And we’re now officially a well-seasoned, mature event here at 5MinuteFiction. Or, well, something like that.
And welcome to 5MinuteFiction. That means we write fiction. In five minutes. Shocker, I know.
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: disease
Note: The prompt is the word, the picture’s just for decoration and/or inspiration.
photo by parvapax
* Post your entry as a comment to this post.
That’s it. I’ll close the contest at 1:45. I think we know how this works, but if you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.
At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Jules Carey, @JulesCarey will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:30 PM EDT I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.
For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.
What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.
A Few Notes:
* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.
* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.
* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.
Under my skin, you itch like a disease. A parasite slowly but surely infecting every cell of my body with your own special brand of disdain. I hear the cold, jaded taint of desire on your tongue and taste it on your mouth. But that’s not how the infection has spread. You condemned me to a slow death the moment you touched my hand.
Slowly the disease took us all.
We all waited, each of us that still lived, doing nothing but waiting for death.
And it came, inexorably, for each of us in turn.
Until I was the only one left.
I was only nine, and I wish I could say that excuses what I did, that I didn’t know better and am not to blame. But I did. And I am.
As I packed my bag, I could hear the voice of my mother, in the early days, telling us to keep away from the afflicted, lest the disease find us as well. But now my mother lay dead in her room, on the large bed beside my father, and my sister and brother beside them.
I burned the house behind me. I was too small to dig them proper graves, but I lit their funeral pyre speaking the prayers as best I remembered them.
That was only two years ago and I’m alone again. The bodies of the family that took me in–many villages from my own, not knowing where I came from or why–lay on the bed in the other room. As they probably do in every other quiet, cold house in this village.
This time, I’ll burn the entire village when I go. I wonder what tribute I’ll pay the next one.
Diabetes is a disease. I have it.
There is no cure at this time but, it can be controlled. Currently I am taking oral medication, no insulin necessary.
I visited a nutritionist the other day, on the advice of my primary physician. After giving her a three day diary of everything eaten or drank, and a ten minute metabolism test, I was happy to learn that I have been eating the right things, though not in the right combinations. It was an easy fix to my diet. All I have to do is integrate my carbs, fats, veggies & fruits into each meal and snacks.
It is important to aggressively follow recommendations, to keep diabetes in check.
Hopefully, I will be able to sustain my current levels, and keep from having to use insulin.
We will just have to wait and see.
*******
Twitter handle: @sefcug
Blog Link: http://sefccw.posterous.com/
I stare out the hospital window, anything to avoid looking at my catheter bag or the dingy gray hospital walls or my husband’s pale, pained face. If only the end of my life was as poignant or romantic or deeply inspiring as all of those films that I cried through during my high school and college days – Beaches, Stepmom, Love Story, for chrissake. If only he could carry me, wrapped in a cashemere blanket, onto a misty beach and hold me. If only there were children to leave scrapbooks and video diaries for. But there’s nothing noble or beautiful or abundant about this slow, morphine hooded death. I just want it to be over, and I know he does too. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” I say, as if I’m re-filling my water bottle at the one drinking fountain in the building. “It’s okay,” he says, forcing a smile. His lips look dry and I kiss them.
@dbadersaye – twitter
http://www.writeawayeveryday.blogspot.com
I couldn’t think of him as anything but a disease. Something that eats you away from the inside. I really should clarify that statement. Ian, a somewhat attractive man had caught my attention and we had a good fling over the summer. And of course, he flattered me, telling me I was beautiful and funny. Who doesn’t want to hear that?
Anyways, I started to fall in love, something that happens when the sex blows your mind and he brings you flowers. This guy belongs in jail, I tell you. At the end of August I get a text message from him.
“Hey, sexy, how are you?”
“I’m terrific. 😉 We still on for tonight?”
“You bet.”
He never showed up. I texted him the next day. I can’t believe he never responded. I don’t know what to do, but I have a fair idea of what not to do. Once every six months he texts me or calls me, telling me that he still wants me. What kind of man does that? He’s a disease, and I’m going to cut him out of my life. Who needs something that awful in their life?
