Skirt by Amelia

 
He hugs me too tight and says; “Are you taking care of yourself?  How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”  I reply too cheerfully, it’s obviously forced.  Internally I cringe.  I have no fucking desire to have the first meaningful conversation with my father in my entire 32 years to be about how I can’t seem to bring home another live baby.  Later, my husband chides me; “He doesn’t know what to say, he means well.”  I know this.  I do.  But I can’t help him figure out what to say anymore than I can figure out what I want to hear.  I skirt around all the skeletons in our shared closet and lean down to hug my niece.
 
 

Roof by Michelle Ho

The lingering taste of peppermint candy cane and gingerbread find their way across the roof of my mouth. Delicacies and festive spirit are at their best at this time of year, and this is Christmas as we know it.

Note: this one came in after I was asleep but before the Challenge ended.

Roof on Sauce by b303tilly

I am a failure. I had one job to do, and I biffed it. All I had to do was grow another human being inside of my body, and I was so careful. I did everything right. I read the books, quit smoking and drinking. I even gave up caffeine, for godsakes. I knew I was at a high risk for post partum depression, and so I marshaled a support team, and spoke honestly about my concerns to my midwives. I was so ready, so prepared. Over and above all of this was the sheer wonder and excitement of what I was doing. I felt like a mom from the minute I suspected I was pregnant, and over the course of the pregnancy, as me and my little package aced test after test, I became more and more excited.

But I failed. There’s something wrong with my baby. My baby, who even now is unconscious while the surgeons work to repair my screwup. Somewhere, somehow, the genes we passed to our baby got tangled up, and now I cannot even breastfeed her without risking her aspirating. The roof of her mouth never formed. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. And I’m scared.

Roof by b303tilly

It’s hard for me to think about him, because I always wind up imagining his last moments. I start off thinking about his smile, that crazy shit eating grin. I remember his hair, and how it always flopped over into his eyes, those eyes that look just like my father’s. He always threw me the highest in the pool, and the memories of that giddy, terror filled flight makes me happy. I always landed safely, and trusted that I always would. I trusted him. And then, inevitably, I remember. The soul crushing grief he must have been feeling, the overwhelming weight of his pain. I wonder, did the barrel of the gun cut the roof of his mouth? Did the taste of the gun oil make him gag, or was he too far gone down the dark hallway of his despair to even notice? The memorial service was so packed with people that many had to stand along the walls, and out into the vestibule. It struck me then that he had so many who loved him, so many friends crowding around in their grief, and he was all alone. Just like he felt when he was still breathing.

Roof by Lara Hill

"It's still a magical and special time", her Dad attempted.

The words held cold comfort. A sleigh with bells would not pass in front of the moon tonight. A sleigh with bells had never passed in front of the moon. It was a paradigm shift too far in her ten year old world. She felt sulphur on the roof of her mouth, a slight ringing in her ears and the ground beneath her feet unsteady as the snow banks.

Roof by Amanda

My wife killed herself on Christmas Eve. My daughter died a few weeks before that.

A year later, I'm cowering against the back of the closet in the master bedroom. I can't remember the last time I slept in our bed. Even being in this room, where we stayed up late, sticky with sweat; well, it makes me sick to look at the bed.

My daughter's room casts an equal feeling of panic over my heart. She was four. The nurse said we didn't need to bring her into the emergency room if she wasn't wheezing or gasping for breath. We should give her Tylenol for her sore throat and fever. She advised us not to use one of the vaporizers that emit hot steam. Too dangerous.

The cool mist humidifier is still sitting next to her bed. The sheets, sour with the scent of fever, are still fastened to the mattress.

My wife finished shopping early last year. Neatly wrapped presents are piled in our closet with the summer clothes covering them. All of the name tags say "Callie."

I'm looking at them, but I can't bring myself to touch them.

They whisper to me in little crinkling voices. I want to open them and press myself against their blinking lights and plastic eyes. I want to eat them, to take them inside of me and digest them, feel them against the roof of my mouth. They hold ghosts and I want to be one, too.

I'm going to shoot myself here in the light of a bare bulb surrounded by hundreds of darling little bows and the name "Callie." The only thing my wife wrote after these tags was her suicide letter. It was addressed to me.

