The hospital was in a rundown section of the city. Streets wore litter like a torn overcoat - all tatters and held together by spit and chewing gum. The sum of all parts was still another negative, no matter what rule of mathematics you choose to ignore.
Louisa had spirited herself on-board the No. 13 bus heading up William St. She was worn and abused by her boyfriend. (She did her share of self-abuse as well). Her jacket was clutched to her breasts, doing a poor job of hiding the bump that protruded through the broken zipper. Louisa was cold and high and very pregnant.
So pregnant in fact was the reason she had boarded the bus at all. The Michigan Avenue stop would put her a block away from the Memorial Hospital. Ninety steps to decide if she was willing to go through with her responsibility.
The ride was bumpy. The upper end of William had been neglected and the potholes that remained from winter's salty tirade gave the impression of riding through downtown Beirut. Bloodshot eyes stared vacantly, flinching slightly as her labor pains intensified in strength and duration. Louisa's bus was nearing her station.
The other riders, oblivious to her plight were absorbed in their self-importance to care that another crack whore was going to give birth to another addicted baby. The clinic could only do so much for the dark haired girl; she needed to step up and pay the price of motherhood.
Motherhood in the hood. Too many hoods to see straight. Mindlessly, Louisa disembarked the metro liner, shuffling feet in the direction of sanctuary, albeit for a brief moment. She stopped clutching her mid-drift. Doubled over in agony. She couldn't do this.
Her scream pierced the moist night air as she plodded slowly toward the double glass doors. Passers-by paid no heed. A gruff nurse dragging on her cigarette turned her back to the wind and Louisa, shielding herself from both. The rickety doors slid closed behind her.
Louisa found a seat in the waiting area, in the corner of the room out of view. Sweat poured down her brow and the wince of child birth graced her face. Reaching between her legs, she clutched as her daughter came into the world in the waiting area, in the corner of the room out of view.
Nurses rushed to the weakened sound of a newborn's first cry. They found her laying in the rack of the local newspapers, under the banner "Take one - FREE!" She had a slim chance to make it past midnight.
Louisa's lifeless body was found at the end of a trail of blood where she had waited for the return bus in the shadow of a "DEAD END" sign.
A bad sign indeed. I feel her pain, the poetry of the piece, but most of all I find myself in the position of one of those neglectful observers. You need not provide more details,--the poem works! Give me another chance and I will do the right thing, I think . . . wait. What can be done? The child is already harmed, the woman needs a home. Maybe both need higher care, the administrations of a--at least finally--merciful God. Powerful.
I find myself standing in what is the middle of nowhere, but I know it must be somewhere by the signs covering the wooden post.
I see an arrow poing to the right that is labeled "CHESSBOARD" As I comprehend about my chances, I deside, it is time to move. "I just hope whoever this is plays like my brother" I say to myself.
I wander for about ten minutes when I see an englarged chess set. White on my side, black on the other.
"Hey!" calls someones voice. I reconize it as Joseph, a peer from my second grade class.
"Oh great, I have to play you?!" As I remember him, a MacGyver genius with a mind as a mind of it's own. I suppose he drank a vial of chemicals that messed him up in a good way.
He taps his cuticals together like he was expecting me. "Yes." He replies with a grin on his face that doesn't seem to give me any confidence.
I call out spaces and move my peices here and there, most of which are crushed to dust. I fret and wonder what I can do.
A few minutes later, I see that his queen has put my king in check. My mind has gone somewhere else. It has left me with no thoughts. All I see is that The chess board is spinning and I am getting weaker and weaker.
"He taps his cuticles together like he was expecting me" --I could see and hear this moment on ~ABI'S PATH~ in this nightmare. DO you think you should use your own name in this allegory for an overwhelming life and . . . A good write though, I did not believe it would end this way.
A game that came live not to entertain its players :-) Very grim. Both stories on this prompt are grim, in fact. I was expecting something more fairy-talish. I was pleasantly surprised Thank you, Walt and Abi!
