the baby died.
he was secretly relieved.
it would've been their fifth.
he was secretly relieved.
it would've been their fifth.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Bitter by Anonymous
She didn’t stop to think who would have to clean up all the blood—God, so much blood everywhere—or maybe she did stop to think about it.
The note read: “Marc, I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”
The note read: “Marc, I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”
Friday, February 3, 2012
3 Sentences by Mindy
The TV shows schoolbusses floating past the Wal-Mart in our hometown, our filthy neighbors driving down the main drag in boats, infants on top of the local government buildings drinking from Dasani bottles, old people with one arm twisted around tree branches like bougainvillea and the other trying to find the courage to accept the embrace of firemen while broken furniture and aluminum carports drift by. My husband goes to his father and sits beside him on the rented floor, and his two brothers follow. Soon eight massive shoulders shake and the huddle heaves as the women keep busy, pretend not to notice, and I stand frozen.
Three Sentences by Just an Anonymous Writer
You couldn’t see the floor: cardboard boxes haphazardly stacked to the ceiling, teetering piles of random newspapers, towers of canned goods threatening to fall, unfinished art projects rejected in the corner, shopping bags fighting for room, wrinkled clothes and worn-out shoes carelessly strewn everywhere—filling the space like it was an abandoned thrift shop and not a home—and underneath it all, lurked filthy pieces of antique furniture and a dead cat.
“Mom, you’re a hoarder.”
“No, I’m not.”
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Image by Amelia K
“She’s the image of you at that age!”
I look just like my mother. I want more for her.
“Really? I see her father when I look at her.”
Be stronger little one.
Image by b303tilly
My heart faltered in my chest a little, and breathing became difficult as soon as I overheard him telling her she looked beautiful, just like her sister. My baby girl looked so happy in that moment, and I had to duck out to cry in private. He didn’t know how right he was. She is the very image of her sister, right before she succumbed to the cancer chewing its way through her insides. He unknowingly recognized the look of death, and I can't pretend anymore. I'm going to lose this one, too.
Dead Ringer by GeekiestGirl
I learned you’d died on Facebook, of all places. While I was driving to a comedy open mic, of all things. But Erika’s goodbye post on your wall sure didn’t seem like a joke. And one call to Kris confirmed it.
He said you’d done it yourself.
That we hadn’t spoken in two months rang loudly in my mind like the gunshot you forced your neighbors to endure.
The call ended with inhuman wails. Sounds I’d never thought myself capable of. Sounds I thankfully haven’t made since. Sounds that you would’ve joked belonged in a shitty Lifetime movie.
Time blurred till your memorial. The smiling one. The good-time guy. The flirt. Gregarious. Charming. Loved. A fantastic hugger. Smelly feet. Depressed?
The service was chock full of your beautiful castoffs. Women you’d rejected for one Seinfeld neurosis after another. All dumbfounded. All sure they could’ve helped you.
Your mother, you enormous prick. She was so small. Silent tears so loud in the front pew with us all staring. Helpless.
Your brother; you thoughtless nimrod. His arm around her tiny form the only thing keeping her from breaking apart. His face was dry.
I watched him worriedly, your brother. The quiet one. The gamer. The recluse. Shy. Geeky. Ignored. A beautiful smile, though rare. Short. Strong?
Of the two of you, he was the one we all would’ve placed bets on. Were we that crass. Had we any clue your family was headed for such devastation.
But we were so wrong, weren’t we? You made sure we never knew your truth.
He was not just a younger, smaller version of you after all.
He was never your funhouse mirror image.
He is your insides on the outside, and he wears them so well.
He is you without the bombastic laugh. Without the affectionate blonde at your side. Without the drink in hand, quip at the ready. You stripped bare. With nothing to hide from us behind.
And that’s how I know he’ll be ok.
He said you’d done it yourself.
That we hadn’t spoken in two months rang loudly in my mind like the gunshot you forced your neighbors to endure.
The call ended with inhuman wails. Sounds I’d never thought myself capable of. Sounds I thankfully haven’t made since. Sounds that you would’ve joked belonged in a shitty Lifetime movie.
Time blurred till your memorial. The smiling one. The good-time guy. The flirt. Gregarious. Charming. Loved. A fantastic hugger. Smelly feet. Depressed?
The service was chock full of your beautiful castoffs. Women you’d rejected for one Seinfeld neurosis after another. All dumbfounded. All sure they could’ve helped you.
Your mother, you enormous prick. She was so small. Silent tears so loud in the front pew with us all staring. Helpless.
Your brother; you thoughtless nimrod. His arm around her tiny form the only thing keeping her from breaking apart. His face was dry.
I watched him worriedly, your brother. The quiet one. The gamer. The recluse. Shy. Geeky. Ignored. A beautiful smile, though rare. Short. Strong?
Of the two of you, he was the one we all would’ve placed bets on. Were we that crass. Had we any clue your family was headed for such devastation.
But we were so wrong, weren’t we? You made sure we never knew your truth.
He was not just a younger, smaller version of you after all.
He was never your funhouse mirror image.
He is your insides on the outside, and he wears them so well.
He is you without the bombastic laugh. Without the affectionate blonde at your side. Without the drink in hand, quip at the ready. You stripped bare. With nothing to hide from us behind.
And that’s how I know he’ll be ok.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)