Going to London

Just for the record, Yes we're still going to London in 3 weeks. Fuck the extremist bastards... I've been waiting for this trip since I set back down on American soil 8 years ago. I've spent a lot of money to make this trip work... So I promise if some smarmy Muslim fool tries to blow up my plane I will beat him to death with my bare American capitalist hands...

I am sick and tired of this crap. Sometimes in my far more unkind moments (yes I do have them, about once an hour,) I wonder if a damn crusade wouldn't be a better idea... But then I calm back down because that's exactly what our crazy president is trying to do and wants me to think. I refused to be scared, I refused to live an isolationistic life... However...

I also drew up a will of some sort... Just in case... A creepy deed to say the least... But necessary. It amazed me at long or short I could have made it. I kinda stuck to the basics... You know... Just in case.

God

This is a short story that I wrote back in college for my creative writing class. It was meant to express a sense of loneliness and desperation. I found it while digging up stuff for a yard sale. It is complete fiction...

and taking a clue from a friends blog, any piece of fiction will be noted by the italicized script.

God

By Bran

Originally written March 4, 1997. Transcribed and edited July/ Aug 2006.


Her straight black hair fell around her face, grazing her knees as she sat head in hands, crying. The silence of her room surrounds her, drowns her. The noise in her head is deafening, thoughts flying at such a rate that only one becomes clear:

“I’m going crazy. I’m going fucking crazy,” she chants over and over, rocking her body back in forth in an attempt to keep the madness inside from erupting forth.

Evening has begun to fall, creating eerie shadows across her bleak room. It fits her mood, bare and cold. She wonders why she feels so alone, she knows she’s a good person, personable and friendly. But inside she has a hole in her soul that’s been there for years. Like a sucker punch, it took her unaware and left her bleeding. She never has stopped bleeding. Most of the time, the emotional bandages she made holds it all in. But today, this sunny cool March day, nothing can hold this pain at bay.

She thinks back, picturing the last time she was whole, truly and completely happy; her red and puffy eyes light with a sad smile at the memory of him, her former lover. Memories of him assault her: his eyes, the way they would crinkle up when he smiled, his laugh, and the way his sweet northern accented voice would deepen when he said ‘I love you.’ He had her heart completely, held her soul, once with loving hands, now as a prisoner… never to be freed. She had trusted him with all she was, her whole future had been in his arms. God she loved him, loves him still.

She remembers the day she met him, a day very reminiscent of today, standing in line for breakfast. She was right behind him and over heard him talking about theatre. She butted into the conversation and he looked up at her. His blue eyes met her green and the world slowed down. He stuttered in reply and put hot water in his mug instead of coffee. She laughed at him and followed him to his table. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. North to her South, country to her city, light, blonde to her dark, black. She can’t remember what they talked about any more, only the heady sensation of those first moments of falling in love. She never thought it could happen that fast, but in those first minutes, she knew she would never love anyone the way she would love him.

Her smile fades with the realization of what she once had and lost. This day, this moment of pure pain was proof of what his love had cost her. All the loving words, promises made, dreams and hopes were for naught. He had left her, in the fall when the trees were red and gold, when they were young and confused. He thought it was for her good. They needed time, space to grow up. Grown she had, into this sad creature with a tear streaked face. Oh there were times when a small gleam of sunshine broke through the clouds, times when she thought she might find love again, but the cloud cover always thickened up until the sky was black.

Suddenly, bitterness fills her entire being. Moving with determination, she walks to her bedroom, past the piles of clothes, the stack of books she should be studying from, to her dresser, where the simplest out could be found. Shifting through years of junk and memories, she finds it. He gave it to her when she left for college. He wanted her to protect herself; she smiles at the irony of it. Cold to her touch, it seems to beckon her. She walks back to the living room, stopping to look around at all the picture of her family and friends; she wonders where they are all now?

The gun feels heavy in her hand, as she checks to make sure it’s loaded. The click of the bullet sliding into place echoes through the room. “They don’t deserve a good bye,” she says to herself, placing the barrel to her temple. She says a quick prayer that if God is real, he'd find a way to save her from her pain. Her finger slips in and on the trigger, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.

Suddenly the room is filled with the shrill sound of the phone coming to life. She jumps in surprise and lets the gun fall to the ground. Hand shaking she moves to pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Jess?”
“Yeah…” she exhales a shaky breath.
She had to be dreaming; maybe she was already dead and managed to get to heaven if this was the voice she was hearing.
“It’s me, it’s Drew,” Her old lover’s voice carried quietly through the line.
Tears began to stream down her face. Relief, shock, joy, anger wash over her at once.
“Jess, are you okay? Jess… I just had a need to call you. Hon, are you okay?”
His accent was still the same, he was still the same. She felt the insane need to laugh bubble up through her. God had a real fucking sense of irony… At least she knew that now.
“Jess, baby, talk to me… I love you, I’m so sorry for … well… everything” He finished lamely. His voice began to sound panicked.
“Drew, I need you,” was all she said and hung up the phone.
Her knees gave out and she sank to the ground. Her hands fell on the gun and she shoved it away from her. Holy shit, what had she just been about to do?

