If you love some one let them go, if they love you they will be back. But what if you are the one going...will you will able of come back, even if your love is that stronger.
Never close your eyes...some magnolias in bloom doesn't smell that sweet...they smell of oblivion...
We are what we are because capricious fate or fortune in bad mode wanted to play a little with our lives. Sure, many times we think we have been there, a kind of deja-vu if one need an explanation, if not, how can we explain or knowledge of places we haven't been before.
When I wrote "Southern Belle" I wasn't only writing poetry, in a way I was reviving not a fantasy or a dream, but describing something with the eyes that had seen those places, and yet, never been there.
It is not a religious epiphany, or thoughts of a deranged mind, but the knowledge of have been there, of have the memory of a voice, of the softness of a skin, of a deep, warmth and delicate perfume of a woman that was waiting for me to return.
The sudden pain in my side where a bullet hit going through, in a side where no bullet scar was left. The sudden smell of cordite, not the modern one, but that mixed with that of humid earth, horses and soldiers sweat , the clapping, by the wind, of a lose end of a tent and the moans of wounded amputees soldiers after the Doc run out of anesthesia.
The sound of the coarse envelope and the soft touch of a jasmine perfumed long letter, that I have tried to read many times but my eyes just got blurred and my hands, steady as a rock holding my sword, trembled holding that feeble pieces of paper.
Sometimes when I think of a date my mind goes back, and I see a woman teasingly giggling and running trough a forest with magnolia trees until the river stops her as I approach and make her the voluntary prisoner between my arms.
Our kiss was one of wanton, like we were giving each other that last kiss, and yet we kept on kissing as our hands explored what it was its, without barriers, without ending, because after passion got its dues, we knew which we would meet again, and again, and again.
That until the doc shaking his head told her that it was no time left.
But I knew I would see her again by the Santee River in a hundred and fifty years from then, not with a warrior’s body, but as a gentleman poet, little I knew that it was to be in the ends days of live and that we would be kissing goodbye as we did on 1865, then... when closing my eyes, the last thing I perceived was the scent of sweet magnolias saying farewell.
Want to review or comment on this short story?
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Reviewed by 000 000
2/6/2010
I heard if you love them, let them go
If they do not come back-hunt them down and kill them! LOL
Georg, your words and dreams are romantic! and so are you!
Wow, Georg! Metaphors abound in this opening and allowing your imagination to pool as the waters of a flood spilling forth words that dreams... and nightmares are made of. Beautifully, emotively written flash of imaginative memory.
Your friend; Mark
Georg, where your rich imaginations take you, is a special place one would like to be and smell that sweet scent of magnolia. It is always beautiful to dream and be in your fantasy when it makes you feel good. It is indeed a beautiful moment to treasure. Be well.
Love & Smiles,
Sheri
You are a very lucky man, brother. Most of my dreams and visions of past lives involve shacks out west, or cabins way up north - filled with smelly, grimy, foul-mouthed cowboys, outlaws, or lumberjacks.
This is so perfect Georg, transports all of us back to that scene and lets us hear, smell, see, and feel what you remembered...parallell universes, time warps...who knows but a great reliving for sure.
fee
Georg, It does not amaze me that we can see things that we never encountered. As I just said in my message to you, we see with our soul. My compliment for this. Love Emile
Darn it, you went Awol again, over that big fence, Red will forgive you, but I bet the Colonel won't. They say that the sense of smell is one of the oldest memories, you old hounddog. Just a question, did you also write the perfumed garden, I just wonder.
Juergen
An intern architect at Ryan and Associates, Mateo Diaz has spent the last year learning his craft under the tutelage of partner Alex Ryan. Alex is the closest thing to family that Mateo has known since losing his own family years ago. But not even Al
