Misconceptions
She seldom called upon God other than to damn him, so it was unusual that a downward glance could prompt such an upward exaltation from her, a subconscious plea to a God she had heretofore failed to give His due justice. But in glancing down her eyes had chanced upon those of a nearby child amidst the bustling Christmas throngs, a child whose serious expression was simultaneously transfixed on her, innocently gazing upward at her as if she could somehow be meaningful and important to him or to anybody else, which she was not, unless of course that person was a client and was therefore paying her to be important to them. The thing about it though, was that when she looked into the child’s eyes she metaphysically sensed some sort of antennae raising within her, as though she were an ant, or a cockroach, or a mouse whose whiskers sensed without seeing, whose antennae felt without touching.
”Goodness Gracious,” was what audibly fell from her lips when she initially saw him, an old fashioned phrase which she’d never used before, though one she’d heard her mother and her mother’s mother utter a million times before, back when she herself was a child. Still, it was an odd expression to unpack now.
At thirty-nine years old Mason-Lee had come to the belief that her life was beyond novel-ness. She was in a rut. Having lived a man’s work life, what she was experiencing was in effect the traditional working man’s “mid-life crisis”, though she had no concerted realization of this. The longer than necessary hours she worked were partly born of habit, partly because work gave her feelings of both accomplishment and worth which she felt nowhere else, and partly (she admitted this only to herself) because outworking and out-performing the male partners at the firm fed her feminist vanity. At the office Mason-Lee was somebody. The office and courtroom were her arenas to outdo the men, and it was very nearly only men she contended with anymore, as the women she’d associated with early in her career had virtually all given it up for family life years ago, nearly every one except for Mason-Lee, that is. She had not wanted that. A courtroom was all she’d ever wanted really; a place where she could display who she was, an arena where her strengths, namely intrigue and tenaciousness, ruled. A place where she could compete against the smuggest of adversaries and win. A place where, if men did not pay her heed, it was at their peril.
That was all she’d ever wanted, to win. Until today that is... until this very moment.
This was a most unusual child she found herself gawking at, a child she was unable to remove her attention from, and for the most impossible of reasons. The child’s eyes recalled to Mason-Lee the thoughtful expression of her father’s countenance, while the boy’s face itself displayed the softness and beauty of her mother’s. The boy had her Aunt Judith’s dark, wavy hair, and her Grandfather’s bow-legged gait. Mason-Lee felt herself drawn to the child, but no, her newly raised antennae immediately corrected that misguided thought. What she was feeling was not a pull towards. It was much more than that. What she was feeling was a connection with... but why? And how?
”Mason-Lee” was her name, though it really wasn’t. Her birth certificate stated that she was Heather Lee Mason. She had gone by Heather until graduate school, where she’d taken to calling herself Mason-Lee, as it sounded stronger to her, more masculine. She’d reasoned at the time that if she was going to be competing with men in the debate of law, then it was important that the competition begin from a level base, so she reversed her name. The ease of the change had surprised her, that all it took was to tell people something was your name, and to write it the new way when possible, and suddenly it was. Not even her professors, who had only to read her name on their correctly typed rolls, ever challenged her on it. So now, fourteen years later, she was Heather Mason only to her family. To everyone else she was Mason-Lee Heather, Attorney at Law. But still, Mason-Lee was somehow completely oblivious to the irony that in the courtroom, unlike in her classrooms at college, she was referred to much more often as the very feminine “Ms. Heather” than her preferred “Mason-Lee.“
And Mason-Lee was still a “Miss,” though she was plenty attractive enough, and more than successful enough to be considered quite a catch. Even still, she had rarely been asked out on dates fifteen years ago, much less now. Looking back, which was something she frequently did these days, she had to assume that this was because she’d been as driven then as she was now. Driven people, she reasoned, have neither the time nor the inclination to “put themselves out there.” Mason-Lee had certainly never done that. She was nearing forty and had had sex with exactly two people in her life. Her current lover, seven years younger, was a nice looking if somewhat effeminate beta-male “friend” whom she felt empowered over, whom she could manipulate, and whom she was thus willing to let herself go with, as he could be easily discarded and knew it. But even with that, Mason-Lee did look forward to their usually wine-fueled, weekend trysts. While usually tender and compliant, there were those moments when “Drunk Steven” forgot himself in his inebriation and became a real man, contorting her for better access, holding her with a strength she had not believed he possessed and literally pounding her, his skin slapping her belly or her ass with such force that it reduced her into a willing submissiveness that she didn’t know she desired until she was lost in it’s throes. It was strangely in those moments, when she was at her most vulnerable, and when his body literally hummed with desire for her, that she felt the most empowered. That in those moments Steven, or any man, could want and need her so badly that it would take the threat of death before he could or would stop. Mason-Lee had been pleasantly amazed to discover the equalizing properties that sex with a man could offer, that she could be both submissive and in control; sex providing the physical sensations that he craved while supplying her with the rare moments of complete and undivided attention from a man that she so longed for.
