meets sky and moon
that shines on what it seems
to be a cluster of impossible chances.
If you cannot come, I’ll let the winds
bring you while I remain impassible,
a dark thing that rises only to wound
the skyline in my wait.
Down below I see you, mirroring my height,
but I do think it is too late.
The unbecoming sea
washes over dreams in a fated blink
of an eye that sees the sky turning less
blue, like you!
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Proud to have my BA thesis published!
Mândră de publicarea lucrării mele de licență!
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I calcify in nothingness. I wait and I vanish.
Era V. Roman
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Ascultă, copile, ce-mi spune viaţa:
De-a pururi în umbră să torci al tău gând,
Când simţi în pleoapă o lacrim-arzând,
Ia seama la vreme şi acopere-ţi faţa,
Să nu fie ochi să te vadă plângând.
Alături cu alţii te-nşiruie-n horă
Şi lumii plăteşte-i cu ce-i eşti dator,
Fă-i patimei tale din zâmbet zăvor,
Tăcerea să-ţi fie statornica soră,
Să nu ştie nimeni ce rane te dor.
Iar noaptea când cade şi ceaţa se lasă,
Tu trage-ţi oblonul, să n-ai mărturii,
Şi-atunci sub tavanul ascunsei chilii,
Despătură-ţi taina ce-n suflet te-apasă,
Stropind-o cu lacrimi de ceasuri târzii...
Octavian Goga, “Trage-ţi oblonul”
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Calycanthus
A sudden pause and a long stare. Julian’s hand still rests mid-air, unsure of whether or not he should let the letter he was holding fall back between the pages of his book. Beneath the letter’s discarded envelope, the red corolla of a Calycanthus flower marks the yellowed surface of the paper like a blood stain, its petals twisting in weird angles after being pressed inside the book for so long. The presence of the flower is not entirely unexpected. He has often collected plants and herbs between the pages of his medical volumes. What surprises him is the feeling of shame that comes with seeing it. He never knew that kindness in itself would haunt him as a crime.
Benevolence. The word rings at the back of his head as he lowers his hand and fiddles with the Calycanthus, its long petals crumpling between his fingers with a dry touch. The meaning of it seems so distant to him now. Yet some things he will never forget. A strong spicy scent still lingers around the flower, rising in the air and reaching his senses with a sickening sweetness. He is reminded of heavy breaths under stuffed masks, every inhale an intoxicating miasma of perfumes meant to warn off death. Every one of those deaths weighing down on that benevolence, on that wish to do good.
A long pause and a sudden twitch of the eye. Julian places the flower back inside the book, the letter back into its envelope. His memories, however, cannot be placed anywhere else, so he carries them strangely, with too much guilt inside a heart that loves so readily. He turns the page, covering the remains of his past with heavy words that hold remedies and the promise of making things better. Behind the opaque thickness of the paper, only the faintest trace of carmine protrudes, while the sweet scent is whiffed away by the ruffle of pages.
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Here is an excerpt from my entry for the @juliangardenzine. The flower I used is Calycanthus, signifying compassion and benevolence, even if the story itself turned out rather bitter-sweet.
It was a real pleasure to be involved in this project along with so many talented people! ^^
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