Diana Kurniawan

In a peaceful meadow I stood on the green grass moist from the morning dew. The skylight was still at dusk as I looked over the weeping willow far yonder. The sky opened at cloud speed and the sun rising with a pinkish hallow. I sat down on the grass, with my flat belly yearning for bedtime stories.

 

"How in all imaginations would I ever see the French Riviera in love?" I wondered. In my white linen dress, with all the purity of my soul as my heart broke in halves because this life was an incubus of scornful men. I wept on the grass with my buttocks wet from the moisture and my face down towards the Earth. Unplanned circumstances led me to a haunting life and although I surrendered, a part of me yearned for the dreams.

 

"Diana!" I heard my Mami's voice and I looked up. "You think too much!"

 

Mami stood holding hands with Papi, in front of the weeping willow. They wore matching blouses of imperial yellow with white linen pants as my Papi waved his hand calling me to come closer.

 

I stood up with excitement as this body was five years old again as I ran down from the hilly meadow to where my parents were. My Papi hugged me as I wrapped my arms around his belly. "I love you, you're my daughter, Diana," he said, endearingly.

 

My Mami hugged me after and told me, "I love you too much," she said, as she wiped her tears. "Don't let go, Mami," I told her.

 

They held me close as I held on as strong as I possibly could, as we walked underneath the weeping willow.

 

"Don't ever let go, Diana," my Papi said.

 

Just write.

The aisles were ghostly because only fifty people were allowed at one time as the attendants kept count. I took a right towards the cereal aisle and looked at the top shelf. The organic cereals were only available for Tier 1 and I wanted to grab the peanut butter and jelly flavor when a sweet voice came from behind me.

 

"PB & J is a classic," she said. I turned around and a wavy haired brunette stood before me.

 

"You shop Tier 1?" I asked. Her voice reminded me of soft rain that chilled my vertebrae.

 

"Afraid so," she smiled and showed me her shoulder with the chip underneath her blouse. 

 

"Let's check," I asked her. Before we could build any form of friendship, The New Order only allowed the same Tiers to communicate or build relationships, and only those who would further the goals of The New Order through inter-marriages would be allowed to date. The New Order restricts dating in certain communities because those who were attractive, intelligent and from high level incomes were picked to benefit the higher tiers, thus benefitting the fulfillment and desires of The New Order to keep the tax levels at a maximum. 

 

We stood back shoulder to shoulder, my left shoulder as all males were to have, to her right shoulder as all females were normally assigned. Then we took our time device with alligned all social medias and all forms of identifications, to synchronize to check if our relationship and communications would benefit The New Order. 

 

Most relationships in our world now, as a matter of fact, most families were formed based on the needs of The New Order Regime and those in the government and its politicians and social circles. If the relationship couldn't be verified as a benefit to the regime, it was forced to be dissolved. 

 

Our synchronizations didn't verify.

 

"I'm sorry," as our time devices beeped an error message. She looked to the floor, and raised her head slowly, "I'm going to end up in Tier 3 in my future. I am so scared," she said. 

 

"You don't know that?" I replied. 

 

"I have a Rexi, would that interest the regime? If I shared my Rexi?" she told me.

 

"Really? Do you have a picture of it?" I was interested.

 

She took her time device and scrolled to her holograms and pushed the button. Rexies were cross-breeds of puppies and calves that became an animal the size of a bear cub with strong legs and arms for our modal of transportation. After The White Plaque, all forms of public transportations were exterminated and only the military and police were to utilize all vehicles. Uber and Lyft were old dominions and they were gone after millions died as their vehicles became a fomite to transmissions for The White Plaque. My Father said it was the most devastating event in history because ever since then, everyone walked and began to raise animals as transportations, and that was how Rexies became a trend. 

 

Other animals such as bears, crocodiles, hippopotamus, seals, goats and everything else also cross-bred but Rexies were swift and docile, whereas everything else were difficult to train.

 

Her Rexi had short hair, and the size of a mid-size bear with calico colors. 

 

"Is it part feline?" I asked, with a smile.

 

"Perhaps in its geneaology, but Rexies are mixed, so there is no way to tell," she said. 

 

"Cute, though," I told her. I placed my palms inside my pants pockets, hiding my time device on my wrist to evade any humiliations on both parts.

 

"I'll take a box of the organic PB & J cereal still," she said.

