“Once again, I can’t stress how…terribly sorry we are about the mishap this afternoon.”
“N-no…no, it’s fine. Honest. I won’t sue unless I develop a habit for the stuff.”
They chuckle nervously. “Regardless… That was a careless move on our part. It could have been worse than a sedative.”
“Is he always that difficult?”
“You mean, ‘Is he always that hysterical?’”
She nods. “He’s never been…that way before. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Yes, well… Normally we wait until you leave. When you left we just assumed—”
“That I was gone for the day.”
“My camera was there. All my stuff…”
“We didn’t see your things; he must have put them somewhere for saf
His heart gives out in the emergency room. Doctors rush to fulfill their Hippocratic Oath. Intubate him first; get him breathing. Get the air in his lungs. While they do that, determine that this is the situation for the defibrillator, then get someone else to wheel it out so they can get his heart working. Charge it up…
The girl screams at the way his body jerks on the table. The heart monitor displays a sudden spike of green, stalling in its sound for a second before the spikes even out again, returning to the comfort of being a flat line.
She screams again. Again, there’s a spike on the monitor; again, it flattens out into an even line. They wonder why she’s still here. Silent messages get sent at light speed, even as thei
It’s a month to the show. A month. Four weeks, give or take a day…
“I can’t believe it. Prismacolor markers, pencils…oil paints, turpentine…brushes…” He stares at the bounty with wide eyes. “Where did you get all of this?”
I just grin and set down a bag full of canvases of various sizes on the bed. “I happen to have very good friends.”
Actually, Mac happens to have very good friends. Friends in places an artist can only dream to have friends.
“Are those the…?”
“Mm-hmm. I think someone said something about bringing in an easel later.”
“Really? A-an easel?”
“Mm-hm.” I open the window. A small breeze blows through the screen, but nothing strong enough to disrupt papers. “It’ll be easier than painting on the windowsill.”
“Yeah…” He goes back to staring at the
The nurses think you are beautiful. They have told me so with great warmth in their voices. "She is beautiful, your wife. Those lips, that hair, those slender fingers." In many ways it is easier to speak to them than to friends. Friends are frightened by the busy, space-aged machinery you are lost in.
I've learned many things from the psych wards. I've learned that cutting is an option to try and control emotions. I've learned to lie when people ask how I'm doing. I've learned to avoid confrontation whenever possible. The hardest thing I've learned from all of my psych warding was this one thing: once you hit 18, no one cares anymore. Adults aren't worth the effort to save or help. The staff only make a token effort for adults.
Every kid wants love and affection from somebody, be it a friend, relative, teacher or whomever. Early on, I lost faith in people. I was a 'mistake'. The reason my parents married a couple years before they'd planned to.
"i haven't been sleeping well."
butterfly wing smiles and porcelain bones
"the medicine will help."
sparrow hearts and rose petal hair
undersea eyes and sailboat stomachs
"these things pass in time."
There's no possible way to get out
And it's not just mentally anymore,
It's physically too.
The pea-green walls are closing in on me.
I'm in open air,
But I can't catch my breath.
One may think of this as a hotel,
But it's a prison
A prison hiding under the name of "hospital".
I hate that word.
People don't realize just how much.
It's a death trap,
Looking completely friendly on the outside,
But once one breaches the outer wall,
The inside becomes clear.
They'll hold you 'til you die,
And then you emerge a zombie,
Forever doomed to walk this planet,
With no hope of ever turning back...
“I-I need some help! My wife needs help, now!” Lovino yelled as they pulled up to the counter.
“Sir, calm down, tell me what the problem is—”
“What does it look like the problem is, my wife’s going into fucking labor!” he shouted as Antonio, Gilbert, and Francis came through the doors and hurried to them.
“Sir, there is no need to be so rude—”
“If you don’t get some help for her right now, you’re going to be dealing with something a lot worse than this,” he said darkly, his eyes burning holes into the woman’s head.
“Lovino, stop it,” Antonio said sternly as he placed a f
it would hurt less for me.
And I wish I could give more,
then maybe you'd see-
That the world doesn't hate you,
but people are mean.
That you are not dirty,
but scars are not clean.
I wish that I lied more,
I'm sure you'd feel lighter.
But you're too good for lies,
and I'm not a fighter.
I wish truths were pretty;
I wish I were, too.
Then you'd never worry,
and cuts would run blue.
I wish life were easy-
though, where's the reward?
If living were easy
we'd surely grow bored.
And isn't it boredom,
that births bad ideas?
