Flickering Light

The yelling stopped.  Then I heard loud footsteps and the living room door slam shut.  

I sat up in bed as the family car started up and quickly drove away.  I stared at my candle as it flickered spastically at its end. Suddenly darkness engulfed the room.  I slowly lay back down and heard the faint sound of my mother crying. My heart sank and my body became numb.  I felt powerless as I heard words through her tears.

“Why?  Why God?  Answer me dammit!  Why?”  

Yelling and crying was nearly a nightly occurrence through my youth.  But I never heard her talk to herself before that night.  Soon after I fell asleep I was awakened suddenly by my mother.  

“Let’s go Joshua. Don’t ask any questions.”  

God must have answered her that evening.  We never went back home.

This fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers.

Visit and read the rules and join in the fun!

Till we meet again.  Good day.

Mind of Shoo

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Together through Music

Copyright - Bjorn Brudberg

As a young kid, Marty and his mama spent weekend nights in rural southern bars listening to dad play with his band.  As a teen he learned to play under countless hours of alcohol-induced instruction and degrading comments from his dad.

The family went through financial hardship.  There was no playing catch in the back yard.  No family nights huddled by the radio. Divorce left young Marty alone with his dad in a run down shack on the edge of town.  Through it all,  music bonded the two of them like chords and lyrics do a song.

Marty went on to become a successful musician. He played on stages around the world. It brought him financial stability.  However,  his greatest joy was playing alongside his dad in the smokey bars back home.

_________________________

This fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers.

Visit and read the rules and join in the fun!

Till we meet again.  Good day.

Mind of Shoo

Man or Monster

diver
Her father laughed uncontrollably as he sipped his beer then gently placed the can on the arm of the chair. Jeanie didn’t dare look up at him from her spot under the cushions. With her eyes closed she prayed while pondering the laugh. Was it a laugh of anger coming from him? Or simply a playful laugh of a loving father?  
Jekyl and Hyde was the daily game she played her father.

He grabbed the beer can and chugged what was left then tossed it aside. She now understood the inevitable. Slowly she peered from behind the cushion and glanced up at the monster above.  

Today was not her day.

This fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers.

Visit and read the rules and join in the fun!

Till we meet again.  Good day.

Mind of Shoo

An Audience Of None

“Good Morning students,” the instructor says profoundly. “Welcome to the first day class for those who survived childhood with an abusive alcoholic unscathed.”  He looks out into the empty desks before him.  He paces a few steps with his head down and hand on his chin.  His eyes are as vacant as the scene before him.  “I will raise my voice so those in the far back can hear!” he yells into the void.  “I am Professor Minnefield. Survivor of physical and mental abuse from an alcoholic parent,” he projects in a booming voice of confidence.  “If I can go through life and succeed….”

“Mr. Thomas, keep your voice down,” the nurse abruptly tells the man standing in front of the picture on the wall.  “You can’t go on yapping like that.  This is the quiet zone of the ward. Here, let me help you tie the back of your hospital gown.”

This fiction was written for VisDare 146: Vacant

The picture to me was haunting.  This is what came to mind.  I was limited to 150 words so ends upbruptly.

Till we meet again.  Good Day

Mind of Shoo

Tattered

One could search a century and not find an answer.  His life is one of aimless searching and lost dreams.  He hopes the man in charge recognizes something inertly good in his tattered and beaten soul.

This fiction was written for Trifextra: Week Sixty-four.

This weekend we’re asking for exactly 33 of your own words plus the following three words:
  • charge
  • century
  • lost
So 33 of yours plus 3 of ours means that everyone will have a 36 word response this time around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pain and Beauty

Woman With a Towel, 1898, Edgar Degas

 

Off with the layers of sadness.

Painfully peeled one by one

with reflections of my storied past

and a future of hope and healing.

Time to bear my soul

to those few I hold close to me.

Re-open old wounds and ugly scars

that are physically present for public consumption.

View them and draw your own conclusions

yet look beneath the skin you see

and see the real hurt lying deep below.

View with open mind and open eyes

not with eyes closed protecting you

from these unsightly pains before you.

These wounds are mine.

Earned from alcohol and abuse

during the years of innocence we call youth.

Look deeper till you see my heart

injured and still bleeding yet

still pumping the very life that is me.

Search deep within me

and find the love and caring

that I know exist within me.

For you my dear friend

are the one that can help me heal

with your gentle ear and sensitive nurturing.

Only then will my bare skin become

soft and beautiful.

And I will find my peace

in the life that is before me  

and beyond.

 

This was written for The Mag #163

She Reached Out

There are many like us out there.  We all look the same. We are those who suffer at the hands of the alcoholic.  You would not recognize that we suffer.  We hide it well.  We often seek shelter inside our shell yet can’t escape the pain inflicted upon us. A pain received at the hands of someone we love.  Both emotional and physical pain.

I was one of the many. However, one person extended a hand.  Understood my reality. Sacrificed herself in order to make our life somewhat more manageable. Tried to make normal of the abnormal. A shield of sorts.  Often taking the abuse upon herself so it may bypass me.  All in the name of love.  A love for her only child.  A protector till the very end.  

She was more than a protector.  She was my loving mother. She did all she could do.  For me. And I thank you.

This is fiction written for VisDare 10: Whimsy.  No PFC Patterson this week.  The picture didn’t allow it.  It was difficult to come up with something.  This is all I could bleed today.