Little Wonder Mournful Longing Naked Civilians

Little Wonder

JIM JAS

I have waited for my existence all these millions of years, just to fall into her eyes.

To see her smile so pure. See her body rattle and kick with so much joy. To hear her voice of a million notes. Hear her voice laugh and sing with new discoveries.

She has filled an emptiness that I did not know was there. She has sparked feelings that were long ago buried.

Her moist breath could lift my feet off the heaviest of trouble. Her soft hands could grip, grasp, squeeze any unpleasant memory away.

I know my life will be spent trying to make her understand just how much she means to me. How much she breaks through. How much she carries.

And when the day comes when her reach is longer than mine. When her back is the one that stands straight. I will look into those eyes once more, before mine are closed.

Jim Jas was born and raised in Stockholm, Sweden, where he currently works as a software engineer. He studied poetry and fiction writing at the University of Sheffield, and he earned a bachelor in English from Stockholm University. Some of his previously published works appear in Route 57 and Literary Orphans.

Mournful Longing

JIM JAS

Where did my friend go lost in the footsteps of his shadow? When was the young stallion’s approach castrated among all the memories?

He walked with such swagger. Such confidence, such candor. Every choice, right there, without hesitation.

He talked like nobody cared and everybody listened. Like all definitions were shared in the hours of the night.

But then. Then, something happened. Something, that is so scary. That is so common. He was replaced by a lesser version. A version that was no longer original. That was pieces of everybody who created it.

He was gone. My friend was gone.

And now, when I look into his soulless eyes, mine are constant with tears. And now, when I speak into his clueless mind, the heavy stone of regret crushes my chest.

Where was I? Where was I?

Where was my direction of friendship? Where was my stop sign of guidance?

How could I let his being avalanche so far down? Let it snowball so fast?

Dear old friend. Come back to me. Come back, to me.

I will be different this time. It will be different this time.

I will never blink. I will never let you slip.

And I promise. This time. This time, I will take her out.

Naked Civilians

JIM JAS

It’s a beautiful moon-lit winter night. The silver clouds and the star-spangled sky are covered in dead silence. Hundreds and hundreds of flying war machines are piercing their way through, surprisingly without resistance. In a few moments, they will release tons of fire hell, never seen before on this earth.

The city below has just finished a day of carnival celebration. Its people are sleeping with extra comfort under the false impression of a cultural safe haven. Its tightly packed medieval streets and wooden houses are perfect fuel for the terror above.

A steady wind sweeps across the darkness, waiting for something to catch. As the bombs land, and the roofs are gone, it starts. Air of a thousand degrees, rising into flames. Spreading with great speed, it strikes fear into everyone in its path. It makes the knees shake. It makes teeth shatter. And it breaks even the strongest spirit. A paralyzed city listens to all the screams, everyone waiting for their turn.

The engines of terror pause. The sky seems to open up, maybe even a hint of sunlight. The wind leaves the flames alone, lets them work their own deed. People turn to each other, asking and feeling for pain. A sign of relief runs through their numb fingers, down the spine and into the cringing toes. Sirens start, hinting of rescue. The city begins to recover, one soul to the next.

As people run outside, trying to find their children and loved ones, the second wave comes. The unstoppable firestorm reaches it might, uprooting trees, moving vehicles and sucking people into flames. Some try to find cover underground, as instructed. They are cooked alive watching their skin boil and suffocating on poisonous air. Others, run in a panic frenzy, only to have their shoes melt away, leaving them dying as they stand.

When the final hours of destruction are passing, the numbers lost are unknown. The ones that survived have to dig their way through the countless bodies, looking for something to recognize. They might find a tooth. They might find a skull. Or they will just stare into the ashes of memories now filling every crack of the street pavement.

The city will burn for days. The black, thick smoke will cover all clouds, as the world wonders, “are we monsters?” or, “is this the cost we all pay?” Some will argue that all rules have been abandoned and torn up long ago. That they were decided by the enemy. The questions will remain unanswered to this very day. And so will all the bodies.