Mason-Lee’s other sexual partner had been her college roommate, whom her younger, more naive self had allowed to seduce her. Mona was smart, somewhat pretty, and had never from day one hidden her interest, which was very attractive in itself. In honesty, no one had ever come after Mason-Lee with the intensity that Mona had, and Mason-Lee had happily bathed in the attention Mona showered her with. And she could not say that those sexual experiments with Mona had not had their highs, but sex with her had mostly felt coerced, almost forced, as if she was performing on a stage for an audience’s approval rather than giving of herself without reservation the way that Mason-Lee felt a ”real” relationship should be, though she’d had no experience at the time to base that on. And never, no matter how uninhibited Mason-Lee had eventually become with Mona, was she sure in her mind that this was what she wanted long-term. And in the end Mona had really only amounted to a “breaking away” experiment, so that all that became of their relationship was the begrudging realization that Mason-Lee was not a lesbian, that is to say that Mason-Lee had actually been more in love with the idea of lesbianism, of women empowering women, than she had been in love with Mona… and so, at Mona’s sad expense Mason-Lee had given it the old college try, masquerading herself as one.
The child was being led away now, his tiny hand in his mother’s, his face turned back over his shoulder, his fascinated and fascinating eyes still locked on hers. He felt it too, didn’t he? This same connection she felt? Unconsciously, Mason-Lee began to follow.
The hundreds of oblivious gift shoppers quickly became maddening. Every single time the masses got between she and the child, blocking him from Mason-Lee’s view, she experienced an uncomfortable, almost unreasonable panic twinging from her chest outward to her extremities, much as the pain from a diseased heart must do, leaving her desperate and afraid, so that she used her hands and voice to push bodies out of the way, heedless of their sexes, their ages, or their capacities. She found herself desperate to find the boy’s eyes again, and to ensure that they were searching back for hers, and each time she caught up to him his eyes were looking back, leaving her even more desperate for him! She felt an almost undeniable craving to rush forward, to take the boy in her arms, to kiss the child’s mouth, to smooth his hair, and to pull him close to her so that she might feel his pulse, and his breath, and his cheek against hers. “Was this how it felt to be a mother,” she wondered? It must be! But why this child? And why now?
It was then she remembered the eggs.
Back at thirty years old, when Mason-Lee’s career was just beginning to sky-rocket, she’d read an article, actually an advertisement about a woman’s reproductive timeline. The article had informed her that she was peaking. Her chances at producing a child, though she had not desired a child at the time and was doubtful that she ever would want one, would only diminish going forward. But according to the article her eggs could be removed and saved, frozen before their genetic qualities began their inevitable deterioration. Oocyte Cryopreservation it was called, and ever one to hedge her bets Mason-Lee had called the phone number supplied by the article that very day. Within a week she had plopped down the required $12,000, set up an automatic withdrawal on her credit card for the $1200 annual “storage” fee, and made appointments for the required hormone injections that were necessary prior to the actual harvesting. A few short-lived physical side effects later, some cramping pains mostly, the entire thing had been pushed to her back-of-mind. But now, as she and this child gazed at one another through the nameless, shapeless throngs, those hoarded eggs were pushing their way back into her front-of-mind, the eggs hardening in the now roiling waters of her heated anxieties, forcing the thought that she did not want to think to surface upward…
Could this child be hers?
It’s “mother” was walking faster now, forcing Mason-Lee into an uncomfortable, high-heeled jog to keep pace as she slipped, sliced and fought her way through the smiling idiots with their bulging plastic bags and their maxed-out credit cards. God damn them, would they not get out of her fucking way!
Could her eggs have been stolen? Sold to someone else? Just how many eggs had that clinic harvested from her? She didn’t know! The number hadn’t really seemed important at the time, yet how could she not have acquired that basic fact? And it only took one egg, didn’t it? One healthy egg to produce a child, yet how did one verify? Through DNA testing? She would have to do some research on the matter, Mason-Lee thought as she continued her bent-kneed shuffle after mother and child, her anxious hands clinging tightly to her own bulging, plastic shopping bags.
They were in the parking lot now, woman and child. In another moment the woman would be strapping the child, which Mason-Lee now considered to be “her child”, into a car seat and driving him away to God knew where. Her anxiety turning to panic Mason-Lee fought for control. What to do? A DNA test could only be forced if she had the boy, or if she at least knew where to find him. The woman held up a key-fob and pressed. From two rows over came an answering chirp which the woman bee-lined for.