"I hate everything," it said. "I hate God and I hate you for being alive when she's not. I hate God." At the the bottom of the page she scribbled, "I love you."

It's Christmas Eve again. I've bitten down on the barrel.

--By Amanda www.lastmomonearth.com

Shame by Priscilla Robinson

I could feel myself starting to sweat even though it was cold. I was on a tram in Rome and I was lost again. I was about to panic but there was a good looking traffic cop beside me so I opened my mouth and let the words stumble out.

“Scoozi? Sir?...”

“English. I speak English” He smiled. 

“Sorry but I don’t know where to get off? My station?”

I pulled out the piece of paper I had been carrying around since the visit began. It was stained and crumpled but some of it was still legible. I pointed at the black dot I needed to find.

“Follow me.” He winked. Or maybe I imagined the wink, the gun I saw hanging from his left pocket was making me a little light in the head.

“But first put your rucksack onto your breast.” And he pointed at my bag and then at my chest.

My forehead was clammy. Police back home in Dublin did not speak like this. Was it a poorly translated pick-up line? Or was he just concerned I could be robbed?

Whatever his motivation, it did not matter. I had never been confident about my breasts, now here I was on public transport with a foreign man who was ordering me to keep them hidden.

Like a puppy in love I attempted to win him over - and distract myself - with obedience. In a sudden move, I pulled my rucksack around onto my chest. I marvelled at my deftness.

There was a noise, a very loud rip. He touched my back. “Your coat!” He sighed and shook his head.

I twisted around to see a gaping hole in my red anorak, a fiery colour that would match the hue of my cheeks.

“Ah, I shame you? This is bad. But good, because now you are on red alert!”

 He laughed, and I smiled back and tried to pretend it was funny.

Shame by Lara Hill

"Well, I'll tell you this much for nothing, the way that consultant treated a fellow human being is beyond description"

The assertion from the man standing on the platform did not prevent him from supplying a detailed description of the behavioural failings at the upper echelons of the medical profession. The woman listening to his complaint nodded in solidarity, waiting for an opportunity to disclose her own sorry tale at the hands of a consultant. The man concluded his invective:

"It would shame Gabrielle and all the Saints".

"Don't talk to me", replied the woman."Sure wasn't my cousin from Roscommon up with a consultant from the same Practice. He barely bid him the time of day and the bill arrives for one hundred and fifty euro. It's fierce! Who has that type of money in this day and age?"

The train pulled into the station and the two passengers boarded, fully intent on continuing their exposure of such doctors' less than gracious, money-grabbing ways.

Shame by Karen

My mom is dying. She's older, but not yet elderly. A long-time smoker, she is going in one of the most obvious ways possible, COPD. That’s like emphysema, but a newer, fancier term for it. Doctors argue that it is different, but to the layperson, it isn’t. You still die because your lungs are progressively clogged up with gunk that keeps you from delivering sufficient oxygen to your organs to sustain life.

The worst part of the disease is probably the embarrassment. For smokers affected with it, it is understood that they do this to themselves. There is no way around it. Whilst she claims others shame her with their waving hands and disgusted looks, smokers are really a self-loathing bunch. My mom now lights up in secret, but I can smell it on her, in her new car and in her house, which we had deeply cleaned of nicotine grease a year and a half ago. That was when she had her first critical incident, which lead to a hospitalisation that involved intubation.

Compounding her recovery, inasmuch as one recovers with COPD, is that embarrassment factor. My mother refuses to wear oxygen in public, or even around family unless absolutely necessary. This means that this past year, when she could have been stabilising, extending and improving her future life and weaning herself off oxygen, she has gone without until she can’t breath. Each time her stats drop low, it kills off cells in her organs, especially in her lungs. But her humiliation is so pervasive that she cannot make a different choice. She cannot make the connection.

You know what will ultimately cause my mother’s death? Embarrassment. This experience has brought me to a whole new level of understanding the term, to die of embarrassment.

Shame by KP

“I would never work in an office,”my daughter announced, again dismissing my husband’s career. “Too boring.” She and my other daughter sat, leaning in towards each other, discussing the events of their day while my husband and I sat in silence, staring one another, picking at our dinners, feeling diminished somehow.