And aren't all things easy
not actually real?
how people gather in one place
to say things they normally
you love the smell of alcohol,
lazy along drag of heels and
fingertips on the stair railings
steel cold and clean.
but you hate waiting rooms
and hallways with chairs across
from rooms occupied and
signs that aren't promising a
teary welcome home.
right now there's a man and
his wife you can guess and
he's holding her hand and they're
both looking at the floor.
and across from them is a door.
you want to say "sorry" or
"i'll hold your hand"
but any sound will crack
the glassy tension budding from
the meters of the floor;
you've your own place.
so you carry on using your head
as a battering ram to
escape from the weight
but before you've gotten out of sight
there's the doctor with his
high head but weary face
and he walks right past you and
behind there are feet hitting the floor
to throw bodies upright
and that goddamn
even you stop with a
hand pinching you
This is not happening.
I am not taking a deep breath. I am not walking down the sickly white corridors with their bleach scent. I am not buying this cup of coffee from a cafeteria lady who is working at an hour that is reserved only for intensive care patients. This is not the way back to what is not John’s room.
That is not his heart rate dropping, and I am not running out of the room, screaming for help. We are not being pushed out, that door does not have a red light that claims intensive care, it has not been all night.
That is not John’s doctor explaining how they were not able to pump his stomach completely and it is not John who flat lined. That is not an empty hospital bed. That is not his moth
lies into the whirls of her ear - drum
promises of thinner air to wishbone ribs,
to house effortless birds, snapping shut -
grinding steel trap doors shut in the night
locked safe under the weight of sounds of silence
and layers upon layers of secrets built over years (scurrying from light).
Sleeping bound; worlds crushing mattresses as soft as
pillows alone, but stacked: heavy enough to hush bone
and draw blood as deep as a wine bruise the colour
of a stone on a bed,
sleeping with silver fish and mermaids at
the bottom of the ocean under the moon.
Carrying the weight of dust motes and ske
Mama hasn’t come home for several weeks now. The home is just the way it was when she touched it: the stove splotched with cooking stains, the carpet riddled with pine needles from two months ago, and even the cuckoo clock still needed rewinding. Gretta told me not to touch anything—to preserve it for her.
Yesterday, I escaped the quiet jail of my house while Gretta was working. She’s employed about a mile down the highway, at the Walmart. She used to go to college about an hour away, but lately, she hasn’t found time to go. She said that she misses it, that she regrets stepping out of the house only to find out she didn’t do anything she planned. I’ve learned though. I’m going to everything I’
ready to snap at any moment, and a patient who should
be on lockdown and confined by four white walls.
i think they neglected to realize i already have cages
of my own.
as if these last 3 weeks were a secret not to tell.
she made the stairs seem like a marathon.
took a break halfway to the car.
saying she wanted to see the view,
but the truth was she was to tired to go on.
look at her, brushing it of like the common cold.
telling us that it will be a secret to never be told.
she made the parking lot seem like a landing strip.
making jokes that its too far.
but the truth is far more sad.
crawling up, but we all know she has no grip.
So our film start out with an an opening narration, yay! Exposition! It starts out telling a story about a king who's sad because he doesn't have any children (problems in bed possibly?) but luckily his wife (whom we never see) finally squeezed one out (convenience? What's that?) and he names her Odette (gesundheit). All the kings and queens from around the country give up some gifts to the princess, including 3 fairies who give her some gifts but then the evil Maleficent casts a curse on her and- oh I'm sorry, w
"great." i said to myself, since no-one else was in the room. i tried to sit up, only to fing that my right arm was in a cast.
"what the hell happened to me?" i questioned. is this some kind of sick joke???
just then i heard the door open and shut. i glanced over to find a nurse in a white nurse's outfit standing by the door. her face was to the door since she was filling in some kind of form. she had mid-legnth black hair that just crept past her shoulders. as she turned i was shocked to find that she wasn't a 'she' after all and infact a 'he'. but as i studdied his
no smell of well-worn shoes,
no scent of last night's dinner,
no stale cologne caught in the sheets.
The smells are of humanity sterilized,
sanitized and ready for injection,
for the cure,
for a clinical release from all malady.
There is no age here --
we are all children in the latex-gloved hands
of white-robed gods,
trusting that they know best,
surrendering our bodies to be carted, prodded,
shaved and bathed by strangers
to cleanse us of all pride,
all our infectious personness,
so that we may be opened up
like broken clocks
to fix the sticking cogs inside.
with bandaids on our arms from the blood tests
but you made me feel torrential,
like beyond all of this or inside all of this
we’re still young and burning and free.
We don’t feel sad anymore.
Sadness is just the tip of the iceberg, a thin mist that covers our everything.
All moments are sad but so many thoughts and feelings swirl within that sadness,
a complexity of love and of laughter and happiness, even.
Time might be short but our hearts are expansive.