The door bell rang; she looked up and was almost afraid to answer it. There was no way he could be there… even Superman couldn’t fly that fast. As she went to answer the door all she could think was ‘Maybe… just maybe’

The door opened and a man rushed in. He took one look at her and gathered her into his arms. It wasn’t who she wanted, but it was enough for now.

Pandora's Box

Or... I have more issues than Rolling Stone (if you get that reference then you are by far one of the coolest people I know)

This post is a bit rant and a bit of emotional purge. This has been weighing heavy on my mind for weeks and is one of those things that my husband, child of the wonders of a nuclear family, can never understand. So I throw it our here to at least "speak" it out loud...

I seem to have a knack for opening my Pandora's Box of emotional issues on a regular basis. I never can tell you why I do it, and I always know that I would be so much better off if I didn't… But every damn time, I still pry it open and then wonder why the things that pour out of it hurt so much. A couple of weeks ago, I drove up to meet my mom for lunch in Shelbyville. On the way home, I have to pass the Waddy exit on 64. Now I had family in Waddy, hell my father lives in Shelbyville to this day. But hadn't been to Waddy in about 16 years, so I decide to get off the exit and see if I could find my Memaw's old house. Which I did easily enough, childhood memories of walking that country road served me well.

However, doing this just brought up a millions thoughts and questions. Most of you know that I don't have a good relationship (ok any) relationship with my father, Byrd. I haven't seen him since the fall of my freshman year in college and that was only one time, before that it had been 6 years since I last saw him. I have never been a priority in his life, and after finding out some truths from mom about their divordidn'tI didn't want to have much to do with him at all. As a small child, I adored him. He was my Daddy. I was Byrd's little girl. God I loved being called that. On the few weekends I would see him, he would take me out and show me off like a trophy. Of course I was 6, and had no idea wasn't it wasn't because he loved me, so much that I was his. As I grew older and became more like me (or like my mother as he once told me) he stopped wanting to show me off, therefore stopped wanting to see me. I wasn't Byrd's little girl, I was my own person. A person he didn't know and more than likely didn't really like.

Now around this time, my mom married my Dad, the man who loved me like a child should be loved, the man who is my father in all ways but blood. I think it made the reality of my lacking relationship with Byrd all the more obvious. I couldn't even call him dad anymore. I mean he wasn't really. But I digress...…

On this drive a few weeks ago, driving past a house that holds so many wonderful summer memories for me, playing with my cousin Jennifer, walking through the tobacco plants to go to bible school, walking up the road to the store to get Slush Puppies... It occurred to me that out there, I have uncles, aunts & cousins that I know nothing of, vague remembrances only. They could walk into a room and I wouldn't know them from any other stranger, and I doubt they'd know me. How sad is that. They share my blood, hell maybe they even look a bit like me and I don't know a damn thing about them. I know nothing of my ancestors on that side of my family...… Why? Because my own father couldn't be bothered with me.

I talked to my mom about this a lot, more than I have any other time in my life. And it broke my heart to hear my mom tell me that he was just a very selfish man, and he would have never loved me the way he should have, the way I wanted him to. It killed me to hear the pity in my mother's voice while admiting to her much loved daughter that my father just doesn't care where I am, what I'm doing. Doesn't even care that I hate him for all this mess. I hate that Byrd can still make me cry. Ihate that I'm a fucking cliche of an abandoned little girl just wanting her father's love. My mom says I should focus on the blessing I had in my Dad, which is true. But you know, my Dad is gone, I can't even hear his voice in my head anymore and fucking Byrd is still sitting the same house he was in 16 years ago. I just wonder what he would say to me if I saw him...… what would I say to him.

"Hey Dad,
I'm writing to you,
not to tell you that I still hate you.
Just to ask you how you fee
land how we fell apart,
how this fell apart.
Are you happy out there in this great wide world?
Do you think about your sons?
Do you miss your little girl?
When you lay your head down,
How do you sleep at night?
Do you even wonder if we're alright?
but we're alright,
We're alright...
Its been a long hard road without you by my side.
Why weren't you there all the nights that we cried?
You broke my mother's heart,
You broke your children for life.
Its not okay,
but we're all right.
I remember the days you were a hero in my eyes,
but Those are just a long lost memory of mine.
I spent so many years learning how to survive,
now I'm writing just to let you know I'm still alive.
The days I spent so cold; so hungry,
Were full of hate,
I was so angry
The scars run deep inside this tattooed body,
There's things I'll take to my grave,...

and Sometimes I forgive
Yeah, and this time,
I'll admit,that I miss you,
Said I miss you..."

Emotionless
by Good Charlotte

I knew better than to get off at the Waddy exit...… I knew better than to open this Pandora's Box.…