 

I smiled from ear to ear and felt a jolt inside my gut. Would Rambo approve of this? He's my closest ally.

 

Just write.

I am forgiven, for my past sins and the sins of my Father and those of my ancestors. I am forgiven for the journey that is a struggle and the walk with depression is a constant miracle, away from the devil's plan of total anguish and instant death. This life is forgiven, for anything that I was assaulted for, and for every and any arguments the devils retorts towards God.

 

The life I am is full of mercy and I am a living being of miraculous grace.

 

The forgiveness upon me gives me the right at the King's court and this forgiveness encourages the future, and hate is dumbfounded; because the game that hatred plays is more important than the trophy they claim to earn. I am forgiven for everything that accuses me of sins and I am forgiven for the sins the accusers labels upon me. I am forgiven for every instant evil prayers flies out of the devil's mouth out of deceit, greed, racism and injustice, because this forgiveness wreaks havoc on their selfish needs.

 

Forgiveness is in my best interest and benefits me because the education gives me skills as I walk in joy and fullfilling contentment. I am forgiven because I forgive and strength upholds me and places me at the right hand of God. I love this forgiveness because I breathe in wholeness and love and I even mezmerize the eyes of those who once batters my life. This forgiveness is truth and honesty in the flesh with tangible results that I can touch and marvel as I live with a youthful heart and soul. 

 

I am forgiven with an evergreen forgiveness, especially given to me, and no one else because I am not just special. I am holy and divine because I forgive. I am not crazy because I am forgiven and there will never be any form of insanity about me, for I am diligent and prodigious and victory is a guaranty. I am forgiven and there is no mark of victim over me, instead a mark of love, greatness and favor on my forehead. There is no defeat over me or my life, because I am forgiven and it is a winning sign.

 

Just write.

I wanted to ask Rambo to come with me to Knox. Knox was a five storey building on Colfax that sold everything the way Wal-Mart used to. After the White Plaque, the New Order took office and everything in life was stratified by status and socio-economic levels. The race riots burned everything down, and the plaque killed nearly 25 million people. The New Order became ruthless in death and taxes as surely as it happened in front of our eyes. 

 

I sped up flying over the crowds from the corner of Grant Street, and hit a wall with the end of my paddle and bounced off to the front of Knox. Rambo wasn't anywhere in sight. I was only allowed to shop by "top-shelf" rule due to my Father being a surgeon. Top three shelves only or Tier 1, and the next three was for those in the next lower income bracket, and the lowest income levels shop the last three shelves.

 

The homeless could only shop for only consumables with tokens from the government offices from the vending machine out front near the parking lots of Knox. All the first-aid products were not readily available. All health-related products were the most expensive items and they were rationed by household and income levels. All meats were reduced by size and lean percentage, from the leanest as most expensive only for top-shelvers. All other fatty meats were for those earning Tier 2 at less than $300,000 but more than $100,000, and Tier 3 was less than $100, 000 but more than $35,000. Everything had a code, matched to my ID and my name.

 

I wished I could purchase popcorn by the dozens like the Tier 3ers, because Rambo could buy a 10-pack for $10 from his job as the garbage disposal aid, while my shelves cost me $10 for two bags. I would trade marshmallows with Rambo if he was around.

 

I took my paddle and shrunk it down to fit the inside of my shoulder pack and jumped off my longboard.

 

"ID, please," said the front store attendant.

 

I showed him my shoulder and the chip scanned on his scanner gun.

 

"Tier 1 only," he said.

 

I breathed in, and walked inside.

 

Just write.

 

 

My mind had a curly-cue of thoughts that spiraled this morning, and I was tired by 8 am. Breathing didn't do and I tried to put away thoughts of my oppressors, those who harmed me, but the memories silenced and shunned me. I locked my own jaw from the racing thoughts and I walked outside and touched a leaf. The Corinthians spoke and captured my thoughts, as I inhaled deep and spoke life to myself.

 

There was never anything wrong with writing, as my life felt like it depended on it. Writing will keep me alive, and not even the devil could stop me. Negative thoughts told me that I was no good, and my writing would never be seen, or appreciated, and the devil won. Hot tears flowed down my face, but my mask soaked it.

 

It was more difficult to entertain the vortex inside my brain than to let it go. I surrendered and told God, "take me as I am and promise to keep me alive," as if a pair of angel ears were listening. Right now, the world won't keep turning based on negativity. The world will keep turning for optimism, hope, faith, love and humanity. I won't live for the negative, instead I will breathe in the positive, the truth, and the life. I won't stop writing, although it felt hopeless and it felt like no one wanted me to write.