Mason-Lee, generally the most thoughtful, analytical, and nonplussed of people, found herself in a blind panic which left her startled and defenseless when the woman wheeled on her with an expression twisted in fear and concern. “I don’t know what your problem is lady, but you’d better leave us alone!”
”What? What do you mean?” Mason-Lee’s own timid reply surprised her.
”I mean,” the woman’s angry voice twisted the words like licorice. “That you have been following me since Macy’s! Go away! Leave us alone!” The woman huffed away, towing the boy in-hand. Temporarily taken aback, Mason-Lee let them go, but the moment didn’t last. It couldn’t last, could it? Not with what was at stake! With the woman’s back turned Mason-Lee dropped her bags and rushed forward, grabbing the boy’s free hand and tugging, but the smaller woman did not yield. Caught up in their tug-of-war the boy’s shrieks attracted on-lookers with cell phone cameras at the ready. Letting loose of her child the woman jumped at Mason-Lee, swinging and clawing at her with an unexpected ferociousness as Mason-Lee hauled the child up into her arms and began to run with it. But with all of her education and training she should have known how it had to end.
Try as she might, she could not run fast enough, nor far enough.
It was not one of those nice, hide-away, rich people jails Mason-Lee was taken to, but was the regular city holding cell where she stood in a corner, unwilling to sit on any one of the filthy cots amongst the tattooed and drug addicted whores and thieves whose disapproving eyes stared at her gentrification from beneath tired, heavy lids. The only good in the wait was that there was plenty of time to contemplate what she had done, and what she might do yet. Well past her anger at the slowness of a system which she was observing for the first time from its other side, Mason-Lee, a perennial chess player, pondered her next moves.
Holding the child had been all she’d hoped it would be, even if she had been running for their lives at the time. With him in her arms Mason-Lee had felt alive for the first time in seemingly ever. With him in her arms she had finally felt a purpose beyond herself. To the layman it might have seemed that Mason-Lee had acted rashly, but no. Mason-Lee was a lawyer. A good one. One who understood the system she worked, and those who made it up. As a first-time offender she would be released on bail from this dingy hell-hole, and as a lawyer she would have access to the names and address of her accuser or victim, however you wanted to look at her. With that information, Mason-Lee would file her own case, the system’s first “maternity case,” where she would herself accuse the other woman of stealing her eggs, and thus kidnapping Mason-Lee’s unborn child, rather than the other way around. She could undoubtedly find something in the woman’s past to besmudge her with before the jury. There was always something, wasn’t there? If she could have the ”other mother” incarcerated, she might be able to keep the other mother in systematic limbo for years while she wrangled the boy through the foster system and back out in her favor. After all, money really could talk, and Mason-Lee had enough to make it sing.
Mason-Lee might have blown her chance when younger, but she would not blow this one now. No, she would use every tool of this conniving, ruthless trade she had mastered and she would win. She would have that child… hers, or not.
Fine Print and Asterisks: Forbidden Relativity
Forebode the forbidden
And the roads overridden
When backbreaking trysts
Risk spinal discs
Fine print's for the old
Not the young and the bold
'Cause actuation ain't wrote
Via annotated footnotes
Eat yourself selfish
Despite allergic shellfish
Do what you want
And delight in the brunt
You'll did till you din't
Then you'll see the fine prin't
Tread in new membership
Following disclaimers of asterisk
When the tally is toted
Your injuries are noted
Science pays the best prices
For the bodies left them sans vices
Thank you!
Thanks to all the authors on this site! Thanks to the creators! This is the place I come when I feel the need to believe in myself again! Thanks for healing my soul! I wish you all to manage to draw inspiration even from the struggle with your inner demons. Sometimes the most beautiful things come from the darkest places. I am proud to be here. Happy New Year!
Tiens Ma Bière
Warning— events that are shared here are not for children- parts of the story contain scenes that are required only for a mature audience, please. Thank you.
(Based on a true story).