I am a vast ocean. With a tip of your head you’re my travel plan;
holding tickets to a future that I didn’t think I’d find here
you’re the nightlife in London and breakfast in France.
We didn’t meet under starlight but like a stranger on the street corner
I knew that I would find you
wrapped up in me when it’s too cold to sleep
and our chances too bleak to go home.
We didn’t meet in a nightclub but it’s loud,
I can't believe I'm here - I've been waiting for what seems like an eternity. It's only been seven minutes, but my god, they are the slowest seven minutes I've ever experienced. There are four of us here, just waiting.
It's funny how we cluster together. Sure, we're not sitting next to one another holding hands, but we've all congregated in the center of the room on the small island of chairs there. At least they've taken some steps to warm the place up. No pale blue walls and uncomfortable plastic chairs. No, now its subtle pinks and comfy arm chairs.
The redhead is pretending to read a magazine, but she keeps glancing at the clock. You can tell she's been cryi
It takes a minute for you to realize that it's so somber because your eyes are still
closed. You manage to crack both eyelids open, and the first thing you are able to
comprehend is . . . her.
She sits back relax on a cheap chair watching you. Her long hair reminds you of a paw
beast's mane. Her long, grey index finger taps her sharp fangs practically polishing them.
She watches you like you're her next meal, studying your weak points and how to take you
down. But worse of all is her eyes; they are the eyes of a hungry predator scanning your
neck for the kill. You would cry out if your mouth would open. Instead all you manage is a
She smirks showing more sharp teeth, "Hey loser. Looks like you're finally up from
oh my, how pretty are mine
but mama didn't like it
so she took me away to a new motel
they took my clothes, took my freedom
made me lie down on that bed
dressed in green
it was their experiment table
i know it i know it
they took my blood away from me
drugged my tongue to spit out a compulsive story
again and again and again and again and again
then shipped me to where they wanted me to mend
mama where'd you go
i don't see you no more
just thick glass
that protects my chauffeur
but what he hiding from
i ain't gonna hurt him
but maybe diseased brains are airborne
maybe he'll get it too
then i woulda killed a man like i did me
oh no what do i do what do i do
there won't no welcome home sign
but who wants to welcome me anyway
'cuz they just gonna dine on my brain
stuff it full of something else
like a christmas turkey
i wanna get outta here i gotta get outta here
but nobody can hear
i cry, wet my cage with salt water
but they not gonna let me free
just check that
She hadn't expected that. She'd thought maybe sharp objects, or being surrounded by the sick and the dying, and of course that infamous smell
'There are no evil nurses.'
'There you are, you see, that's the problem. You trust them just because they're nurses. But they have so much power over you! They're the ones with the syringes and the chemicals. They're the ones who walk up and down between the beds while everybody's sleeping. If you wanted to be a serial killer, it would be a great idea to become a nurse first.'
'Didn't that happen on one of those hospital shows? Have you been getting freaked out by the TV again?'
'A kidney transplant happened on one of those shows,' he said, 'and now it's happening in real life.'
'But ' She was out of logical arguments, even though she knew there were plenty. 'Why nurses?
Well... what do I do with it?
Three weeks later, a postage stamp arrived at 24 Raven Avenue, accompanied by a securely enveloped letter, which had passed through precisely three hands. The last twin of hands was now residing in a wooden case.
The sky had expanded overnight, it seemed.
Six decibels wondered whether another would accompany them, but that was all. That was all, and Shea, the negligible girl against the green, found it absolutely magnificent. Her finite fingertips followed the strips of grass in the centre of her palm; whispering to herself, she muttered something about how odd it was that everybodys palm was pink, and how prejudice God must be.
With eyes closed and ears open, she may have seemed dead to any passers-by well, she didnt mind their stifled giggles, anyway. Her wild hair, strewn casually across the ground, had decided that it was feeling more golden than brown today. What d
It hung on them like the thick layers of dust and peeling paint.
It oozed out of the detritus that gathered in the corners; scraps of cloth, broken glass, bits and faded pieces of forgotten lives.
Silence lived in the wide rooms of rusting bed-frames and bloodstained floors.
Silence lived in the small rooms of broken instruments and moldering cots.
Silent were the echoes of the ghosts in the walls.
Silent were the souls of all that had lived, died, struggled, and suffered in the ancient building.
Silent were my footfalls as I traced the paths they would have tread.
The deaf and dumb child that was the shame of his parents.
The quiet old grandfather that sighed as he tried and failed to remember his name.
The crying young woman who begged her family not to leave her in this place.
The man who lived in fear of the screaming voices in his head, who prayed every night that God might take them away.
God never did.
The doctors tried, but they took away the