Posts Tagged ‘#fridayflash’

#Fridayflash Follow-up, By My 9 Year Old

August 6, 2010

He gave me permission to post his response to my #fridayflash about him. I’ve reproduced it below with his grammar and spelling choices. He’s actually pretty good at that.

A Mom Story

The perfect mom has a nice core. One not made of stone and rock-hard corruption. Mine is not neither or both, she has a dark side and a promising light. The perfect mom and one with a heart of stone do not have this. A good posture mine has such most others either hand down or are like a cononised solder. Mine is sweet and kind (most of the time.) Shes the one that will eat ice cream with out anyone knowing. But my mom I like to call the best because she IS to me.

#FridayFlash – His Shirt is Orange

August 6, 2010

His shirt is orange. A dusty orange that sits against his summer-brown skin like a promise of autumn. The shirt has white stripes.

His hair isn’t as blond as it was last year, not even after two months of sun-soaked play and it makes my heart ache a little bit.

He’s older today. Somehow much older than he was yesterday and his arms go ‘round my neck effortlessly. I don’t have to stoop anymore, and it doesn’t pull me down now, when he does that.

He made me eggs for breakfast, and coffee. His eggs are the best I’ve ever had. Better than his father’s, better than mine even, and that amazes me, that somehow he’s taken what we are and have given him and made it better.

He came in my room wearing a bracelet with dangling charms.

“Help me take this off,” he said.

His little sister wanted to dress him up and he let her. Because he’s like that and it makes me love him so much I can hardly stand it.

At drop off for summer camp he turns his cheek away from my kiss. He tries to pretend he didn’t do it.

“Bye, Mom! Love you!”

The other boys are waiting.

It has come. He’s old enough now, that mom kisses are un-cool and to be avoided in public. Or the other boys snicker, as if they don’t wish they could turn their cheek up for a quick peck and get away with it.

It hurts a little bit, but mostly I’m proud. I was prepared for this. Like his first step, first word, first bike. It’s a man-thing.

My boy’s a man, I suppose.

I should be proud. And I am. But I’m still going to cry a little.

#FridayFlash: Suicide Notes – #3: Cory

July 30, 2010

This piece is part of the #SuicideNotes project.

The writing is on the wall.

No, seriously, it’s on the wall. Got a black sharpie from my dad’s office. Or, it was dad’s office. Before he left. But shit, who cares about that. Right now, this moment? Mine.

Not like that’s the point. I don’t care, I mean, it’s never about me and it’s not like I’m some whiny bitch about that, all ‘look at me!’

Yeah, fuck that shit. I almost didn’t write anything. ‘Cause, you know, who’ll care? But this one’s about me. And if I want to write, I’ll write. If they don’t care, then, fuck it, they don’t care. Won’t be anything new, right?

I’m going to do it. Today. Any minute now.

There’s the rope, all tied up just right.

There’s the chair.

I’ve written what I want to say. I’m pretty sure. I haven’t signed it yet. That’s the last thing. But I don’t want to screw this up, so I’m waiting, just to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. This has to be right. This is it.

I even checked my fucking spelling. Crazy, right? Since they’ll just probably paint over this anyway. Like, next week.  But what do I care?

I didn’t write anything stupid. Like, about Penny, how she dumped me, or whatever. ‘Cause I didn’t care about her like I acted like I did. It’s not about Penny. I mean, she left me, and, that’s cool. I knew she would. It’s just, the way it works for me. Not like it’s ever going to change.

I didn’t call dad an asshole or mom a bitch, though he is, and so is she. Well, sometimes. I mean, their marriage shit. They really hated each other. Not like I wish they were still together or anything. You know, but they could make an effort to be less fucking awful to each other when they have to be around. Or, whatever. Shit, I don’t care.

I wonder if they’ll scream at each other at my funeral. Ha! That’d be perfect. I hope they do.

Yeah, so this isn’t about them. They did their thing, and, whatever. It’s what they did. What they do doesn’t affect me. I’m sixteen. I can handle it. And I did. That’s not what this is about.