__________________________
The young woman had given birth to what her mother-in-law, and husband were not pleased to be related to. Her child was born with a skin condition that made him look different from his parents. The young mother was tossed out of her own home that she shared with her husband. Now she had to find a way to make ends meet with her newborn far away from her husband, and his family. She was placed in a taxi, and later the young taxi driver who felt sorry for her ended up helping her. Then after a little while of them becoming really good friends, they end up together. The young woman always keeps her child indoors, and doesn’t want other folks to make fun of his skin condition. Her new husband advises her against this. Then sometime later, she finally agrees to even let her child attend a government school. One day as her boy makes his way back home for school with his friend, a small group of mischiefs capture him, and try to chop off the kid’s legs. Luckily for him his close friend was with him, and she managed to escape running off to call her friend’s parent/mother. Together they rushed to the boy’s rescue, and with the help of a group of good samaritans managed to save him from no longer seeing the light of day. Sadly, the kid’s parents (biological mother and step-father) as they made their way to check out a new place they had wanted to call their new home had been hit, and passed away on the spot in a car crash. Their child had to be taken to his biological father now— who just happened to be living a new, and his best life- and still did not acknowledge his first born child. His new and living trophy wife was not fond of her new step-child. She managed to make it seem like her step-son had stolen money from her, and this had made the boy’s father full of rage. He took the kid to his new bedroom, and with his belt hit his own child. The kid was miserable, and felt like he was living in a stranger’s house~ and not a place that felt like a loving home. His step-mom convinced her husband that the boy needed to be taken to boarding school. Once there he felt like he was at a good place, and he was not sad anymore. Even the kids there treated him much better than his own Dad, and step-mom ever did. He had step-siblings, but even they had been quite terrible company. The boy grew into a hardworking, and handsome gentleman who enjoyed listening to music, as well as playing the guitar, and singing, too (which he had learned from a neighbor of his during his childhood). He became famous from his first single, and was inspired to continue singing from a close friend of his who he had met at the boarding school, much to his delight. He was glad to have seen her after such a very long time. His father showed up out of the blue for his son’s first local stage performer of his single/new song. He even apologized for how he had treated his own flesh, and blood. The young man embraced his Dad, and smiled. He grabbed his guitar, and went to sing his heart out on stage for all of his local fans.
#TiensMaBière (#HoldMyBeer).
Hey Kid, You Were Right:
Part 1: November 28th, 2023
I looked at the off-white walls surrounding me, and slowly turned my sore neck to the side to look at the fading orange sky, soon to be turned into a midnight black. I turned back, my arms heavy at my sides and my eyes the same; I was glued to where I would remain—god knows I may be here for the rest of my life—I looked up at the doctor. I opened my heavy eyes slightly more to view him, dark hair, a shiny white lab coat, holding a clipboard holding my information. I zoned out as he spoke, I didn’t want to hear what he had to say—although it was vital, soon it felt as if it wouldn’t matter anyway—I felt another beside me grasp my hand lightly.
“She’s starting to get worse, the labs say-” the doctor stated, until I stopped giving my attention and it all began slurring together.
“Our treatment has a chance of working, but if it doesn’t—you may want to say your goodbyes to Asha.” he said, he assumed I was asleep because my eyes were mostly close and I wasn’t moving a whole lot. I opened my eyes more so he would actually notice me, and I looked to the girl beside me, I had just awoken and didn’t remember if anyone had been in my room before. She had long light brown hair, and wore a long pink and blue floral dress, I looked down at her hands, her nails were short, also in which were also painted bright hues of pink, yellow, and blue. She started to come back to me now, Jules.
“I know times like this are hard, and the diagnosis was only a short while ago—I’m not asking you to expect the worse, but you should prepare yourself in case this possibly finale surgery doesn’t work for her,” the doctor said, I’d recognized him too. He’d been one of the ones to watch over me for the past six months. I’d noticed something may’ve been wrong around February, I waited a little while until around April after I’d had recurring symptoms. Now it was late November, and it hadn’t gotten better, and nothing had worked. Nothing was going to work.
As I was in my thoughts I thought about what he had said, surgery? I didn’t think I’d be going through another one, I assumed this was it. Nothing was getting better. Why were they still trying anyways?
“We’re scheduling the surgery for the day after tomorrow, early in the morning. If that doesn’t work she most likely has around three months to live.” he finished, they had a few more words, then he left the room with his coat flowing behind him. She finally looked down at me with her greenish-blue eyes, with a blurred coat of tears covering them, she moved her hair out of her face as she looked away from me, and sighed starring at the ceiling. She almost always had hair in her face, if was wavy and fluffy. Mine had been fully lost a few months ago. I don’t think she knew what to say, and I didn’t either; we didn’t really talk a lot recently, even when she was there.
The next few hours flew by—before I knew she was gone—and I was all alone in the cold, dark room once again. Only to behold before me the company of my thoughts.
Part 2: November 30th, 2023
I always took interest in the concept of death when I was younger, sitting in the booths of the Catholic Church when I was younger and the mumbling voice of someone reciting a sermon as my mind rambled, was any of it fact? Remembering playing with my long brown hair to distract myself, trying to get comfortable in my fancy church clothes; it made me nostalgic as I lied on a new platform not having the long strands to keep my mind at piece with a new gown wrapped carefully around my body waiting to go under, and to what I thought could be a possible unknown release of death.
