What Is It You Are Avoiding At This Point In Time?

A fellow blogger, Reena Saxena, asked this question in her Exploration Challenge. This question stopped me dead in my tracks. Well, my reading, thinking, tracks.

It made me wonder – what am I avoiding at this point in time? How about a bunch. A passel. More than I could put into one post.

But really, this isn’t true. Saying there are too many things to count is just another way of avoiding. If there are too many, why bother? Let’s just toss the question aside and move on.

Which, in itself, is a cop-out. So is my life an endless circles of cop-outs?

I sincerely hope not, but what do I know? I can’t even list avoided ‘things.’

So, if I brave up and seriously think about the question, what do I find?

I find I am avoiding the world right now. But no, that’s quite true. I am avoiding myself. I am out of work and feeling like anybody else in the world can get a job except me. I am often told, so-and-so called this place and got a job.  She put in an application here and got a job. He interviewed here and got hired. And on and on.

I’m told, “With your skills, you will have no problem finding a job.” Truth is, I don’t have a job. Where are these ‘no problem’ jobs?

So what the hell is wrong with me?

Sorry, got carried away there.

But I hope you get the point. Which isn’t, by the way, me freaking out about the job, but that I’m avoiding the whys or hows or whens. I don’t want to face myself if I’m somebody who can no longer get a job. If a medical mistake had changed the entirety of who I am.

I don’t want to face myself as I stand on the threshold of financial failure. The Bi-Polar me doesn’t even know how to see myself anymore.

Who am I? This is what I am avoiding.

Am I better knowing this? Maybe. Maybe not. It’s safer to pretend.

So, then, the question is:

Am I willing to stop pretending?

I don’t know.

I do know I am thankful to Reena for asking the question in the first place.

What are you avoiding at this point in time?

 

Here is the link to Reena’s challenge

 

 

Response JSW Week 6-12-2017

Which is odd because you shouldn’t forget me. We’ve known each other all our lives. More than that, really. Longer, harder, deeper.

I’ll never forget.

But you were never as dedicated as me. Not when I met you. Not when we parted. Not anytime in-between.

Not even as I watch you bleed away……

 

(Don’t you just hate it when a character comes by, starts to tell a story, then just goes away?)

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 3-26-2017

 

Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

1. A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.

2. Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.

3. Please credit photo to photographer.

4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.

photo-20170206154748327

photo-20170320154625492This week’s photo prompt is provided by Sunayana MoiPensieve.

 The musician played alone, cased instruments tic-tac-toed around him on the rough cobbled-stone street. Nobody else had shown, so he knew they were gone. Soon it would come for him, center square for the win. Playing, he was safe, but already his fingers bled and stumbled on the strings.

How long?

A few watchers lingered, but only a few. Most had turned alway, headed back to warm houses and hot meals. Comedies on TV. Game boards scattered. Warm bathwater splashed across tiled floors.

Around him, the instruments began to fade. David’s guitar. Susan’s violin. Jack’s cello.

He played faster, racing time against memory, but soon no longer saw his own fingers. Strings sliding into nothing. Hands. Arms. Feet. Legs. Body. Fading. Fading. Fading.

Nothing.

When dusk fell, he was gone. As dark dropped, his guitar, the last guitar, faded to nothing.

A chill wind swept the street, brushing away dust and memory.

Friday Fictioneers 12-9-2016

lucy-sol

PHOTO PROMPT © Lucy Fridkin

 

The land and the water spread out before us like an unfolding map, places and things sparking memories in my brain. Places I’d been and places I only knew from words. None of them, however, were the sights I needed to see. None of them took me any closer to what I had lost. The curve of the world and yet I couldn’t find her.

“Shall I make another pass, sir?”

“Yes.”

Another pass. And another. Until darkness.

New York. I loved it. I hated it.

“Chicago tomorrow, sir?”

I closed my eyes.  “Yes, Jimmy. Tomorrow.”

So tired.

 

JSW Prompt 8-2-2016

2e9aea48bf6c16f2f2b1ed3143e1ca72

He knew it well, having lived his ‘After’ life as a Dream Taker. Men came to his village when he was ten, tested all the children.  He was the only one taken from his family, his world, to a cold place on the far side of the planet. Later, he learned the building was once a  slaughter-house,  but it made no difference. Nothing made much difference  anymore.

No happiness dwelt there, nor any sign of care and kindness. He lived hardship and pain, lived where fragile bodies broke. His body stood against the torment, but he knew it would not last forever.  Someday, some time soon, he would break, too.

Each day, he struggled to remember the broken fragments of his life ‘Before,’ as if somebody had taken a sponge and wiped away parts of his memory. There was nothing left. It was too late for him. If they remembered him at all, they would draw away in fear. If they didn’t, it would be as if he’d never existed.

Maybe he hadn’t existed ‘Before’ they took him away, ‘Before’ they changed him into something so unlike himself he could never go back. Each day, he tortured himself, no longer knowing why.

His alarm buzzed and he rose, gathering his midnight dream-coat and heading to the Commander’s office.

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #22-A sad friend.

Word Count is off! Let’s focus on the theme of the thing. Not many actually stick to the word count anyway. (SUGGESTED-No more than 500 if you want to try that.)

  • Using the prompt of ‘A sad friend, WRITE. Sad can mean different things depending on how you say it and the culture you are in. Someone may be depressed or someone might even be pathetic. Perhaps there are other meanings as well. Whatever meaning you give it, go with it and prosper! (REQUIRED) Sad defined. Sad synonyms.

The sadness was all persuasive, wrapped around them like a blanket of fog, holding them all together. Alone they would have fallen and quickly. Together, they managed to prop each other up and hold the grief at bay.

“Why?” was Susie’s endless question.

“How?” Macy’s.

He just wanted to go home and be alone. This was something he didn’t like or want to share, this sorrow. It filled him full, leaving no room for kind words or reassurance of hope and continuation. Dead was dead. The mere fact of the matter took away the last traces from his life. Soon even the memory would be gone, the sadness over.

Maybe, if he hung on tight enough some sprinkle of memory might remain; colored sugar on a cake.

“He was a good man,” Macy said, wiping raccoon eyes. “He never judged me like the fathers of some of my friends.”

“He always supported us in everything we did,” Susie agreed.

They both looked at him so he nodded. “Never said a word when I bought my bike.” The bike that lived in his living room so he didn’t forget. The father who lived with him so he remembered.

“He was hoping you’d get over stupid on your own,” both of his sisters said and laughed.

If only they knew. He hadn’t ridden the bike in over ten years, not wanting to risk more loss. The Doctors couldn’t tell him why the accident wiped away only part of his memory, only that he was lucky.  At least he had something left, some memories, some hold on the world of his past. Not people, but events. Some didn’t. Some people with similar brain injuries simply forgot everything. He might have been left with only 15 minutes of everything. Or 15 seconds. Or nothing.

Lucky meant he only forgot people once they faded from his life. Like birthdays. He remembered the day, the cake, the presents but not the people. He knew people had been there, but they no longer existed. Bare walls bracketed the memories; he the last person alive. Childhood. Christmases. Lovers. Nothing.

The funeral was over. They hugged, kissed, promised to keep in touch before another funeral brought them together again. They wouldn’t, but they pretended for him. He looked at them, his sisters, aching to commit them so deep in his memory he would never forget but eventually, inevitably, he would.

Turning, he walked away.  Why the heck was he in a cemetery anyway?