Of course, no one has ever made me feel the same. Sometimes I think of him as just a summer fever, a delirious decision and something best forgotten. But I can never get him out of my head. Some ailments need more treatment than others. I’ve started the treatment for mine.
Andrew
@snowppl
He twisted in place, craning his head to try and see down the length of his spine. After contorting himself into a caricature of some deformed maniac he finally caught sight of it. The source of his current dilemma. Not much to look at, a small reddish patch about the size of a quarter. The sort of thing that would normally go unnoticed. Yet this small scaly bit of skin was currently toppling the foundations of his comfortable life.
‘I should just tell him.’ Easy to think, so hard to do. How do you tell your sometimes lover that you were being devoured from the inside out by such an insidious disease. If it were contagious he’d have no choice, so at least he was a little bit lucky still.
He knew it would be tough, but in the long run this would be for the best. What Michael didn’t know he couldn’t fret over, after all. This way they could share the time he had left.
He refused to think beyond that vague promise, knowing all too well that there would be no grand good-bye. Long before the disease took him he’d be condemned to a life of hospitals and supposedly concerned friends and relatives. What could it hurt to delay that a few more days?
He pulled down his shirt and plastered a smile on his face. Heading back to dinner, now firmly convinced that it would remain his secret.
@SesshasWorld
Disease is a strange thing. When you are diagnosed, it isn’t the actual disease that impacts you, it’s the fear of what will happen next. I was diagnosed with MS three years ago. My cousin’s son was diagnosed with Leukemia last week. Disease is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.
I’ve been managing my MS well, but I have to make an effort, every day, to keep the fear at bay. It’s a difficult chore. I can only imagine how much harder it is when it’s your child, your precious little baby, and the disease is cancer. Fear must be all-consuming to my poor cousin.
At some point, perhaps the disease will win out over the fear. It will take over your life, or possibly end it. The disease wins. I’m not looking forward to that possibility. So I embrace the fear, because it means that I am doing well. I’m healthy enough to be afraid.
I still try to keep the fear at bay, but it’s welcome to stay.
Twitter: @saraheolson
Blog: http://saraheolson.blogspot.com
It’s really not fair to call you a disease. You’re not going to kill me, you’re not even going to make me sick. But well, dis-ease is exactly where you put me. Off kilter, not feeling right, unequilibrated.
I thought I had a killer immune system, that nothing would ever get to me. That I could overcome any emotional curve thrown at me. You bored right through all of it, didn’t you.
Worst of all, I like it. I don’t want to get any better. I don’t need or want balance anymore. You’ve affected me. Infected me. Maybe disease is fair after all.
@_Monocle_
“Can you reach it?”
“Maybe. What is it? The skin on your back looks totally puffy, red, and scabby. Leprosy? Some other disease? How did you catch it? Didn’t you insist on James getting the ‘well man’ check?”
“It is SO totally not like that. I hate Scotland. I hate you right now. I cannot wear this dress with that crud on my back!”
“I don’t actually want to reach it. That is well disgusting, C, well disgusting. No amount of cover up is gonna hide THAT. No ball for you, Scabarella.”
“I had a couple of midgie bites. James told me not to scratch, and I totally blew him off. Am I rotting?”
“Just impetigo, I think. And for God’s sake: no more scratching.”
The thin spiral of smoke curled from the tip of Shelby’s cigarette, drifting into her eye. She squinted, then shooed the toxic vapour away from her face. She let the ciggie dangle from her lips and reached out to take her drink off the table. The ice clinked in the glass and she shook the liquid, enjoying the sound the cubes made against the glass. Taking another deep drag, she pulled the smoke into her lungs, then expelled through her nose.
Her nail were bitten down to the quick, she grabbed the cigarette holding it between index and middle finger. She pointed at the man across from her and said, “You’re a fucking cancer.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. What do you mean?” He adjusted his glasses, crossed and uncrossed his legs and then added, “I don’t understand.”