And a blessing was given that my thought did not rein true—I’d awoken, but that wasn’t a guarantee that I was out of the woods. I felt I was meant to be perpetually stuck—the rooms air felt cold against my bare limbs, for the gown was sort. My eyes slowly opened as everything was still blurred together, I couldn’t pay attention to almost anything it felt, only stuck in my vast thoughts only covering one thing. I looked down at myself, I slowly moved my arms and looked at my dark hands, I hated feeling strapped down to these ivory beds which were unfortunately familiar. I looked around, I knew the room wasn’t mine, there was nothing around me but monitors to one side and IVs to the other. All else was a chair with cream cushions and oak legs and dark, emerald green silk-looking curtains covering all sides of me. There were most likely others around me, but they may’ve been still asleep, I wouldn’t be able to tell anyways because I was enclosed within the silk. I realized I was overcome with exhaustion and thirst, I expected a doctor to come any second, although I couldn’t be sure—it didn’t usually take awhile, but who know if it would be busy or not—I stared up at the ceiling, wondering when all of this would end. And how it would end. Although I was pretty sure my idealization of how it would was what would rein true.
After a few minutes of silence a new doctor, with short orange-red hair and circle glasses came in. She was wearing a blue button-up shirt with a coat on top, and a belt around her waist. She peeked around the curtain moving it with one hand, and revealing her other hand which held another clipboard. Now was when I would learn more—I wondered if Jules would come, most called her Juliet or Mrs. Whittaker. To me, she was just Jules—I was never usually by myself when a doctor came in. My father died when I was young, I’m not in contact with my mother, and she wasn’t there. So I was on my own once again. I’d tell myself she just had a very busy job, dealing with clients and such. That’s at least why I hope she wouldn’t come, I hope she hadn’t given up on me as I’d given up on myself.
“Hello,” she said in a cheerful, almost sing-song-like voice. I looked up at her and stared at her in those simple brown eyes, they almost resembled mine. Except hers were more life-like and brighter.
“So, the results came back good,” she said in a similar tone, something I had not expected to hear. This would be different than I’d first imagined. The worst part was I thought Jules would visit me, a difference that would definitely change something else. We would be different. She held up her clipboard, and stared down at it only stopping to wipe the fog off of her glasses.
“There was cancer still left in your chest around your lungs, it was still growing and we managed to get it out. Now we may need to do a few more surgeries to get the rest out of your spine and around your shoulders. But other than that you do have a chance—” she said partially quickly. My eyes widened—something sparked inside. I knew it was a tough chance for me to live, and I could barely move. But maybe I still had some time.—the remaining time I had wasn’t useful though, I realized even though I had obtained some “luck”, it would just leave me more to spiral into my thoughts. I wasn’t going to live. Why was I still going through this?
“There is also someone who would like to see you,” she said, pushing her glasses further up her face, and opened the silky curtain. I saw what almost looked like a waiting room on the other side, just rows of chairs holding people reading magazines containing god knows what, and people shaking their legs with wide eyes that held a nervous touch. Except for one girl who stood by the curtain on the side with her arms crossed, wearing a pail yellow button-up shirt, and a long, pristine, white skirt. Her hair was up and looked sort of messy—sort of like she’d come in a rush to see me—she was familiar. Jules.
We conversed for a moment, and the doctor filled us in, I assume she was busy at the office. Most likely why she didn’t come sooner. I kind of wish she did, but this job was her dream, she loved being a lawyer.
Later, the doctor took out a wheel chair and helped me into it. She took me into the main room, it was now evening, and out the window I could see the orange-yellow sky as bright as it would be, soon it would be nightfall. Only a few children, and a few adults around. I was rolled by the chairs in the corner, as the doctor left Jules stayed with me. There were a few kids near us, one had bright red hair and stood by their parents in the other corner, most of the other ones didn’t stick out much, they mostly had pail brown hair—some that stood out however, had no hair at all—like one boy in the corner. He sat in a wheel chair almost identical to mine, but slightly smaller, her was a young Asian boy with a round face and pail but tan skin. I saw he still had some hair left, it was only slightly longer than a buzz cut. He sat in the corner, I hoped he didn’t feel confined to his seat as I often did. I suddenly felt a small, gentle palm go over the back of my left hand sitting on the armrest. I looked down at her hand with pinkish hues.