Thanks! Actually at the end of 6th grade my friend Joseph and I wanted to play chess to see who is more supirior. But we never ended up playing the game. :( But we played "Mental Chess" when our gym classes were opposed one another
Tall dark and handsome leaned toward her from his bar stool ”Hey, beautiful,” he drooled. “Are you college or preschool?” She turned away from him (hiding a laugh), her back a stronger virgule than ice between herself and this way too imposing fool. She was looking for a hero, or at least someone who might car-pool without accosting her twin girls or even exposing the cesspool language of sex first and friends later, a mockery of love, a cruel misrule. They were too young, and she was too old for the ritual of handkerchiefs and handcuffs. In high school, she had liked a cool trumpeter who sent a note asking “Are you mellow?” Like a fool she had asked best friends to translate. Well, her innocence was fuel to giggles, hand gestures and innuendos until finally they said, “You’ll know when you’re EXPERIENCED, Sexy!” She had needed a full pool of water to feel clean , to let the embarrassment die and to retool her vocabulary. She looked around the bar, swiveling on her stool to see. How to cast her fantasy? She would certainly dazzle as the heroine. The villain was right here. The hero? No Jekyll and Hyde, no unemployed would do . She could not trust sparkle. And, wow, it was quite near time for her Cinderella move, to hustle the babysitter home because tomorrow was school. What a jewel! She sighed. It might be years before she felt the urge to tackle this project again. She drained her cola with lime and slid off her stool. The ghoul was gone, and in his place sat a woman familiar from school— Another single mother here to refuel and to consult a modern sibyl or two who might help her to envision a strong and loving couple to . . . . “Stop! You’ve got to go,” she reminded herself, “No time to . . .” “Hey,” she asked out loud, “What time do you have to . . .” “Two.” “Oh, do you want to come by and . . . . “ “Sure.” Full circle she thought as they walked out together. “Score one for the local girl,” she laughed. Her friend replied, “You have twins in the carpool.” “Yes,” she replied, “Which are you—elementary or preschool?”
This is my first post here! Please let me know if this is NOT the flassy fiction typew you specialize in. Thanks. (Brought to light for Poetry Jam's WHAT'S the GENRE?, "Melodrama" also conveniently fits Poetic Bloomings' IN-FORM POET WEDNESDAY – MONORHYME.)
Haha, I remeber my first post here! When you are here, anything goes! Don't be afriad to show yourself! Just pick anything here that may give you inspiration and type away! This is so funny! It is funny in the sence of... I am laughing so much I cannot find the words!
BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN
ReplyDeleteThe hospital was in a rundown section of the city. Streets wore litter like a torn overcoat - all tatters and held together by spit and chewing gum. The sum of all parts was still another negative, no matter what rule of mathematics you choose to ignore.
Louisa had spirited herself on-board the No. 13 bus heading up William St. She was worn and abused by her boyfriend. (She did her share of self-abuse as well). Her jacket was clutched to her breasts, doing a poor job of hiding the bump that protruded through the broken zipper. Louisa was cold and high and very pregnant.
So pregnant in fact was the reason she had boarded the bus at all. The Michigan Avenue stop would put her a block away from the Memorial Hospital. Ninety steps to decide if she was willing to go through with her responsibility.
The ride was bumpy. The upper end of William had been neglected and the potholes that remained from winter's salty tirade gave the impression of riding through downtown Beirut.
Bloodshot eyes stared vacantly, flinching slightly as her labor pains intensified in strength and duration. Louisa's bus was nearing her station.
The other riders, oblivious to her plight were absorbed in their self-importance to care that another crack whore was going to give birth to another addicted baby. The clinic could only do so much for the dark haired girl; she needed to step up and pay the price of motherhood.
Motherhood in the hood. Too many hoods to see straight. Mindlessly, Louisa disembarked the metro liner, shuffling feet in the direction of sanctuary, albeit for a brief moment. She stopped clutching her mid-drift. Doubled over in agony. She couldn't do this.
Her scream pierced the moist night air as she plodded slowly toward the double glass doors. Passers-by paid no heed. A gruff nurse dragging on her cigarette turned her back to the wind and Louisa, shielding herself from both. The rickety doors slid closed behind her.
Louisa found a seat in the waiting area, in the corner of the room out of view. Sweat poured down her brow and the wince of child birth graced her face. Reaching between her legs, she clutched as her daughter came into the world in the waiting area, in the corner of the room out of view.
Nurses rushed to the weakened sound of a newborn's first cry. They found her laying in the rack of the local newspapers, under the banner "Take one - FREE!" She had a slim chance to make it past midnight.
Louisa's lifeless body was found at the end of a trail of blood where she had waited for the return bus in the shadow of a "DEAD END" sign.
Oh, that is dark! So many people seem to be born under such bad signs, really. Now I seem to see more and more of them. It's heartbreaking.