Shelby scoffed, and then she laughed, a gravelly chuckle that turned into a cough. When she regained her composure she said, “What don’t you understand?”
“I don’t know what you mean saying I am a cancer.”
“You,” she pointed at him again. “Her,” she said pointing to a girl on the other side of the recreation room. “Them,” she added pointing to a couple in the corner. “All of you. All of us. We’re a fucking cancer. We are a disease. We shouldn’t be allowed to do this.”
“Do what?” The man baited her. He knew she wasn’t ready, he could tell by the way she picked at the scabs on her wrists and rocked back and forth.
She raised her crystal blue eyes to look into his brown ones. Then she smiled, a sweet, almost loving, smile that caused a stir of desire to flare up within him.
“Destroy the world, Doctor Henderson.”
“And you feel we are destroying the world?”
She didn’t answer him, she simply pointed out the window. He turned to look even though he knew what he would see. The sky was on fire. It had been for days.
In a low whisper, Shelby said, “They say it’s the end of the world, but I think it’s just the end of humankind.”
“And what of the world?” the doctor asked.
“For the world, it’s a new beginning.”
“Step this way, sir.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
The outbreak had killed nearly half of Atlanta, and the CDC privately held concerns that it would quickly escape the South and make it’s way up the Eastern Seaboard.
I knew this because Jack Taylor, the gentleman in the full biohazard suit next to me had told me this.
Everywhere I went in the past month, I was met with death. Bodies covered in boils, oozing fluids that had no business existing inside the human body.
I’d never felt more disconnected from the human experience, until today.
It might have been the large, concrete, generic government building. Or the sterile surfaces throughout the inside of the complex. Perhaps most of all, I was the only one not encased behind a full containment suit.
I was the only one here that was part of the world, yet I felt like an alien.
The government had demanded everyone be tested for mutations of the virus. My appointment was unremarkable. They took some blood, some urine and some dead skin cells.
Then I got a call. They said I held the key to ending the epidemic. Something about how my body processed proteins.
So I came, and I found myself, alone. Jack Taylor had led me to a room and promptly left to get some paper work. One wall held a giant one-way mirror. Behind it, I could almost picture the scientists and government suits. Studying me, dissecting me.
Behind me, there was a hissing sound. An odorless gas was seeping into the room. I thought nothing of it, must have been the A/C kicking in. Atlanta was unbearable this time of year.
But then I started feeling lightheaded.
“Hello?” I said.
Then, louder. “Help!”
I banged on the door, the window, any surface I could. My lungs filled with cotton and I was gasping on the floor. Begging for air.
A voice came across the PA. “We’re sorry, sir. You are patient zero. We can’t have anyone else getting infected.”
Pins and needles went through my lungs, my vision, and my brain as my thoughts were stamped out.
I was part of the disease, not the cure.
@pfallerj
A solitary raven warned us from the threshold. There was no-one left, perhaps, to draw the livid crosses. Its hoarse caw-caw was as dry as the rain-starved land. There was water in the wells. It was poisoned, they said, by Jews and Saracens and godless vagrants. I did not drink it.
Even through the arrow-slits of my quack mask I could see that I was too late. A bluebottle bumped against what little glass remained in the low chapel window. Behind it, the outline of a body draped across the altar was hazy with insects. Removing my mask, I saw the silver-buckled belt. It was my father.
One year’s travel from Naples to York, and the Black Death had finally overtaken me. I left the bodies of my family, left their unshriven souls to wander through otherworldly flames. If I could not have honour, I thought, then surely I will have gold.