“How are you doing?” she said, it was in a soft whisper, it was given in a quite gentle tone. She looked me in the eyes, the blueish hues in hers were accentuated today, it had been so long since I was able to get a good look into them. Would I ever be able to see them like this again? What was the point? I’m probably going to die anyway. I am going to die.
“Fine—I mean, the doctor just told you.” I stated back, avoiding eye contact near the end. I looked across the room, and locked eyes with the little boy. He had pulled out a random book, all else that was in the room was children’s toys. I looked back at her, I knew that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. What was going on inside? I could see the question in her eyes. If only she could see the answer in mine, because it was too hard to talk about.
Part 3: November 31st, 2023:
I sat in my bed alone once again, that’s always how it starts. Every morning, just sitting alone. That is how it’s going to end too. Of course it will. I would just dwell in my mind, it was my least favorite place. But I was alone there most of the time. But today I knew someone would most likely come in earlier, since the surgery was yesterday, and they’ll probably tell me when the next one is soon.
After awhile the doctor came in, the same one from when I learned about the surgery.
“Hello, Mrs. Barber,” he said, he often called me ‘Mrs. Barber’ although I’d prefer to be called Asha. It felt odd for him to call me by only one of my surnames, many in the past had called me ‘Mrs. Barber-Whittaker’ but there wasn’t too much of a difference.
“I think you’re doing much better so far,” he stated in his average, clear voice.
“I’d actually like to run a couple more tests, I guess you’ll finally be able to get out of your room today,” he said in a cheerful manner with a clap at the end.
“Alright,” I said with a sigh looking away, I threw the blanket off my body to get ready to get into the wheelchair that would be prepared quickly.
We rolled out of the room once one of the nurses got the wheelchair from the hallway, she was a bigger woman with dark hair tightly secured in a nice looking bun. We walked down the halls past all of the rooms holding a variety of people, new and ongoingly ill pupils around me. it made me sink into my seat thinking of all of the children I saw last night, especially the boy. I’m sure some of the children in there were waiting for someone else to get out and were fine, but that one boy without the hair, it gave an empty feeling. We went passed more rooms and flew past endless hallways until we’d finally gotten to another waiting room, where they would keep people who were about to get labs or tests done in a special room in a few minutes. Most of the time I saw random old men or young adults waiting and pacing around, often biting their nails, waiting for their child or lover to emerge. Today it was mostly empty, nothing noteworthy, you might as well stare at the boring white walls, they were just about as entertaining as the magazines they would leave out on small wooden table by the chairs where they would also often keep plants also. Except, as I looked near one set of chairs, I’d noticed one, single, little boy. The same boy in which I’d seen earlier. He was all alone, looking at the floor. I didn’t look up, he didn’t have a book either.
“We’re about to prepare the treatment—” the nurse said, the chemo they’d kept me on made me lose my hair quickly, I wonder if that’s the same thing they put him on. The doctor and nurse were gone, and it was just me and the boy on opposite sides of the room. I didn’t have any other company. Might as well do what I was thinking.
I pulled the large, black wheels of my chair and rolled over to him, and pushed the back of my chair up against the wall. We were like the other chairs of the room, facing outwards. He looked up at me, I took not of his small dark brown eyes and thin pink lips.
“Hi,” I said to him quietly, he looked away for a split second just to look back, I don’t think he knew what to say, and I didn’t either; but I would find something for him.
“Hi,” he said back, he looked down at his hands, they had turned pail along with his face and his nails looked bitten and odd.
“What are you here for?” I asked, I looked back at the wall in front of me with framed pictures and certificates that I couldn’t read from afar.
“Lung cancer,” he said, he fidgeted with his hands and took small glances at me, and when he did he looked me in the eyes. It was surprising for him to say that. Not that he didn’t look it—he was pail and sickly looking, he gave off a sort of aura that made you worry for him—.
“Same here kid,” I said back, I wasn’t very familiar with talking to children, I never had siblings or the chance to have kids of my own. Twenty-three was too young anyway. And I wasn’t going to get my hopes up of making it to my next birthday. It wasn’t until April, after I had been expected to die. How am I still alive?
The kid didn’t necessarily look sad to talk about it, his attitude made it seem like it was nothing new. The breath after his statement just brushed it into the wind.
“You seem like you’re doing well,” I said with a smile, I hoped for a positive reaction. Like maybe it was going well for him, I wish it would be the same for me.
“Sort of,” he said, “I might be fine, but if I’m not—is there a point to dwell on it?” he looked up at the ceiling and over to the window. He’d peaked my interest with his words.
“What do you mean by that?” this was one of the times I’d actually sounded interested in something, I never really dismissed my depressing, dead tone.
