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Weekly Contest #370
10:15 AM “I’m afeared.” “No, no, it’s going to be alright. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here. Look. Look at the beautiful garden. All summery and flowers.” “It’s here, and it’s thickening. Spreading.” Her voice, though soft, was hers alone. He looked at her in her chair, so much smaller now. Someone had helped her put on some lipstick. She looked nice. Her hat was in her lap, and he could see that she was wearing her pearl earrings he had given her all those years ago. Her once beautiful locks were thinning and grey. Wispy. She had m...
Weekly Contest #369
It’s probably time to pack this away now. I won’t get it finished, which saddens me more than I expected. I had hoped we would be further along by now, given what we know. I look at the intricate tools I have laid out here on my bench and can but lament. My old eyes move from the lamplight, look past my lens and stare out into the night. Beneath the indifferent, timeless stars stands the aged forest, now marked. The dark hides the stakes, the tape, but I know what it means. I hear the owl, the bird of nighttime, beginning its hunt. There’s a...
Weekly Contest #368
High-pitched laughter. Many conversations. Talking over one another. Safety resides in the mob; I should know. They were coming. Heading towards the beach. I knew they would. If I ran, the street would lead me there. I, too, would end up on the beach. Exposed. With nowhere to hide. Only the sun, wind, and waves. What then? On the exposed beach they would see me. I would not be welcome. She would know. I have to hide. Seek shelter. No, not shelter. I needed to disappear. Be absorbed. I pass the Indian restaurant with its afternoon cooking sme...
Weekly Contest #367
Empty beds, one gets used to them. You have to - in this profession. Everyone moves on in one form or another. It proved difficult at first. It took some getting used to. Afterwards, staff swab, clean, or cleanse the room. Cleansed is a better word than purged. It carries connotations of purification. Patients leave, the door shuts, and the room is reset. Spotless. Odorless. All senses scrubbed away. Even her perfume. A bed does not stay vacant for too long. In my formative years, I used to worry about my patients, how they were getting on o...
Weekly Contest #366
Compulsion is rarely a single impulse. It’s an accumulation. We sit confined within these four walls, bound to the desk by an inescapable need to make order out of chaos. The brain can’t tolerate incomplete patterns. It demands a resolution. It’s exhausting, really—this screaming internal dialogue hunting for a release valve. The human brain is complex, busy, constantly seeking to make sense of all, drifting in and out. In and out. So wearying. We sit working on it. They tell us a story needs transformation, a new identity unburdened... I do...
Weekly Contest #364
Naivety. An odd word. Like a betrayal. Comes with two edges. One of innocence, unspoiled. Maybe rustic - rural rustic - of carpeted meadows of summer flowers echoed by the silent hop of grey kangaroos intent on their path. Or one of knowing, being aware. I write this at a desk in a room with a door, or doors, I know not. There is a door at least—I’ve started saying doors because I no longer trust that it’s one obstruction and not many. I should say that now, before I forget to, before the telling runs away from me the way it always does. The...
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