 

Writing was free, and it felt honest and beautiful and will keep me going. I will surrender more, read more, learn more, and embrace the unknown. It already happened, because my writing was done long ago and it lived on. I won't think less of my craft or compare, because to each their own when it came down to it. Every prose concocts out of the immersion from the soul of the writer's life, and it was never for comparison.

 

The sadness won't dampen me, instead I will trade it on these empty pages. Writing it down and typing it aways, and letting it live to be an example for those who might experienced the same. Every writer had their sorrows, and I was no different.

 

Just write.

I stood up from my after-school meditation, because today's practicum via Fox.org gave me a migraine. Hybrid high school wasn't the same after the White Plaque. Coronavirus was so yesterday, because the vaccine worked well and I got my shots just two weeks ago for the four times a year recommended dose. But, the White Plaque truly was something else. It gave me chills for three days, yet milder than the CoVid19. 

 

Outside felt right just now, so I took my Street Paddle elongated to its five feet maximum length with a rubber bottom. Passive enough for a toy, but as aggressive as the Shaolin Kung-Fu Wooden Stick. I grabbed my granola cubes and pistachios packets and put them inside my shoulder pack. I took my longboard and turned on its anti-gravity button, and shoved the remote in my pocket. I stood on it, and it synchronized with my street paddle. I opened my bedroom door and flew downstairs to bid my farewells for the afternoon.

 

"Dad, leaving. Need time for myself. I'm going to see, Rambo," I told my Father.

 

"Don't stay out too late. By 7, the sirens will come on in our zone. It's Denver, and not the country side, so check the time," he said.

 

Rambo lived with his sister near the old Five-Points, now labeled as Zone 5, where the emancipated orphan youth were allowed to live independently. He never knew what it felt like to wear spray deodorant. I tried it on when I was five, but it wasn't anything special.

 

Flying by Colfax was like a mall. Everyone had their hoods on and their masks with protective goggles. The White Plaque attacks the cornea and could lead to blindness. Crap for some homeless folks, most became blind and they never received their indigence benefits due to no permanent address.

 

My stomach growled and my granola cube was out of reach, so I took my pistachio packet  and ripped it apart thenemptied the content into my mouth. I lived in Capitol Hill, because Father was the surgeon for Banner. Since they transformed into a Socialist Hospital, their logo became a blue flag with a red cross in the middle. Father told me that it was our justice.

 

By the time I got to Rambo's pad, his bike was not there. He must be on a walk somewhere. Emancipated youths won't go far on foot, because they have no vehicle license until they turn 21. Crap kept happening, and it was out of control since the White Plaque. But, Rambo was special. He survived with his sister, because he told me that he had the grit of a slave and a desire like a pirate on alcohol. Rambo will never die, and I will make sure he lives forever. I felt a revolution was brewing inside me....and I needed Rambo. Where could he be?

 

Just write.

The future is bright. The journey so far, aside from those of the five million who were infected from the Coronavirus, must have felt as the elephant's ton. We have to trust that there has always been a way out, and it won't disappear. It may not always look like a window, or a door. We should be cognizant that it may appear in the most abject form of poverty, or from those who were ridiculed, raped, beaten, or shamed. We need to recognize that the future, due to the unhealthy past, might not be perfect and may not be model beautiful, or a Harvard grad, it might just be you.

 

The future is bright. Considering how broken we all felt for the past six months or the past twenty years as I felt, we should welcome healing from all directions and become smarter in eyeing the love and optimism. The help was there, but we never appreciated it because we believed the wrong people. The corruption has to stop because I felt the world became tired and it fought us back. Nature was a mother, and she felt violated, and she deserves healing.

 

The future is bright. Why won't it be? We have geniuses who were born in the midst of the pandemic, and those who were grown adults, creating vaccines, and fought wars of all wars. We were warriors and will always be. The battle was tough wasn't it? It kept on for a while now, and might be on for a bit more, but you will be strong. You will make it through. You were meant to.

 

The future is bright. The sun was angry and turned on us, with the wind turning cyclones with thunders and lightning, but we all embraced the sun, and the moon, and the clouds came with the soft rain. Glory with a crawl as Dr. Martin Luther King also said, "...If you can't run, walk. If you can't walk, crawl....," so we crawled and we will crawl for a while, because unemployment won't just end tomorrow. We will work together.