I’ll check the rope, gotta make sure. It’s… thick. Kinda thicker than I thought it would be. Not like it looks in the movies. But it’s like it said on the internet. So this is the rope and I got it right. I’m not a fuck-up and I guess they’ll all know that when I get this right. I did my fucking research and everything. Take that Mrs. Hall and your fucking D is fucking History.

I’m sixteen and fifty-nine days. I like that. Not sixty. That’s like a milestone, one of those tens numbers. It means something to get to those and I’m so done with this. It means something to me not to get there.

It’s cold in here, which is good. For… I don’t know, but it’s good. This will be the way it’s supposed to be. Like nothing in my life has been. But this will be. And I swear that makes me feel like a fucking god or something. I’m not the only fuck-up in the world, but they’ll all just keep trying and keep fucking up and they’ll live fucking pathetic lives.

Not me.

And I’m going to end it just right, just perfect, and that’s one thing they will have to say I didn’t fuck up. And then maybe they’ll be sorry.

Shit, I didn’t mean that. That sounds so whiny, that ‘they’ll be sorry’ shit. I mean, I don’t know, some of them might feel… I don’t know, something. I mean, mom will probably cry. That’s what you do when your kid dies, right. Even the fuck-ups. And, that kinda sucks. But I can’t help it. Not like she’ll actually miss me or anything. I mean, that’s like the one flaw in my plan, is, god knows what time she’ll come home tonight so I can’t say when she’ll come looking for me.

But, by then, that’ll be her fuck up, not mine. I’ll be past all fuck ups. Yeah. Yeah.

Yeah.

This is so right. So right.

Time to sign my name. Perfect. The perfect fuck-up’s illegible signature. Well they can complain about that too. I don’t fucking care.

I got one of the dining room chairs. Don’t want the swivelly one from my desk. No. Gotta be right.

Big thick rope. Yeah. No fucking this up.

Perfect. Perfect. And just kick.

Oh shi…

*****

Cory Jacob Williams, 16, died at home October 6, 2009.

He was born August 14, 1993, a son of Daniel Seth Williams and June Sara Taylor, who survive.

Funeral services will be held at Maxton Funeral Service Chapel with the burial immediately following.

#FridayFlash: Twenty-Six Funerals

July 23, 2010

Twenty-Six Funerals

Sshhh. Hush, don’t look now. It’s almost over. No, don’t worry. It’s OK, it’s OK. Almost. Almost. Almost….

David put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

******

It was probably a long time coming. Or so they would all say, when it had come, and he had gone.

Her eyes were shining with tears but behind that they were empty. She was succeeding in escaping, somewhere. She’s probably the mother. It’s usually easy to pick them out. They’re the ones I feel sorry for. That look of bewilderment that’s teetering over the cliff of horror.

They watched her, they all watched her and tried to look like they weren’t. And they wouldn’t meet her eye, if they could help it. They probably thought it best. Or they were afraid. It’s understandable. It looked kinda like if she drew you into the wells of pain set in her face that you’d fall in and drown.

At the funeral most sat, and watched. Some spoke, some cried. No one really says much, though, when it’s a suicide. They don’t know what to say. Or they do, but it wouldn’t be nice and they’ve enough decency to keep it to themselves. Or they’re confused, or indifferent, or too not-indifferent. It’s always that way, I suppose, but it’s worse with children and suicides. Really something else when it’s both.

I was watching her. She didn’t know me. None of them did. I didn’t know them. I didn’t exactly know David either, except in the way we all know each other intimately. Those of us who have gotten close enough to try, or succeed. A brotherhood, of sorts. No meetings or membership lists though, unless you count the obituaries.

This is how I hold it off. The urge to reach for the gun or the razor or the pills. Not really the pills. They aren’t likely to work. And I don’t care what anyone tells you, it’s not a cry for attention. The ones who get attention I suppose are lucky. Or not. Depending on which side of the bottle you’re on.

This is what I do. The funerals. This one’s number twenty-six. No one ever questions me. We’re good at that, we of the brotherhood, at keeping people away. It’s part of the problem, I suppose. But really it’s a symptom. Like the pain and the anger.

It helps me stay angry, honestly. The funerals. Feeling angry is feeling something.

