From
a prompt at a 7/01 Wild Women Writing session:
"Write from the point of view of a woman who had an abortion today without
mentioning the abortion."
I don’t know why I’m so depressed. It’s a beautiful day,
but I just feel so empty inside.
Donnie will be here in a few minutes. Here, at our favorite bench -- our bench
-- in our favorite park. Usually we meet here during our lunch break, but
today, of course, we couldn’t. I mean, I couldn’t. I mean, of
course, he couldn’t either, of course. He’s busy today, I mean,
so that’s why he couldn’t and of course I couldn’t, because
--
Damn! I’m all mixed up! I just can’t think straight. I suppose
that’s not surprising, I mean -- though of course Donnie said it was
nothing. “Just don’t think about it” Donnie said. “It’s
really nothing. Just don’t let it bother you.”
I always feel better when I’m with Donnie. I mean, he’s always
so sure. He always knows what do do. Like with his wife.
“Don’t worry about her” Donnie tells me. “She doesn’t
matter. I’ll take care of her. You don’t need to worry about her.
You don’t need to worry about a thing.”
Donnie always knows what to do. I get confused, but Donnie doesn’t get
confused. “Don’t you even think about anything that bothers you.
You don’t need to think at all. I’ll do the thinking for both
of us.”
I’m so glad I met Donnie. It’s so much better, now that I’m
Donnie’s girl. I’m not worried, not like I used to be. Life is
so much simpler, now that I’ve got Donnie to tell me what to do.
But today -- I don’t know, but today I don’t feel as good as I
usually do. Not lately, of course -- of course I haven’t felt so good
lately, but Donnie says that now, now that it’s all taken care of, that
I’ll feel better now.
But I don’t. I mean, I know I should, but I don’t . But I will
soon. As soon as Donnie comes here. As soon as I see Donnie again. “My
Donnie” I know he doesn’t like me to call him that, but he is
my Donnie. He has to be. He’s all I got -- now.
Return
to top
SEASHELL
The
prompt for this one was an actual object - a shell.
The outside of this shell is covered with spikes -- clearly for protection.
I run my thumb over the spikes, moving from the valve of the shell outward
toward the margin. They don’t resist my touch. It’s almost like
caressing a dog or a cat with stiff fur. The shell accepts my caress.
But running my thumb back in the other direction, I meet with resistance.
Approaching the spikes head on, they meet me with opposition, with their strength,
their solidity, their stubborn will to survive, to repel the intruder.
“It’s like petting a cat”, I think. “Do it her way,
and she’ll accept you -- she’ll relax and purr. Her brain will
go into alpha waves, into a euphoric trance. But try to reverse the direction,
and her opposition will rise to meet yours. You’ve raised her hackles:
HUMAN BEWARE!!”
“Maybe,” I think, running my thumb back in accordance with the
grain of the shell, “you could even stroke a porcupine if you knew how.
If you could just align your touch with his . . . If you could just get into
his mind, inside his psyche and his skin, if you could make yourself one with
the porcupine, go with his flow.”
This shell is small. It nestles comfortably on the tip of my finger -- “tall
man finger”, as they say in preschool.
The shell rests on the tip of my left finger while my left thumb runs back
along its spikes, over and over. When I reverse my thumb, stroke in the wrong
direction, the shell is dislodged. It no longer sits secure in its home on
my fingertip. Uncertain, it shifts around, looking for a better perch, a more
stable foundation.
Now I turn the shell over, exposing its pearly underbelly, its deep concavity.
From underneath, the shell looks curiously vulnerable, like the smooth white
skin of an exposed inner thigh, startled by the unexpectedly harsh glare of
the sun. The shell looks lonely and incomplete now -- searching for its missing
half. The broken point of attachment is jagged, in stark contrast with the
smooth, receptive cavity.
Once, this cavity sheltered a silent, moist being. Once, firm muscle joined
the matched pair of two bilaterally symmetrical, heavily calcified shells,
snapping them tightly closed at the first scent of danger. Once, this little
fortress held fast.
