Interview Part IIIDate: 10/18Interview #: 78-463-A87Patient #: 1457-2743C[ The patient was admitted to this hospital exactly one year ago. In that time he has attempted self-harm or suicide thirty seven times, has seriously injured himself eleven times, and has had to be force-fed for five of the last twelve months. A week and a half ago he fell ill and has been in the medical ward ever since. The doctors report that nothing "medical" is technically wrong with him, but his condition continues to deteriorate. A nurse is present for the interview in order to monitor his condition, should anything happen. ]Good morning, Tanim. How are you feeling?[ He smiles faintly, wryly, at the question. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. He looks exhausted; there are deep circles beneath his eyes and his skin is incredibly pale. ]Oh, just lovely. Thanks for asking. Any particular reason you're here? Do you know what today is?[ He closes his eyes and seems to sink visibly
Bedtime StorySince I am sick and tired and stressed and, let's face it, in a state that could maybe be called despair if I didn't completely restrain and lock away my emotions so masterfully that all I ever really felt was oblivious contentment or a numb nothingness like the Novocained hole left from a ripped out wisdom tooth, I feel like having a story told to me. Unfortunately, since those that I once surrounded myself with and could be counted on in such moments as these to gather me up and deliver me safely to my bed with a cup of tea or cocoa and then launch themselves into a beautiful tale of adventure and romance with which to comfort me in my moment of weakness have all scattered to the four winds, or perhaps, simply, have finally come to the conclusion that I am not worthy enough a creature to be in their lives and so have cut me out without so much as a thank you or a goodbye, I am left to my own damaged and dangerous devices and so sitting here I must, instead, turn to my very own self f
Wait for MeMy name is Elyssa Tappero.I was named by my father after a ship that sailed the rolling dark of the sea. I am one half a Grey and one half a Tappero, though in my heart I have always been and always will be all Tappero. I have carried this name like a torch through the dark my entire life, holding it high and wielding it as my pride and my purpose. Before I am a friend, before I am a fighter, before I am a lover or writer or dancer or hater, I am his daughter. I am his daughter. I have his temper, always, and I have his love of the past and the workings of all things great and small. I have his dark looks and dry wit and the longing for the sea and the horizon. I was placed by him on firm foundations, given a boundless faith that comes not from a book or a church but from the dark earth and the bright sky and the movement of wind and tide. I am his legacy, like the pages of a journal sprung to life, given a mind to thirst for knowledge, fingers to hunger for earth and nature, eyes to
Faith, Hope, and GloryHer stomach hurt. Really, really hurt. She wanted to cry but was keeping a brave face like her mommy and daddy wanted her to. She would be brave. She had to be brave. She could do this
Still, the first day of school, real school (first grade!) was terrifying for six year old Elyssa. This was a new school and it meant she did not know a single soul in the whole place. Her mommy and daddy had kissed her and given her two very big hugs before they left her at the entrance to room 107 with her new school bag (Hello Kitty!) and her faithful stuffed calico cat. Now the little girl stood on the threshold of a new, exciting (but very, very scary!) adventure. She was a big girl now and she had to act like one.Taking a deep breath, she hugged her kitty closer and stepped into the classroom. Most of the other students had already arrived and were claiming desks, shoving things into cubbies, and chattering enthusiastically to each other. Many were friends from pre-school and so alrea
MeetingThere is a woman named Margaret. Years ago she was young, all the goldens of Summer and silky soft blues of Spring. She is not young now, though, for the years have passed. Autumn laid hold of her, for a time, and she was the oranges and reds of its passion. Then Winter came, muted blues and the black of bare birch trees, and Paul died.Whether a death is unexpected or not is of little consequence. Whether there is time or not gives little change in the eventual outcome. In the end, it is an end.When the flowers on the doorstep stopped arriving, and the lovingly prepared home-cooked meals stopped being delivered, and by and by the doorbell to herald another kind visitor stopped its merry ringing, Margaret joined a group. There was a faded flier tacked to the supermarket bulletin board and she tore off one of the little cut slips on its edge that had a date and a time and a place.Tuesdays, six o'clock. Snacks will be provided.It was a nice enough group at the start. Paul had been gon
TitanWanderer,there are no doors.Do not let them beckon you.Burning, becomethe lost god or fallen angel,wicked something in the night.
Limited ExistenceHow would you know whythe Moon murdered the Sun?I'm tired of sitting here andlistening to your silver voice.Your words were always blinding shards of glass,and with my carelessnessI've slipped and fallen,cut myself on twisted promises.Paper wings, splintered feathers,litter the way,the path between you and I.Do you see the way the starsgaze in envy upon your face?They,like I,am poisonedby ill fated love.Were you always this graceful,when you were dying inside?
-- Restart --Once upon a time…The café was dim and cozy, lit only by the candles on the tables and the white fairy lights that graced the walls, framed the windows, and bathed the stage in the back in a soft golden glow. Outside the night was a relentless storm, the rain coming down in pounding, pouring sheets. The wind howled past the door, screaming through the streets. The café was filled with people who had come in to escape the weather, people who were now sitting in dark booths sipping steaming drinks. The room was filled with the soft din of light conversation and hushed laughter. When the singer came on stage no one even seemed to notice, or care.His body was half hidden in shadow, the stage light playing hesitantly over his fair features. He was young, maybe eighteen, with a kind, handsome face. He was tall and thin, but in the willowy way that promises he will bend in a storm but never break. The young man radiated quiet confidence and a sweet gentleness that shone in his eyes an