I hear them say those asinine things, about how David killed himself. It shouldn’t, but it still amazes me that they believe David had anything to do with dying of a massive depression anymore than anyone with cancer succumbs to their disease.

Maybe he took his meds, maybe he didn’t, maybe he never had any to take. It doesn’t make a difference. They’re all symptoms. The taking or the not taking or the never having to take.

Some of us go into remission. I never have. Maybe I will someday. It doesn’t really matter. And anyway, I can’t make myself believe it’s possible. Or real. They tell me I wasn’t always like this but I can’t remember and I don’t think I believe them.

So David was fifteen. Not very old. Or really, really damn old in time spent living with that overwhelming feeling of nothing at all. Every day is a hundred years. David was probably centuries older than anyone in that room. Especially the ones who shake their heads when his mother isn’t looking.

I suppose I did know David, and David knew me. There are a lot of us. We suffer, or endure, or die, or don’t and we’re all the same and completely different.

The last funeral was Tiffany. She was pretty, even in the coffin. She’d done the wrists so her face wasn’t messed up at all. I really hate it when they do open coffin for the ones like David, who did the gun. They fix up the face and try to pretend like you can’t tell but I think everyone can see the way the mouth doesn’t look right. I know I can. But then, I’ve seen a lot of them.

I think I’ll do the wrists when my time comes. The gun’s more efficient, or even a rope, or a tall building. But I’m scared of heights and there’s something mesmerizing in the thought of feeling it drain away, your life, the way you’ve wanted it to for so long. I think about that feeling sometimes, and I wonder if the reality’s the way I imagine it. The slow fall into delicious nothing. Not the awful kind that fills your chest and your head every day but the one you’ve been wanting, dreaming of for so long.

I’m squeamish, though, about sharp things and actually cutting my skin on purpose. Maybe that’s why I’m still here, at the funerals. Because I’m scared of too many of the best ways, the effective ways, and I’m not idiot enough to try the stuff that doesn’t always work. It’s only when I’m really numb that I can think of razors and imagine it feels like heaven, the bite and release.

I heard them say that Tiffany was a cheerleader. And they said how could she be so pretty and popular and want to do something like that. Sometimes it’s so hard not to laugh. That they think any of that matters.

I always go to the coffin. Open or closed, I always go up there and introduce myself. There’s a brotherhood, after all. It’s common courtesy, or a code of conduct or something. And sometimes I see another one of us there. Watching. But I won’t say anything. Not until they’re the ones lying there, or I am. That’s not the way it works. Because it wouldn’t matter. We’re all alone. It’s part of the deal. Could be worse, I suppose. Or not. I can’t make myself care.

Caught With my Pants Down

July 19, 2010

Well it’s Monday and I had no post prepared.

What with #5MinuteFiction on Tuesdays, new chapters of Mourn the Sun on Wednesdays, and #FridayFlash, and the fact that I don’t post on the weekends, much of my week is covered with ready-made posts and I fill in the miscellaneous on the days left.

I woke up this morning, quite sure that a scheduled post would magically pop up at 8:30 and I’d go about my day.

Not so. I have been caught unprepared and it is a quiet and lonely Monday here on Write Me!

Well, there’s always plenty going on so here’s a quick update:

  • The Giveaway is rolling right along. Tweet about it to your friends and send people over here. If we get a good influx, I’m thinking of adding a second prize.
  • I’ve spent much of the past week reading/critiquing for other writers and let me tell you what an incredibly rewarding experience that is, on both sides. Maybe there’s a post on that in the future.
  • And also, all you aspiring writers pay attention to this one: I got a request for a full last week and the agent said it was because I’d done my homework and personalized the letter in a way that really caught her attention. *NOTE: I don’t mean it was goofy or gimmacky. On the contrary, is was completely professional but it was also a letter to HER and HER AGENCY and not just a Dear Agent.

Do this, my friends. Know the agent you are querying and write the letter to him/her. It DOES make a difference.

OK, that’s all for now. I’m off to read more of Richard Wood‘s excellent The Prodigal’s Foole.

Have a great week!