 

The future is bright. We won't be destroyed and I sure won't be, because I deserved my triumphs, and my life with restoration. My destiny was not the world's to begin with, and neither was yours. Keep steady, keep going, keep living, and keep studying.

 

Keep writing. The future is bright. 

 

Just write.

I was never meant to be famous. I knew since I was born. But, I was meant to write, and whether I will publish or not, it was never up to me in the first place. It has always been a number of things at play in the universe and at times, I felt at odds with the whole world. I wrote since I could create words and composed sentences, for pure healing. I felt it was the sentence of my life and I may die never becoming a published author, but the process may lead me to a place of health and solace. 

 

The fame never belonged to me in the first place. It has always been for those who led me to a place of comfort and compassion. The un-named Indonesian lad who offered me Kopi Lewak at the compound at the base of Mt. Bromo in Java, who offered counsel and told me that the whole world was full of assault victims, and I should never be afraid of life. The stranger who told me that I will one day reach my destiny, in whatever form it may be, near the telescope at the wall overlooking Mt. Bromo, where God spoke to me and told me, "Enjoy your sunrise, as if it is your last."

 

The fame goes to the Ethiopian man who asked me for some sustenance in the middle of Central London, as I handed him a Larabar and he replied, "You deserve a Pulitzer prize," without knowing if I could even write. To the Briton in his tank top who kindly obliged to my request to share a table at a crowded Starbucks, so I could write out my busy thoughts before I dropped into sobs from symptoms of PTSD and Depression. To the Mayan little girl in Mexico, who negotiated on a fair price and convinced me to buy a pair of handkerchiefs to bring to America. Her skills touched my heart. They deserved all of the fame in the world, although the world was never kind to the random strangers who didn't fit into a mold of a model or a billionaire.

 

The fame goes to my friend Kristin who showed me a rainbow patterned men's brief boxers with a goofy picture of an Afro-Puffed man near the groin area. Her comedy came in a blonde bombshell full of suprises. To Sarah Schantz, the author of FIG, whose craft inspired me to become raw and honest leading me to a steady flow of juices of creativity. The fame belonged to the volunteers at homeless shelters all across the world whose self-less devotion meant confidence in humanity. 

 

There were plenty of famous people worldwide, if we could look closer, that I never asked for fame, instead I lived it because I was already the apple of God's eyes. That even if I were to die in my sleep, I would die happy, knowing I wrote for 15 minutes in full honesty of my heart. Never regretting the path of how I got here, because it was not entirely my own doing, but through good works and faith, I was led to a peaceful life. 

 

The fame goes to the millions of artists, carvers, painters, illustrators and designers who worked behind the scenes, enjoying their art unfold without the barrage of media and publicity. Their earnest patience and humility nobled the process of artistic value. Their love without the selfish desire for attention created authenticities grounded to the soil, for their blood, sweat and tears. 

 

The fame goes to the legions of victims of racism, including myself of the assaults, all across the universe. We deserve a voice to be heard, for every sorrow we endured and every heartaches we overcame. Writing it all down as investigative reports to God.

 

And so, I will write, not for fame or glory, but to heal and for all fairness in life that I deserved; because of the scars upon my back, my heart, my mind and my soul. It was my destiny.

 

Novels, short stories, verse or poetry, psalms, lyrics (yes, I sing), or chicken scratch, I was meant to.

 

The fame goes, to you, O dear reader. 

 

I love you. Just write. 

The River Gorge rushed wild with high waters flowing over to my raft as I paddled to the capsized friend. He reached for my hand and I pushed his shoulders into the water as he bounced towards me and I pulled him inside. Two foster children in the water lost their guides far from the creek they were to stay in. One child held on to a rock and slipped his grip and his body floated into the wild waters downstream. I paddled and yelled, "swim downstream and just let the waters float you to the edge, just swim. I'll catch you there." The boy swimmer couldn't go far and I was worried for his drowning because his life jacket could only do so much.

 

A little girl, not much from five, with a life jacket wailed down the current, and my friend I rescued earlier told me, "I can swim to her!" The sound of the water masked his voice, and I heard, "I can reach her," and so I gave him my oar that I kept back from the cabin before the trip and told him, "Strech this out to her when we get close," and I kept paddling and rushed down digging my paddle deep and sweeping the waters behind me to move upstream. Rafting against the current was dangerous because the waves goes under the raft and pushed it up with more chances to capsize, but the little girl deserved her second chance in life. The sound of her cries cracked the silenced years in my ears, from the loss of prospects for children and the loss of finding true love. Her cries was my saving grace.