“I mean—if I were to find out I was dying—why dwell on it? Just accept it as anything else. I can’t be that bad—right?” he said, I knew he was going to continue, so I didn’t answer. “Most people are probably scared at the thought of death—but after I found out I decided not to dwell on what will happen.” he said.
“If there’s a Heaven, or a Hell—or maybe not at all.” he continued, I felt as if this was going to be a sort of relieving message. “When my grandfather was dying, he told me that no matter what the truth may be think of it like this—” he said, looking at the ceiling and taking a pause.
“Just imagine yourself—as part of the orange sunset, as the flowers, as the wind. You’ll still remain in other’s thoughts. And in the air.” he finished. My eyes opened wider, he seemed like a bright boy, he was most likely 14 or 15, maybe even 13. He seemed wise—his grandfather seemed to have been a good influence influence on him—he probably said that since we could have the same fate, just beholding good advice to another you can empathize with.
“Your Grandfather must’ve been a good man—and very good with words,” I answered to him, I wondered what his grandfather died from. What his life was like.
“He was a poet,” he said. He looked back at me, his big brown eyes looked into mine.
“Not surprising—” I said, I finally got the courage to ask. “If you don’t mind me asking—what’d he die from?” I asked.
“Same as what we’ve got,” he said looking back up and continued fidgeting with his hands. “I’m glad I remembered what he told me,” he finished.
“I’m glad you told me what he said,” I answered with a small smirk. We sat in silence for a minute. Suddenly, down the hallway I saw the bigger nurse trudging down the hallway again.
“Hey—” I looked back at him. His eyes locked back with mine, and his looked sort of—brighter almost.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Orion,” he answered.
“Asha,” I said back, I stuck my hand out, and after a moment, his slightly smaller, frailer one grasped mine and firmly shook it. I looked forward to the nurse, clipboard in hand, ready to start our appointment.
“Ready?” she said, I looked her in the eyes, and grasped my wheels.
“Yeah,” I said, I looked back at the boy—I exchanged a wave, and he gave another back—and rolled away from the boy of brightness.
He seemed to have hope—I sure as hell didn’t. But maybe, I could try. And if we are to meet among the stars, or in the orange sky, fly past each other in the wind, or greet each other after we bloom as flowers, I’ll make sure to give him another wave; I’ll tell him, ‘Hey kid, you were right.’
Africa Lyrics Challenge Winner
Whoa. Guys, check out ALL the entries in this challenge. I actually, honestly, for-real enjoyed each entry, and for the first time since judging challenges, I had incredible difficulty picking a winner.
In the end, I chose Kingslayer's entry: https://theprose.com/post/781456/moonlit-wings
Nice job to everybody who participated, and I sincerely mean that.
Read all of the entries here: https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14351
The Disease and the Cure
In the grand scheme of space and time, humanity stands at a unique crossroads, embodying both the role of a disease and a cure. I wanted to share my thoughts and perspectives in the following essay.
The Disease: A Tale of Destruction
Humanity, in its relentless pursuit of progress, has often fallen prey to the darker aspects of its nature. Our industrial advancements, though monumental, have led to the degradation of our planet. The forests that once flourished are now dwindling, the oceans that teemed with life now choke on plastic, and the air, our lifeblood, is thick with pollutants. It's like we've become a relentless force, consuming and destroying, often forgetting the delicate balance that sustains life.
Moreover, our social fabric isn't immune to this destructive bent. Inequality, conflict, and a lack of empathy are the viruses we've let loose upon ourselves. It's as if we've become disconnected, focusing on what divides us rather than what unites us. This aspect of humanity, driven by greed and short-sightedness, mirrors a disease, eating away at the very essence of our planet and our societies.
The Cure: A Vision of Hope
Yet, within this bleak portrait, there lies a beacon of hope. Humanity, as much as it is a disease, is also uniquely equipped to be the cure. Our ingenuity, the very trait that led us down a path of destruction, can also pave the way for redemption and restoration.
We see this in the surge of renewable energy, in the innovative technologies that aim to reverse environmental damage, and in the growing consciousness towards sustainable living. There's a shift happening, a realization that we must harmonize our actions with the natural world. It's a race against time, but one that we are increasingly gearing up to win.
Beyond the environmental aspect, humanity's potential as a cure shines through in our social endeavors. Movements advocating for equality, compassion, and unity are gaining momentum. We are slowly rewiring our societal structures, fostering communities that are inclusive and empathetic. This shift, though gradual, is a testament to our ability to overcome the darker aspects of our nature and forge a path of healing and growth.