“I couldn’t stay home with my children. Couldn’t cook or clean or watch kids all day.” And it was my turn to feel embarrassed and dull.

To our daughters’cool appraising eyes, we no longer measure up.

“It’s a stage,” my mother tells me.

“It’ll pass,” my sister assures me.

But watching my husband rise before sunup to pay the bills; watching myself cleaning chicken for their dinner, I am angered.

I wonder whether, by giving our children everything theyneed, we have failed them somehow.

I want to tell my children that perhaps their father also finds working in an office boring. That perhaps he sacrificed this own dreams to help make theirs come true.

Maybe that would shame them into pride.

LBD by Dorothy

She leans over the pool table in the black dress that belongs to her friend. The dress that hugs her body in places usually hidden beneath a dull gray Catholic school uniform.

She slides into the vampy sheath and slips on an alternate persona: a reckless girl without inhibitions or a boyfriend, a boozy, aggressive flirt hungry for the man on the dance floor she tangles with in the back of a family car.

She stumbles into her friend's house and wakes to see a man, a different man, above her on the couch who hikes the black dress above her thighs then bears down on her lifeless body.

She wakes the next morning and removes the dress she let shame her.

Tightrope Cyclist

By Michelle Ho

The prospect of dangling in midair fifty metres above a bustling street is just slightly daunting for a professional tightrope cyclist. “I can do this”, Sam said reassuringly to his inner self. He didn’t want to feel overwhelmed by the sudden whiff of capricious nausea as he peered over the edge of where he was about to perform his magnificent feat. After all, a faltering step is all he needs to have a taste of what it feels like to flirt with death.

Wingsuit Flying

By Isabel Tang

I wondered what was it like to flirt with death, as I stood at the edge of the earth. Palms sweating, heart racing, knees trembling, adrenaline pumping through my veins, urging me to jump. I couldn’t wait any longer as I knew I would back down if I didn’t jump before I changed my mind. I dived into the pit of death where many once lost their lives because of the same reason. Gliding through the air, feeling the air running through my body. As I came closer to the ground, it was time to launch the parachute. I pulled. Nothing. I pulled again. Still nothing. I started to panic. I kept on pulling, each time harder than before. I was desperate. Seeing death before my eyes, I wished time would stop as I kept pulling. Everything stopped suddenly, then I realize the parachute was launched. Landing was like being resurrected from death. This was the first and last time I will ever flirt with death again. Death brush past my shoulder and left, but will it the next time?

Married Man Wanted

By Weekend Writer

His hands are moving swiftly, but I’m feeling rather miffed
he hasn’t yet attempted going further south.
I flirt, and yet disaster seems it fading rather faster
than I hitherto expected as my mouth
attacked his face and sucked ears as I embraced
his portly rear and wrapped my arms around his fat and fleshy frame.

His wife was right upon us, yet she’s turned around and gone
and where I felt him gasp, now hear my whispered name.
Had she really come upon us, had she seen and caught and sprung us
well I know she’d try to rip me limb from limb.
A sweet old thing she might be, but I tell you, should she fight me,
she would pummel me in manners gross and grim.

So, back to him I’m facing, but it’s whiskey that I’m tasting
as his sweaty pores emit their hearty fumes.
I try to rouse my interest, but alas I’m just not in this,
now his feisty wife’s departed from the room.
A scintillating venture, now just seems a non event
and I am searching for a clean and quick escape.
The danger’s none, the moment’s gone, and sadly now this is no fun:
this tempting man’s become a groping ape.

Flirt by Lara Hill

We were always outside the house. We rushed our tea to get back outside. My cousin and I wore rollerskates from our Grandad. We made our way around the house on the concrete path, holding on to the wall, the pebble dash imprinting our palms.

When the brightlight holidays ended, we returned to school. The Indian summer allowed us spend all the breaks running around the school yard. When we got hot, we would strip off. The boys would pull off their jumpers and t-shirts and fling them on the grass or tie them around their waists. Free and exultant we threw away the layers.

One scorcher of a day I realised there was something strange about taking off my t-shirt. I suddenly knew that I would have to give up my wild cat, tom boy ways. I saw the bare chested boys and sensed I'd been cheated. They could flirt with a Tarzan and Cheetah life for many summers to come.

