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November 12, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Abandon, Art, Book, Loss, Love, Separation | by davidbdale | 3 comments
Thin strips of card stock, a pharmacy receipt, a suicide king: bookmarks all. Metaphors for my placeholder finger, they separate the pages I have read from those I may never read. Half-solved puzzles mystify me even as I mark my place in stories that no longer interest me. A photograph of my lost love reminds me that I was once lovable; a summons from an officer of the court commands me to give testimony for what I’ve done or thought or been. They substitute for my hand between the pages where I’ve stuck them, separating my Crime from the Punishment I hope to delay forever by reading no further. The reviews aren’t good. Because of what I haven’t seen, my Emma Bovary’s toying with her Leon still; she hasn’t met, may never meet and betray me with her Rodolphe. Raskolnikov at the pawnbroker’s shop stands forever, axe above his head, declaring his moral superiority. And finally, until you compel me to bear witness in yours, mine is The Tale of One City. The day we were to marry, you responded to something loud—a starter’s pistol? a biological alarm clock?—and sprinted down that aisle, vaulted the flower girl, grabbed a ring and a meaningless kiss and flung the bouquet like a baton over your shoulder on your way toward making a life for yourself. Since then I’ve been sidelined here, abandoning project after project, Doctor Jekyll and whatever comes after, I quit them before they can hurt me. But now, you say, you need commitment and bold action from a man who stops at open doors. Listening to it ring, I stand here hand on phone, not trusting that you need me or for how many pages and terrified that it might be time to start another chapter.
Copyright © 1999
Decorum
November 9, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Death, Destiny, Eulogy, Funeral, Grief, Loss, Madness, Scream, Trauma | by davidbdale | 6 comments
All I wanted when he died was to scream. My family restrained me with an elbow between my shoulder blades and a fistful of my hair and slammed me to the wall of the trauma room as if I were responsible or forced my nose into the metaphorical stink of it all. Or. They stroked my head and cooed their little sounds of peace until my blood unboiled. It was their collective opinion that this was not the time, nor was the hospital, nor was the funeral home, the place for my hysterics. Men die was their position. The doctors and those masquerading as doctors impose a frank decorum to serve the natural course of things. Each life plays out of a length of twine, brother. Some snap early; some fray. Yours is still playing out. His was the length it was meant to be, because it was the length it was. You will restrain yourself, or submit to restraint, or be placed in restraints as a matter of course. We have a service to conduct. Friends have gathered to pay their respects. They require and they shall have the somber music Dad requested. Your selfish outburst, if you have it here, will play badly and reflect badly on us all. Escort yourself instead to the powder room tucked between the rooms stuffed with other families’ corpses; sputter your protests there and blow your nose in your hand. Your eulogy will be brief and respectful, with allowances for your notorious irreverence, it may poke gentle fun at the departed and startle the mourners into reluctant laughter, but you will not scream. Back in these rooms though, my outbursts are counted, measured, studied and admired. I am a mild case within these walls where, when I’m not screaming, they worry.
Copyright © 1999
Very Short Novels 