 

It took all of my stamina to paddle upstream to her to push against the surfing currents as she held on to a large branch over her head with both hands stretched with her body being pulled away from the wild rivers. My friend, let's call him Joe, stretched the oar and put it in between her arms just over her head and she grabbed it. Joe pulled her close and I kept surfing against the stream.

 

"What's your name?" I asked her, as she held on to the oar and Joe pulled her inside our raft. "Kayla," she said, in tears of tremors. She shivered from the cold waters, but the orange sun from the wild fires nearby was high above us and we all knew she would dry off. "Hang on tight in the raft, we have another friend downstream." We paddled around and surfaced the raft swiftly downstream following the rushing current. 

 

The boy was still in his life jacket and he swam three miles down the stream, but he was safely near the edge of the river, in betwen two rocks. He must have held on the rocks and stayed there for safety because the current won't move it and its solid surface was not covered with moss. The boy didn't cry, instead he smiled at me and my friend, Joe, and told us, "I know how to swim," and we curved the rock to pick him up. He hugged Kayla and Joe, and I rafted down to the cabin station downstream to the right of the fork of the Gorge. 

 

Paddling the raft felt like carrying a newborn puppy. It felt fresh in my soul, but with a softness of comfort and love in my bones, with the backdrop of the wilderness. If only I rafted everyday of my life, this dream in my sleep would mostly be more wild. When we arrived at the cabin, my body was soaked and my yoga pants and five-fingers slip-ons were sopping wet. Joe was happy and carried Kayla as she stopped crying and asked for some hot chocolate. The boy came to me, and hugged my flat stomach, "Hunter," he said, "my name is Hunter." And I cried to pieces, as the yearnings for children and a loving husband finally came to an end. 

 

The cabin was opened and the Duke of Cambridge was there, in a batik sarong, and a Balinese wrap hat on his head. He had a Sumatran sash and shirt over him and wrapped in his waist was a leather belt and shoulder stap with a Batik handle and artilleries. He came to me, and told me, "I've watched you grow. You've done good, even with the mistakes you've made." His voice of acceptance held me together as I felt a peace over me, from the tip of my hairs to the tip of my toes. He told me that I've overcame many afflictions and I was sovereign. "Fear no more," he told me.

 

I woke up this morning, and felt at ease. Even in dreams, I was loved.

 

Just write.

The rocks on the soil gives into the Earth as my sneakers steps one foot in front of the other, pacing with my music. Running on the grainy and cracked ground is succor to my soul. The pebbles won't lead to a fall and the friction gives a chance to solidify the muscles striations forming on my calves. It is worth the endurance and my stamina keeps me going. 

 

The weeds on the trail are now as tall as me, with large sunflowers and leafs the size of my palms. There is no creek, but the path gives me a way to cope and leads me to a healthy life. The forgiving trail loves everyone, the weary, the mentally ill, the hopeful, the criminals and those who just needs a walk away from the city. 

 

Trails like these makes me a faster runner, although at times I stop from the heat inside my body, almost out of breath but not out of hope. I love trail running, eventhough I am no expert on any trails or any sport. The acceptance from the trail makes me feel loved and I gain energy and peace of mind.

 

Don't run with a motive, just do it. Pace, one step at a time, and let the trail lead you to a focus on the journey. Even if you run for an hour like me, or for ten hours like some, the trail is sanguine and wonder. Keep sweating and keep running, keep loving and keep writing. Life won't stop and neither should I and neither should you.

 

Time feels fast when I run on these trails and although my feet often drags from the small grating rocks underneath my feet, I ignore the pain. I don't want to stop because I deserve to keep running. Nothing matters on these trails, and the ground allows for trading sorrows. Let your tears flow and let your mind chatter with your lips professing in verse, no one is listening. Your secrets are safe on these trails. 

 

Steady on and steady state, with your feet stepping and bouncing over the Earth, the soil is happy to have me. I am with joy as I power up my life, bending my knees slightly as each foot steps wholesomely, and lifts up in sprints. Life is to be a journey and so is health, and these trails keeps my stamina alive.

 

Just write.