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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
Open Closure
October 30, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Breakup, Closure, Drinking, Loss, Separation | by davidbdale | 6 comments
Already the breaking up has lasted longer than the love affair and provided her more pleasure. Another week of breaking up and this will be her most satisfying relationship yet. I’d rather drink and stay out with friends than be with you, he tells her; I never cared about you, and I don’t care about you now. I need some kind of closure, she says. I lied about the job interview, he tells her; I spent those five days sleeping with my ex. We haven’t tried everything yet, she says. I didn’t sleep with her to hurt you, he tells her; I don’t care enough to want to hurt you. I can’t believe you would lie to me when I love you, she says; if you take that job and leave me it will kill your mother; you love me but drinking confuses you. Go away now and leave me alone or do I have to hurt you, he tells her. This is what I don’t understand about men, she says, always pushing away what’s best for you. We were good together for a time, he tells her. Oh yes we were my love, she says. We were good together because you could take me or leave me, he tells her, and I could take you or leave you. I was more to you than that, she says. Don’t make me hurt you, he tells her. I’m coming up there right now, she says; we’ll talk this thing out; you owe me that much. Don’t come, he tells her; I’m drinking tonight and sleeping with my ex. The police are looking for your car, sweet baby, she says; I told them you left here driving drunk; I’ll be there in an hour. Good fuck linding me, he tells her.
Copyright ©1997
Very Short Novels 