Tag Archives: #loss

Feathers

Standard

bird photopin

 

I wish I could be as a bird with clipped wings or bound by the bars of a cage

To fit in that proverbial box, where life and love all neatly arrange,

Held atop a pedestal and never fall

But my wings are wild and wide

My need to fly as great as an ocean’s tide

My spirit cannot survive if banded with gold

My heart cannot justify the love it withholds

And I am at a loss without reason to explain

Why I seek freedom the way others seek refrain

 

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/48600090482@N01/298680933″>Wings</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

A Miscarriage of Justice

Standard

I post quite a bit of poetry on this blog, but I thought it time for something else. This is something else.

medium_96776343

 

 A Miscarriage of Justice by Sheila R. Pierson

 

Fluttering feelings tickled her belly, like flashes of a story that appeared momentarily, and then just as she reached for the words, they floated away as if on helium clouds. She passed the time between her writing efforts with wasted minutes on social networks, telling herself that she needed the distraction. The gnawing ate at her, little pieces at a time. Scratching, from inside, it clawed and grasped at her fascia and tendons and muscle, trying to reach the skin, to find a way out. Sometimes she found it comforting, the way the story pushed and pressed from within. At least she knew something was there. Seemed to be the only part of her that she could count on anymore.

She used to be different. She was eager to please those around her, to her own detriment.  People made demands and she conceded without question. Without warning, life turned on end. Isn’t that the way it always happens? Except for the occasional horoscope spam, it isn’t as if an e-mail arrives in one’s inbox saying, ‘Change is coming – prepare yourself.’ No, it just happens. Life alters. One day she was preparing a roast in the crock pot for her family, wondering if they’d be pleased with her cooking and the next she was in bed with a lover she never intended to have, wondering how and why, but not really caring.

Somewhere between the thrill of the newfound passion and the reality of her new truth, the aftermath of her choices descended upon her. The heaviness of her life threatened to suffocate her.

A new choice had to be made, one that didn’t include misleading her mind with her heart’s deceit. She couldn’t have imagined the pushback, the revolt her heart would stage. The rage of the world funneled its way into the shadows of her soul. Winter blanketed her body and settled into her bones. She could no longer tolerate the feel of her own skin, the way it pricked with heat, the way her soul smoldered under every layer of anguished flesh.

She awoke one Saturday morning to intense cramping pain. The need to sit up, get up, and hurry from the bed into the bathroom was hindered only by the torment in her abdomen. She didn’t move. She lay still, until the next wave grabbed at her from deep inside. What was happening to her? A bulging pressure forced her to hold her hands between her legs as she rose from the bed. Upon standing, gravity assisted the release of whatever was ushering forth.  The bathroom was only a few steps away but those steps may has well have been a mile. Loosening her sleep shorts, she pulled them down to reveal a small gray sac attached to a rather large blood clot. Grabbing some toilet tissue, she caught the bloody gray mass. More blood followed. She cried, hot tears that singed her face. She knew what this was, but couldn’t make herself believe it at first. She didn’t even know she was pregnant. She shouldn’t have been. Lying down on the floor, she allowed the cool tiles to soothe her face.

She knew as she stared at the tissue paper with the little gray sac on it that this was the only way things could be. The man whose love proffered this well-deserved loss was too much the coward to even begin to do the right thing, whatever that was. She wasn’t sure why she continued to cry on that hard floor. She was glad not be tied to such a life-changing event, glad that she would not be tied to him. Her freedom had faced a serious threat, but crossed a threshold to safety. She should be happy, not sad and pathetic and wallowing in her tears and her blood.

Time did what it does. It passed. There was no hurrying it along. She couldn’t escape the onslaught of emotions. They struck when they chose. A longing to put pen to paper woke her in the night. Gasping breaths pulled her from slumber, the desperation for air tormented her lungs. She was again suffocating, from the desire for a man she would never have, from the anger over his lies, her lies, and their loss. She was suffocating from the loss of her rose-colored glasses and life before…before him.

With dutiful ambition, she willed herself to be that woman from before, but that woman no longer existed. She made appearances from time to time, when necessity called for her, but she was more of a second personality pushed into the far recesses of her mind. The woman who was always willing to please others could not find an ounce of favor with herself. She was changed.

The story brews within her. She feels it, knowing it’s just under the surface, like the bubbles forming in a pot of water just before it boils. When she finds the words, when they come down from their helium clouds, she will write her story. She will take hold of those words and emblazon them onto the page. They will be as a brand upon her skin, as a red letter worn upon one’s cloak. They will be as that ill-mourned baby in the gray sac falling out of her body, hurried, silent, yet screaming. When they come, she will desecrate the paper with her purging, and then she will be free.

