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The Contract
December 28, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Family, Fiction, Flash Fiction, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Child, Mystery, Neglect, Suspicion | by davidbdale | 7 comments
When my child was born healthy, I didn’t ask “Why me?” I cherished her. A hundred days I coddled her, produced the milk, and she woke up alive. That’s not a hundred little miracles; it’s the contract. The day she didn’t wake up, she breached that contract. I demanded answers from the doctors who’d delivered me a flaw. They handed me a made-up word to take back home and nurse. If my baby died of what they told me, then I’m dying too, we’re all dying, of Gradual Adult Death Syndrome. Last year, again, I held the future to my breast, a little animal he was, with slick black hair, a beastly cry and vacant, needful look. He didn’t live three weeks, cause of death undetermined. The coroner doesn’t know what to think when a second infant dies without symptoms in the same crib to the same parents. For my part, I don’t suspect the mother, but what must my husband be thinking? The cops have theories; they cover for the doctors. The prosecutor is probing our family dynamic. The father, he puts his foot into the belly of a file cabinet. What do they mean by dynamic? There’s just the husband and me. If he suspected me, I’d understand. My sister has a baby, too, just two days older than ours would be, who sleeps on her back and wakes up gargling and farting. My husband holds her in his lap. She nestles in the furrow between his thighs and blinks as he blows soft silent whistles across her eyes. A tear slides down to the tip of his nose. He is dear. I want so much to share with him this multitude I carry. But I am dying, gradually, and he has too much faith in me.
Copyright © December 28, 2006
My Eulogy
December 26, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Music, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Monologue, Performance, Rhetoric, Speech | by davidbdale | 10 comments
Dearly beloved, and others, we gather today with heavy hearts to mourn the passing of a cherished individual, me. The greatest loss, of course, is mine, but each of you are also now diminished, unless you hold collateral for what I owe you. Lying here mute with my jaws wired shut, I’m still the whole show, a loss you’ll not soon recover from, and it saddens me to take away the better part of you. The current fashion in funerals is a joyous celebration, but I prefer ritual groaning to sappy remembrances, so rend some garments. In order of magnitude, starting with me, we have each of us suffered a devastating loss, for I was father, husband, brother, son (most of those accidentally), cousin, grandson, nephew (no one asked if I wanted to be), a felon, an adulterer, an unnamed co-conspirator, the boss from hell, a karaoke singer, and the author of a will that should infuriate everyone it names. A complete list would require depositions. The deceased was infamous for the roles he played and for his ruthlessness: with creditors, with other men’s wives, with the mostly-female choir that will sing here tonight. I loved you all, not just your voices. But oh, what delicious backing those voices provided for mine. By way of closing let me say, in relationships with every man of consequence, an urgent intimacy needs to be petted and fed or it will jump the fence and flee to the woods. In my case, it was my dog, who I will truly miss. Dear friends, I was more to you than you knew; and you, to me, were parts that blended with mine. It won’t be much of a requiem without me singing, but do your best. You can blame your performance on grief.
Copyright © December 26, 2006
Very Short Novels 