Tag Archives: suicide

What the Mourning Brings (Variations, in the key of Numb)

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First things first:

I have a guest blog up at Polka Dot Banner: Driving Traffic to your Blog via a Fiction Series

It’s a bit(more) about how I write, and why I’ve been so sporadic lately. Hope you enjoy it.

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Second things second:


Thanks to Lisa at Woman Wielding Words, I found another prompt challenge. This time, it’s the 100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups.

Pretty straight forward: you get a prompt (this week the prompt is the word Wednesday); you get to write a piece that must include that word in the 100 word allotment; you have until Monday, February 6th to post; add a link back, check the other participants out, and voila. 100 words.

What the Mourning Brings (100 Words)

A cold, wind driven rain confronted Cassie early Wednesday morning. Leaving the hospice, she craved for any feeling other than numb. Cassie had held her father’s hand all night, praying for a chance, a difference. It happened; a little after five. The machines screamed flat line.

Cassie clung to the cold hand, bowing her head as tears streamed down her face, dampening the bed sheet. She was aware of the others only when they pried her hand from his. Cassie left the words of condolence, shucking them off, as she slipped out of the building.

She saw the truck coming.

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Third Things Third:

Bluebell Books Short Story Slam Week #20, is hosting a challenge to write a story in 55 words.  I’ve used their prompts before, and JUST got this in my email:

we challenge you to write a short story or a poem in exactly 55 words, you have about 4 weeks to work out your entry, the submission is from today to February 31, 2012, which means you have enough time to make your effort, this helps you improve your creative writing skills by restricting your word counts in 55 words.

I’m taking this one step further for myself: to trim the same story I wrote above by 45 words.

What the Mourning Brings (55 Words)

A cold, wind driven rain confronted Cassie; craving any feeling, numb. Cassie held her father’s hand all night, praying…the machines screamed flat line.

Cassie clung on as tears streamed down her face. They pried her hand from his. Cassie left words of condolence as she slipped out the hospice.

She saw the truck coming.

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No challenge, except to myself…

What the Mourning Brings (a Haiku)

Numb is how I feel
Withered prayers; Condolences…
The truck comes to me
 
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Melt Down (Flash Fiction)

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Have you ever had a melt down?

I mean a 100% complete loss of yourself, driving pain through your body; your chest so numb you can’t feel a damn thing, and your hands and legs shaking to such a magnitude that holding anything and standing unaided is next to impossible? I’m talking core wipe-out mentally, emotionally. You disappear from yourself and the outside, and just sink down, down, down until you are nothing but a molten mass of pure nothing.

It’s an interior nuclear melt down. No way to stop it: it’s a complete collapse of self, the inability to cope with anything more. You can’t escape from it as it mushroom clouds’ inside of you, unsettling your senses and blowing horror winds of despair through your system. The mind blanks, or fixates on one thing, illogical scatterings that bewail the loss of what kept you together.

You are gone now. You’ve melted away. What’s left depends on the severity of the melt down. There is no “half life” at this point. There is “no life”, no caring, no understanding of how to get out of the crater that surrounds the husk.

Words are meaningless, and all the good intentions of friends and family and professionals are jammed into a single space that is defeated by the inner “I can’t handle this anymore.” They watch and talk, they might hover and howl their own frustrations, or speak slowly and softly and tenderly, and it’s all the same. Noise. Noise that really needs to just be silenced.

You pull the covers over you, hiding in a self wrapped cocoon. Day and night have little to no meaning; you prowl the darkness while other sleep, turning on C-Span to bore you to sleep. You open a book or magazine, hoping the drivel on the pages tires your eyes enough to close.

Then come the drugs to “even you out,” and you find oblivion in sleep at times you know you should be awake. Everything passes you by: the job goes, the friends are  back to their lives, the daily calls are now weekly (if), and the family is besides themselves. They check out, one by one, unintentionally, but your melt down has radiated them, and their internal melt down happens.

You try to check out in the bath tub, hearing it doesn’t hurt. It does, for a bit, but the warm water is soothing, and the anti-anxiety meds and the anti-depressants take you to another place. The water is red kool-aid and you haven’t cared about anything, or anyone, or any bit about yourself. There was no self to care about.

Melt down.

Waking up in the hospital, there are stares and tears and questions. You don’t answer. You look away. They’ve swaddled your wrists and tied you down, strapped and IV’d. “It’s for your own good,” comes over the walking loud speakers that surround you, but one by one they all go away, taking their bull horns of sympathy miasma with them. It’s all noise, and the click-clicking of the machines blend into the night nurses morally bankrupt laughing, and the codes and charting checks and the waking up to see if you’ve slept…

The special ward is next.

Have you ever melted down? Have you seen your core at it’s basest level?

I have. It’s not pretty. It’s not nice. It isn’t wholesome or fun or loving or anything you’d want.

That’s why I’m here, locked up. For now.

Wait. Wait for it.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

Please understand that what appears here on Tale Spinning is always a work of FICTION.

I will sometimes write in First Person (as above).

It does not mean I have done anything suicidal, I have never been locked up, I’ve never killed anyone, never been a woman, etc.

I May write about those things (and have), but…that is the end of it.

How do I know/write things that make people believe I’m just writing a journal?:

First: I’d have to say “good realistic writing” (I’ve heard that enough from others, so..)

Second: I have a LARGE referencing pool,  being a pop culture junkie all my life (TV, Movies, Books, etc)

Third: I do research more times than not.

So…I’ll post this again and again (a few more times) when I write in First Person.

Thanks for reading.