Embracing Our Dual Role
This duality of humanity as both the disease and the cure is not a contradiction, but rather a call to action. It's a recognition that we hold the power to shape our destiny, to correct our course, and to redefine our legacy. It's about acknowledging our faults while embracing our potential to bring about transformative change.
In this journey, every individual has a role to play. It's not just about grand gestures, but also about the small, everyday choices we make – choices that, collectively, can lead to a profound impact. It's about being conscious, being responsible, and being proactive.
Conclusion
As we stand at this crossroads, the path we choose will define the future of our planet and our species. Humanity, with all its complexities, has the unique capacity to be both the architect of its downfall and the harbinger of its salvation. The choice is ours, and the time to act is now.
Windy winter mornings
Morning breaks through the guise of sleep. They have laid there resting for a long while but sleep has not seemed to reach me. The time spent in that state is now time wasted - and not even wasted comfortably. The window that had been left open in their exhaustion now lets a cool breeze permeate the room, spreading past many layer of blankets to kiss at the arms and legs beneath. Light jumps in too, through the blowing blackout curtains flapping heavily with each gust.
Todays morning is cold and bright. The cold is something he likes. How he wishes to embrace it fully in all its icy delight. He wonders how long he could walk in the cold, how far he could get. Could he pass each street twice, then thrice, till there was none new left to see? He wants to leave, to see, but is kept by her desire. She who is only annoyed by the air which penetrates her perfectly warm darkness. It has probed her awake, and now keeps her there as she tries so hard to avoid the coming day. She wishes desperately to be left alone.
They do nothing for a long few minutes. Just lie in the warm-cold contrast. Sleep will not visit again, not like this, so they stall in the in moments between. Then, he leaves the bed and lets the chill take him. Winters day is waiting, and its expected to be windy. Even so, he ‘forgets’ to bring his coat when he makes his way outside. When that first gust of wind hits him it stays to rattle within his very core. Dead leaves fall around me in artful, cascading waves as he wanders down the back path. How cold it is outside, but how utterly warm he feels.
Secret Society of Secrets Appraisal for Secrets Release Society
Thank you, everyone, for attending this week's meeting of Secret Society of Secrets Appraisal for Secrets Release Society. As you know, we meet each week to release, that is, declassify things that have been held secret until their expiration dates.
Hereby is the report:
"There really are UFOs." This secret is not ready to be released.
"Elvis isn't dead." This secret is--I repeat--IS--ready to be released.
"Mississippi isn't really a state." This secret is not ready to be released.
"Mississippi isn't really a state you want to live in." This secret is ready to be released.
"COVID-24 will be here early." This secret is not ready to be released.
"Taiwan is preparing to invade mainland China." This secret is not ready to be released before Friday.
"The Speaker of the House is from Louisiana." This secret is ready to be released.
"The Speaker of the House should never be from Louisiana." This secret is not ready to be released.
"The Illuminati have discovered anti-electricity." This secret is not ready to be released.
"Elon Musk has been kicked out of the Illuminati." This secret is ready to be released.
"You can take it with you." This secret is not ready to be released.
"You can even take other people's stuff with you." This secret REALLY REALLY is not ready to be released.
"There is an 11th Commandment, concerning Bill Cosby." This secret is ready to be released.
"Donald Trump can't take a joke." This secret is ready to be released.
"Joe Biden can't get a joke." This secret is not ready to be released.
"A guy named Jim in Akron can't get a break." This secret is ready to be released.
"There are other fish in the sea." This secret is not ready to be released.
"There are some John Does buried under the grassy knoll in Dallas." This secret is ready to be released.
"The Dalai Lama goes bowling with the Pope regularly." This secret is not ready to be released.
"The Dalai Lama is a better bowler than the Pope." This secret is not ready to be released.
"Women are from Venus." This secret is ready to be released.
"Men are from Uranus." This secret is not ready to be released.
"Only Nancy Pelosi is from Mars." This secret is not ready to be released.
"Hitler was never, ever right!" Why is this still a secret? Why must it be released--YET AGAIN?
And there you have it, Keepers of the Secrets. Remember, next week will be a special meeting to decide on whether to keep secret this whole business about, well...let's just say, keep it to yourself till then. Or else. (Just kidding. Not really.)
#AfricanPoetry
https://africanpoetrybf.unl.edu/contest-prizes/sillerman-prize-for-african-poetry-winners/
Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poetry [Free Contest!]
This poetry writing contest rewards one unpublished poet with a cash prize and publication. While self-published poets are not eligible, editors or anthology contributors are welcome to submit!
Word count: At least 50 pages
Prizes: $1,000
Entry: Free!
Closing date: 01 December 2023
#AfricanPoetry
Happy Black Friyay
November 24th
24.11.2023