 

**photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/belljar/96776343/”>madamepsychosis</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>**

Regret

Standard

medium_4508732411

There is a grief like a shadow that follows me around

I’ve seen it when the sun shines, even when the sun goes down

Once followed me to a country lane, trailed me back to town

Dare I turn to rid this dark cloud, dare I even start around

The shadow lifts as smoke from a burning cigarette

So close I come to think that maybe I can forget

Like O. Henry’s thieves trapped in their own net

This grief holds me ransom in the name of regret

 

(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/36821100@N04/4508732411/”>Aristocrats-hat</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

Supposition In the Language

Standard

 medium_166395815

Oh damn, how he hurt me

While the drumbeat of desire pounded into my brain

He lost the rhythm;

 

All that remained floated in a detergent bubble

Blow it away – too late, it burst onto my flesh

And his, and hers, and theirs;

An attempted cleansing upon the landscape

 

Trouble digs with a plastic fork, splintering,

Hitting stone; eat the gleanings

Suffer not the innocent,

But the guilty

 

Let the ransom of two indebted hearts purchase

All that remains – starvation may ensue

 

PhotoPin: photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/kubina/166395815/”>Jeff Kubina</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

The Girdling Root – Flash Fiction

Standard

medium_807388728

I’m feeling a bit experimental in my writing. The following has no dialogue and the sentences are long. I see it more as an exercise for exploring a future character and perhaps using some of it for that purpose. What do you think? And, while we’re on the subject – do you jot out character sketches in an attempt to get to know your characters better?

The Girdling Root

Once root girdling takes hold of a tree, suffocation and death are imminent unless the extreme decision to remove the offending root takes place. The specimen may succumb to death even with the procedure, most assuredly if nothing is done.

At first, I thought I’d had a stroke or a heart attack. In a way, I suppose it was the latter. My limbs still functioned as normal. My brain still registered date and time with the ability to recall any detail it so wished within reason of a ‘normal’ 48-year-old female. The problem wasn’t the body or the mind. The problem was the heart. Pain, alternating with numbness, pushed through weakened spots between heartbeats, grabbing hold, suffocating the source of oxygen and nutrients required for proper health. A doctor was of no use; however, the damage begged for repair.

Heartbreak is a fickle disease; one that requires constant monitoring, else irreversible damage may lay waste to any individual who harbors the ailment. As with a heart attack, once a piece of the heart actually dies, there is no repair of the dead area. If no treatment is secured for what remains, hope for survival wanes with every passing day. What of a transplant? No such convenience for the heartbroken I’m afraid.

I chose the path of so many. I ignored the symptoms for as long as possible until my breath caught at my own stabbing foolishness. No other option but to open my chest for examination. Ugly, regrettable and useless pandering to the emotion of grief that served no purpose settled into a lifeless area of impending necrosis. It was do or die time.

Accepting the void left where another once held court daily proved a vicious exercise of my recovery, but a necessary one. Recognizing that the risk was worth the potential reward, I cut away the offending root of my grief that served no purpose but to strangle my happiness.

I am now like the grasping, growing, forward-seeking roots of a maple tree forcing their way through unyielding sod, seeking new ground to explore. If I should, once again, encounter the pain of a broken heart, I will seek out the girdling root and I will cut it off before it threatens my existence. I will cut it off, and I will thrive, for I will not be suffocated by grief ever again.

  -end-

—-The most I learned about this character came at the end of this writing exercise –  I thought she was guided by her need to heal and be whole, but that wasn’t the case after all. It seems she was guided by survival at any cost.—-

PhotoPin: photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/wrathie/807388728/”>Antero Sivonen</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

Weapon of Choice

Standard

medium_118805839

My grief abounds, brought to the surface

Pain I’ve held at bay far too long

Friends taken too soon,

Lonely memories of a woeful heart

Christmas isn’t always a time of joy

 

Inflicted pain pays back pain inflicted

I need the tears of angels to wash my soul,

To remove the anguish of your stain

 

Angry rants, seemed justified at the time

Now I see they are completely unnecessary

A solution presents, simplistic as it is –

I will write you into history,

Your legacy will be as I leave it.

 

(PhotoPin: photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/jwynia/118805839/”>J Wynia</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>cc</a&gt; )

Candle Snuffing

Standard

This week’s post is in response to Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday. It also goes along with my October-Darktober theme. After all, what’s darker than a romance gone wrong?

candles,households,photographs,pillar candles,pillars,smokes,smoking,wicks

Her feet hooked into the backs of his legs as he pressed into her,

A satisfied chuckle escaped his lips after the release.

Their bodies entwined, believed themselves attached,

Allowed their hearts to wander, deceived by their own good intentions;

The false blue sky above opened to reveal looming clouds swollen

With regret and hopelessness.

Disapproval, a sinburst of consequences and repercussions

Threatened at a magnitude neither could withstand, but the addiction to one another begged to be fed, mouths and hands opened to an absolute need to

Touch and be touched – his work, her car; nearby park, his car; rundown motel barely beyond the horizon of prying eyes;

Last time, oh promise this is the last time…until finally, it was.

He lived in a state of paranoia – so fearful they would be discovered, yet wanting, wanting.

He wondered if she still felt his skin under her fingertips, if she remembered the small

Violet birthmark on his back she used to kiss, how she played with the ringlets of his wet hair that fell to his neck and the scent of his skin.

He wondered if she still felt his hands glide up her calves and the way his eyes glazed into a state of blissful wonder at her naked body.

Yes…she remembered.

The memories scorched her blood they grew so hot inside her. The light within dimmed.

Then, like the remains of a candle, its glow barely visible at the tip of a wick floating in a shallow basin of liquid wax,

She blew out her insignificant flame. One lingering puff of smoke dissipated into the ether and all was gone.

 

(Image courtesy of OpenClipArt.org)