I’m walking into the Coney Island on the corner of Main Street and Washington for a cup of coffee when I see her. She’s picking up a to-go order and I hear her confirm with the hostess a Neptune Salad and a Reuben, extra dressing. I don’t get a good look at her face as I pass, a face I think I know, but can’t quite make out. I slip behind her, she doesn’t see me, I think, and sit in a booth facing the doorway, trying to catch a full glimpse of her before she leaves. I watch as she checks the brown paper bag two more times, drops down a two dollar tip, which the hostess looks at quizzically, not used to them, I suppose, picks up the order and leaves, turning away from me. She’s wearing a long coat, black and boxy, no form to it at all, and under it I can see for only a second a simple black dress hanging just past her knees and black heels. Her hair’s done up in curls, big fancy curls, and I’m wracking my brain trying to figure out why she’s dressed up at eight in the morning, and how in the world I could possibly know someone like this.
Later I’m walking down Main Street deciding on where I would like to set up shop to grade the papers I’ve been lugging around in my satchel for the past week, the mid-term essays that are frighteningly (and perennially) terrible. Work like this demands a sort of public forum, as I can’t trust myself to be alone with these and not find some sort of distraction to guide me away from my duties. In a coffee shop or library, though, for some reason, I find myself forced to look at the poorly-constructed sentences, while enjoying an overly-priced beverage, making the most out of my time. I decide on a little coffee shop tucked away on Division called Bean Bean, of all things, that is rife with undergrads but still fairly quiet. The perfect place to whittle away the remaining hours of the already sweltering August day.
Inside the coffee shop I’m greeted by a blond-haired girl with dreadlocks who just looks dirty, not at all attractive to me. I order a small black tea and sit facing the front door, enjoying watching the customers filter in and out, engage in menial conversations that, for some reason, comfort me. I finally open up my satchel and pull out the rubberbanded heap of papers, and just as I set them down and prepare for the daunting task at hand, I feel a warm breeze hit my face. I look up and see a woman standing in the doorway, holding it ajar—the woman in the black coat from earlier that morning. She looks frazzled, still wearing the same ensemble, pulling a pair of large black sunglasses from her face. She meets my eyes, scans the room as if to make sure she doesn’t know anyone else, and begins walking toward me, slowly. Everything happens so quickly, as if there is no space between us at all, so when she’s pulling out the chair and seating herself it feels like an hour’s gone by. Finally, seated across from me, staring directly at me, the corners of her mouth twisting up at the ends, a mole on her right cheek, I remember her. I remember her from that night.
“I thought it was you,” she says.
“Wow,” I say, taken aback. “It’s…been a while, huh?”
“Yes. And I know we both agreed never to talk about that night, for…various reasons, but, seeing you, I just…well, I followed you, here. I had to…tell you.”
“It’s okay,” I say reaching out to touch her hands, finding them cold to the touch. “Tell me what?”
She pulls back and sighs loudly, then looks around the room again and reaches in her purse. She pulls out a neon-yellow piece of paper about the size of a playing card and fumbles it for a moment, finally sliding it across the table toward me. I can feel my heart in my chest, ready to burst through, already knowing what it says before flipping it over.
“Are you sure?” I say placing my hands on it, palms sweaty. Pleading.
“Y-yes,” she says, her voice shaky now. “I have to go but…well, you deserve to know.”
She gets up to leave as quickly as she came as I huddle the card in my hand. I look out the storefront window one more time and watch her disappear around the corner, then, finally, flip the card over. Printed along the top of it is the word DISEASED. Below it, in small print, are directions on how I should proceed from hereon out, where the nearest quarantine area is, and instructions on how I should inform those I’ve been in contact with that they too may have contracted “it.” I look back up and notice the whole coffee house has stopped, that everyone is alternately looking at me and the card, and sitting here, feeling utterly alone, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see her on the other side.
@robhollywood
Distrust has got to be a disease with me. It spreads from my hair folicles to my toe nails.
It was injected into me by men everywhere. Oh, how I hate them!
Of course, this doesn’t make my friend, Erica, very happy. Pisses her off royally, actually.
“What is your problem?” she storms up to me one day, glaring.
I simply shrug. “Not sure what you mean.”