Flirt by Mindy

Three-way mirrors are assholes, she mouthed. Shirtless, she twisted from right to left, frowning at the tripled apron of flesh spread out and around the waistband of the jeans. She turned to the side and bent over to watch the dimpled mass collect under her breasts. She hung there and imagined lying on a meat slicer at the supermarket deli and having it shaved clean off. Swinging her arms like an elephant's trunk, she stomped in a stiff-legged circle then stood up and kneaded her belly like dough. She took off the jeans and cried. To shop, she thought, is to flirt with an eating disorder.

Michelle Ho

Life in the 21st century is full of surprises. Technological advancement is undoubtedly one of them; be it computers, weapons, phones, or tablets. We are drowning in our own pool of narrow-minded ignorance without even knowing it, clinging on to the slippery, deceitful edge for dear life. What was originally intended to do good and facilitate learning has now metamorphosed into an ugly little ducking. In this ever changing world around us, we as humans take too much for granted. While some engage in the trade of weapons in preparation for a raging war, others are left homeless, malnourished, and hungry. This very post is written with the aid of a laptop. Whatever happened to writing with pen and paper... Do you see it now? Despicable and poisonous technology has anchored firmly into our lives, brainwashing us until we are sucked dry, until there is nothing left. If only we as humans could rewind a step, live simply, give more, and expect less; maybe, just maybe, our world would be a better place.

My Childhood by Andrew Li

School has ended and I find myself sitting alone beside what Jeremy and I call “our friendship tree”. I sit here listening to the wind rush against leaves above me, I wish I was happy as wind is free. I hear a coat ruffling to the wind, someone is coming.

“Jeremy?” I asked

“I’m not Jeremy, not anymore. From now on, call me Jay” said Jeremy with a domineering voice.

I turn around to see him with the three most despicable people in school.

“What have you done, Jeremy?

“I said call me Jay you twat” shouted Jeremy

Jeremy runs at me like a Bull and hammers me into our friendship tree.

“You pathetic little boy, why can’t you understand I’m not the same Jeremy you know. I am Jay and I’ve never been more content. Lucas, go play with your toys, we don’t need anymore worthless people like you around”

The next thing I know, Jeremy and his pals are laughing hysterically as they walk away.

“But J… how about our friendship tree?” I shout

“It will rot with you” replies Jeremy as his pals continue to laugh

I take a breath of the unmerciful cold air and fall to my knees wondering why life is so cruel, his poisonous words sink deep into my mind. Leaves from above slowly sway themselves down before being picked up and propelled into the distance, I can see our friendship quickly fading away leaf by leaf and laugh by laugh.

Poisonous by Amelia

She should know better than to make plans if they are dependent on the cooperation of her poisonous womb. She begins to wonder how many times a heart can be broken. She'll learn.

Poisonous by b303tilly

Poisonous words hammer their clenched fists into my soft belly. I recoil from the blows, looking for help, for relief. “You’re fat. Seriously, your stomach makes you look pregnant. You had your first kid at twenty, and you were too young and too damaged to handle this. You are a terrible mother, and are systematically demolishing your children every day. You have no friends because you’re an awful person. I mean, come on. Your own family can’t stand you, won’t even try to be a part of your life. You don’t matter. So what if you’re graduating from college next week? We all know that you didn’t work as hard as you could have, and that your degree will be meaningless. No one will hire you. No one cares. YOU DON’T MATTER. YOU DON’T MATTER. Give up. Go away.” I curl up into a tight ball of pain, wanting to escape, to hide. Instead, I plaster a fake smile on my face, and pretend everything is coming up roses. I have no choice, there is no escape: I cannot hide from myself.

Poisonous

By Weekend Writer


Time crept about the house, breathing heavily at the doorway and snaking poisonous fingers through cracks in the windows. Daily, Mary resisted its malign clutches, sweeping her fine hair from her face, angling her chin to exude an air others would surely perceive as youthfulness, and humming a gay tune as her arthritic fingers curled around the simplest of tasks. Time smiled knowingly and lingered in the air like acrid smoke, seeping steadily into her skin.