But then . . . something happened. Something always happens. The muscle relaxed
-- the lips between the shells opened, just a crack. The little marine being
poked out its head, its soft feeding tube, and then . . .
What drama was played out, there on the bottom of that watery world? Over
and over, millions and billions and trillions of times over; over millions
and millions of years -- and once more, a little being was transformed, became
food for the billions of other creatures, billions and billions and trillions
of other creatures, on and on and on. And all that was left was this shell
-- torn from its mate -- there on the bottom of the limitless sea.
Written from a combination of two prompts from a writing session:"a story
in the form of prayer" and "write in the voice of a mentally deficient
person."
Written
from a combination of two prompts. . .
I know he up there. Ma say no he ain’t but I know. Preacher told me
so. “Lift up your eyes” he sez. So I lifts up my eyes and I seen
him. I know it wuz him. It wuz God all right. I know. I can tell.
People -- they think I don’t know too much, but I know. Just cuz I can’t
talk good like other folks, they think I don’t know nothin, but I know.
I talks to him too. God don’t care if the words come out all funny.
“God hears your heart” Preacher sez in church. That’s right.
“Amen” I shout. Ma poke me in the ribs. “Hush up”
she sez. What do she know! I wuzn’t talking to her anyway. I wuz talking
to God. Ma no gonna hush me up. So I just holler, louder than ever “Amen,
Preacher! Giv um what for!”
That make Ma real mad. Hustled me right out of church, she did. Sed I cain’t
go back no more if I cain’t behave.
But Preacher -- he good man. “Suffer the little children” he tell
Ma. “Billy here hain’t nothing but a little child inside, even
tho he may be a strapping big boy.”
Billy be strapping big, too. “You tell um, preacher!” I tell him.
Ma, she just wrinkle up her face at me. I thot it wuz gonna break, she look
so ugly. She want to give me what for. I can tell. I ain’t stupid. She
want to give me the dickens. But she cain’t do it. No way, with Preacher
standing right there.
Billy like Preacher. Preacher my friend. I tell him so. “You my friend,
Preacher” I sez.
“You my friend too, Billy” Preacher tell me. “You my brother.
We all God’s chillun.”
Ma ain’t Gods chillun. Just Preacher and me.
Preacher, he tell me “lift up your eyes, Billy, you see God. Lift up
your voice, Billy. God hear you.” That what Preacher say.
Preacher tell Ma “Don’t you keep Billy out of church, Miz Dougal.
This Billy home. God want Billy here.”
Ma -- she no like that. But Ma, she no can sass Preacher. Ma, she take me
to church.
I lift up eyes. I lift up voice “Amen, Preacher”, I say -- anytime
I want!
We
go hear Preacher on Sunday. That what Ma sez.
“Ma”, I sez, “we hear Preacher today?”
“No” sez Ma. “Today not Sunday”
What do Ma know? Billy want Sunday. Billy want to hear Preacher.
Billy go find church.
But church not here. Billy walk and walk. Sky dark now. No church. Big clouds
now. Big rain come down. Big wind. Billy not like. Billy want Preacher. Preacher
say “look for God, Billy.” Billy look for God. Preacher say “God
everyplace, Billy. God in earth. God in sky. Lift up eyes, Billy”.
Billy lift up eyes. Big cloud. Maybe God in cloud. Billy call “God!
God!”
God answer Billy. Big light. Big noise. God has big voice. Big voice like
Billy. Billy like God.
“God! God! Here Billy, God! Talk to Billy!”
God no answer. Maybe God no hear. Maybe God go away. “Come here, God!”
God no hear Billy. Billy hafta go closer. Billy climb big tree. Billy go close
to God.
“Here Billy, God! Talk to Billy!”
CRRAAAAASSSSSHH!!!
**********
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together to mourn the loss of Billy Dougan.
We all know Billy. We have watched him grow from a tiny boy. We have watched
his body mature into adulthood. But inside that grown up body, Billy always
remained a little child.
Dearly beloved, Billy was not like other people. Do not mourn his death. God
has taken Billy home to live with him. This is his reward. For deep inside
his heart, I know that Billy loved God.
 |
||||||||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
||||||||