“Ben really liked you, ok?” she tossed her hands up, practically growling at me. “He thought you were great. I talked you up, and he enjoyed spending time with you.”
“Ok.”
“And, all the things you did to him? Checking his cell phone that he accidentally left on the table-”
“-He shouldn’t have left it there-”
“-Randomly texting females in his phone just to see who they were-”
“-Ben knows way to many women. That’s not good-”
“-Glaring at the waitress when she asked him what he wanted to drink?”
“She smiled at him when she asked. She didn’t smile at me,” I defended. “Customer service 101.”
“Jen!” Her voice boomed, rattling me into silence. “You’ve only been on two dates! Are you friggin’ kidding me? Who does things like that?”
“If he’s going to be with me, he needs to know the rules.”
Erica chuckled cynically, shaking her head. “You really are sick, aren’t you? No wonder you’re still alone. All this time, I thought you were good. Seems you’re only screwed in the head.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I jumped up, totally defensive now.
“Exactly what I said, you psycho!” Erica’s finger was so close to my face, she could pick my nose. “Needless to say, Ben wants nothing to do with you. And after all he’s told me, neither do I.”
Wow. After all Erica and I had ever been through, I never expected this. Watching my best friend in the whole world stalk away from me (forever, it would seem) was the hardest thing it the world for me to do.
Yes. Distrust has got to be a disease with me. For the first time in my life, it’s shown me just how truly alone I am.
@shells2003
It was a warm afternoon. Everything was perfect. We sat by the lake for hours skipping stones, laughing and being silly. When it got dark we sat around the fire, drenched in bug spray and roasted the best s’mores I’ve ever had.
We cracked jokes and talked about…well everything. It didn’t matter how trivial, the conversation flowed like the waterfalls we had hiked by the day before.
Before I knew it the weekend was over and neither of us wanted to get back to our daily routine, but on the drive home I uttered those comforting words, “we’ll be back to do it again next year.”
It was the best weekend and a perfect way to cap of a beautiful summer. I remember thinking, “this is what life’s all about”. If only I had known, maybe I could have cherished that weekend even more, made it even more special. But that’s life. You never what’s waiting for you around the next turn and even if you did, sometimes you’re helpless to stop it.
That was my perfect day and it’s what I’ll need to cling to if I want to make it out of this black hole alive.
As my ten year old daughter breathed her last breath and closed my eyes, that was the moment I fully understood the meaning of the word disease.
Oh duh….lol @shells2003
Time’s up chicks!
I had fun with this one. Odd. Wonder what that says about me. :-/
Ok! Jules is on it and we’ll have a poll up for you by 3:00. See you then and THANKS again for participating.
Damn. I forgot my twitter name. Instant disqual!
@_Monocle_
Matt Schulz, @matthewschulz, couldn’t be with us at 1:30 and sent me his entry ahead of time… and I completely forgot to post it. (Funny that his entry is about forgetting stuff…) Here it is, folks and a HUGE apology to Matt:
There was a time when I didn’t forget stuff like this. My mind was sharp. I was always good with a witty retort. I could recite movie lines and quote my favorite books, chapter and verse.
That’s not the case anymore. I find myself forgetting things as quickly as I think of them. I drive my wife crazy because I’ll forget to do something that she told me five minutes before.
“I swear, honey, it’s like I’ve got some sort of disease that allows me to remember the entire lineup for the 1984 Chicago Cubs but that won’t let me remember that you asked me to get you a tall glass of ice water,” I said.
“It’s all right. It’s all right.”
“It’s not. I should remember these things,” I said, growing more frustrated.
“Well, let’s see. Have you ever forgotten to pick up Joe at day care?” she asked.
“No.”
“Have you ever forgotten to pack his lunch?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Have you ever forgotten to meet us at his t-ball game?”
“No.”
“So, see, you’re remembering the important stuff. You’re just forgetting all that other stuff to make room for what really matters,” she said. “It’s not a disease. It’s just called being a parent.”