DeleteA bad sign indeed. I feel her pain, the poetry of the piece, but most of all I find myself in the position of one of those neglectful observers. You need not provide more details,--the poem works! Give me another chance and I will do the right thing, I think . . . wait. What can be done? The child is already harmed, the woman needs a home. Maybe both need higher care, the administrations of a--at least finally--merciful God. Powerful.
Delete~ABI'S PATH~
ReplyDeleteI find myself standing in what is the middle of nowhere, but I know it must be somewhere by the signs covering the wooden post.
I see an arrow poing to the right that is labeled "CHESSBOARD" As I comprehend about my chances, I deside, it is time to move. "I just hope whoever this is plays like my brother" I say to myself.
I wander for about ten minutes when I see an englarged chess set. White on my side, black on the other.
"Hey!" calls someones voice. I reconize it as Joseph, a peer from my second grade class.
"Oh great, I have to play you?!" As I remember him, a MacGyver genius with a mind as a mind of it's own. I suppose he drank a vial of chemicals that messed him up in a good way.
He taps his cuticals together like he was expecting me. "Yes." He replies with a grin on his face that doesn't seem to give me any confidence.
I call out spaces and move my peices here and there, most of which are crushed to dust. I fret and wonder what I can do.
A few minutes later, I see that his queen has put my king in check. My mind has gone somewhere else. It has left me with no thoughts. All I see is that The chess board is spinning and I am getting weaker and weaker.
The last thing I hear is "Check Mate"
"He taps his cuticles together like he was expecting me" --I could see and hear this moment on ~ABI'S PATH~ in this nightmare. DO you think you should use your own name in this allegory for an overwhelming life and . . . A good write though, I did not believe it would end this way.
DeleteA game that came live not to entertain its players :-) Very grim.
ReplyDeleteBoth stories on this prompt are grim, in fact. I was expecting something more fairy-talish. I was pleasantly surprised
Thank you, Walt and Abi!
Thanks! Actually at the end of 6th grade my friend Joseph and I wanted to play chess to see who is more supirior. But we never ended up playing the game. :( But we played "Mental Chess" when our gym classes were opposed one another
Delete22 August 2012 (
ReplyDeleteMelodrama
Tall dark and handsome leaned toward her from his bar stool
”Hey, beautiful,” he drooled. “Are you college or preschool?”
She turned away from him (hiding a laugh), her back a stronger virgule
than ice between herself and this way too imposing fool.
She was looking for a hero, or at least someone who might car-pool
without accosting her twin girls or even exposing the cesspool
language of sex first and friends later, a mockery of love, a cruel
misrule. They were too young, and she was too old for the ritual
of handkerchiefs and handcuffs. In high school, she had liked a cool
trumpeter who sent a note asking “Are you mellow?” Like a fool
she had asked best friends to translate. Well, her innocence was fuel
to giggles, hand gestures and innuendos until finally they said, “You’ll
know when you’re EXPERIENCED, Sexy!” She had needed a full pool
of water to feel clean , to let the embarrassment die and to retool
her vocabulary. She looked around the bar, swiveling on her stool
to see. How to cast her fantasy? She would certainly dazzle
as the heroine. The villain was right here. The hero? No Jekyll
and Hyde, no unemployed would do . She could not trust sparkle.
And, wow, it was quite near time for her Cinderella move, to hustle
the babysitter home because tomorrow was school. What a jewel!
She sighed. It might be years before she felt the urge to tackle
this project again. She drained her cola with lime and slid off her stool.
The ghoul was gone, and in his place sat a woman familiar from school—
Another single mother here to refuel and to consult a modern sibyl
or two who might help her to envision a strong and loving couple
to . . . . “Stop! You’ve got to go,” she reminded herself, “No time to . . .”
“Hey,” she asked out loud, “What time do you have to . . .” “Two.”
“Oh, do you want to come by and . . . . “ “Sure.” Full circle
she thought as they walked out together. “Score one for the local
girl,” she laughed. Her friend replied, “You have twins in the carpool.”
“Yes,” she replied, “Which are you—elementary or preschool?”
This is my first post here! Please let me know if this is NOT the flassy fiction typew you specialize in. Thanks. (Brought to light for Poetry Jam's WHAT'S the GENRE?, "Melodrama" also conveniently fits Poetic Bloomings' IN-FORM POET WEDNESDAY – MONORHYME.)
Haha, I remeber my first post here! When you are here, anything goes! Don't be afriad to show yourself! Just pick anything here that may give you inspiration and type away! This is so funny! It is funny in the sence of... I am laughing so much I cannot find the words!
Delete