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Literature Text
Death struggled a bit with Randall's mother. The woman's stubbornness knew no ends, and she fought it off for years. The day it finally caught her, Randall ended his meeting early.
"My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, I must excuse myself. I just got word that my mother is close to death. Thank you for your time, feel free to stay and enjoy the refreshments for as long as you'd like."
The sympathy in their eyes hit him like a splash of lukewarm water: that is, he felt nothing. The nearest man to him, a portly gentlemen and a wealthy restaurateur, patted him on the back. Randall offered what he hoped was a convincing look of pained appreciation and headed out the door.
Why bother going? The question haunted him as his shoes tapped softly down the stairs, muted by the multi-colored carpet that covered the company's conference hallway.
Could he remember anything of her past the picture in his head? Sixteen years old, depressed, lonely. Not a good fit in school, although a top performer academically. He saw himself again, standing there in the ill-fitting pants and the scuffed shoes that pinched his toes awkwardly.
"Get out of my house!"
"But Ma! I just need a little help! There's nothing wrong with that!" She got close to him then, he could still feel the droplets of spit on his face and how he cowered under her as if he weren't five inches taller than the spoon-wielding assailant.
"No one in this family needs any kinda psycho-anything, you hear me? We talked about this before. You need to grow up and be a man, and start trying to do something worthwhile. I've seen the kids you call your friends, Randy. Worthless, every last one of them. You aren't 'depressed.' You're just a runt, always have been. I can't protect you anymore, it's time to kick you out of the litter. You'll either man up or die; done coddled you too long, boy."
The shock on his face hadn't been enough to stop her. He wasn't sure if she was serious, but he hadn't stayed to find out. He left that day with the uncomfortable clothes and a scrap of cash in his pocket.
He took himself from vagrant to entrepreneur to popular, successful businessman without her help--in spite of her, he liked to think.
That he had kept in touch with his sister was out of necessity; that being, she wouldn't leave him alone. She had sent the message about his mother. She expected him to be there.
Why bother going? It stayed with him as he walked into the hospital, asked for directions, and got lost. It followed him into her room.
"Hi, Ma," he said, his mind running dry suddenly, cracking in places like the dirt in a dried-up riverbed.
"Randall," she rasped, her mind sharp as ever, even if her body didn't agree. "I heard about you, you're all big now. Must think you're a pretty swell guy these days, huh?"
"I like to think so, Ma," he replied, shifting his weight nervously.
"Yeah, well, not swell enough. Takes me dying for you to come back and properly thank me."
"Thank you?" he said incredulously. "Thank you for what?"
"For forcing you to be a man, son. And you're welcome, you ungrateful snot."
The monitor flat lined, then; punctuating her sentence with a loud, droning beep. She died, and the shock on his face wasn't enough to stop her.
"My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, I must excuse myself. I just got word that my mother is close to death. Thank you for your time, feel free to stay and enjoy the refreshments for as long as you'd like."
The sympathy in their eyes hit him like a splash of lukewarm water: that is, he felt nothing. The nearest man to him, a portly gentlemen and a wealthy restaurateur, patted him on the back. Randall offered what he hoped was a convincing look of pained appreciation and headed out the door.
Why bother going? The question haunted him as his shoes tapped softly down the stairs, muted by the multi-colored carpet that covered the company's conference hallway.
Could he remember anything of her past the picture in his head? Sixteen years old, depressed, lonely. Not a good fit in school, although a top performer academically. He saw himself again, standing there in the ill-fitting pants and the scuffed shoes that pinched his toes awkwardly.
"Get out of my house!"
"But Ma! I just need a little help! There's nothing wrong with that!" She got close to him then, he could still feel the droplets of spit on his face and how he cowered under her as if he weren't five inches taller than the spoon-wielding assailant.
"No one in this family needs any kinda psycho-anything, you hear me? We talked about this before. You need to grow up and be a man, and start trying to do something worthwhile. I've seen the kids you call your friends, Randy. Worthless, every last one of them. You aren't 'depressed.' You're just a runt, always have been. I can't protect you anymore, it's time to kick you out of the litter. You'll either man up or die; done coddled you too long, boy."
The shock on his face hadn't been enough to stop her. He wasn't sure if she was serious, but he hadn't stayed to find out. He left that day with the uncomfortable clothes and a scrap of cash in his pocket.
He took himself from vagrant to entrepreneur to popular, successful businessman without her help--in spite of her, he liked to think.
That he had kept in touch with his sister was out of necessity; that being, she wouldn't leave him alone. She had sent the message about his mother. She expected him to be there.
Why bother going? It stayed with him as he walked into the hospital, asked for directions, and got lost. It followed him into her room.
"Hi, Ma," he said, his mind running dry suddenly, cracking in places like the dirt in a dried-up riverbed.
"Randall," she rasped, her mind sharp as ever, even if her body didn't agree. "I heard about you, you're all big now. Must think you're a pretty swell guy these days, huh?"
"I like to think so, Ma," he replied, shifting his weight nervously.
"Yeah, well, not swell enough. Takes me dying for you to come back and properly thank me."
"Thank you?" he said incredulously. "Thank you for what?"
"For forcing you to be a man, son. And you're welcome, you ungrateful snot."
The monitor flat lined, then; punctuating her sentence with a loud, droning beep. She died, and the shock on his face wasn't enough to stop her.
Literature
A History of Imaginarium
When we were young, we believed. In myths, in legends, in stories beyond the wildest imagination of the best story teller in the world. Tomorrow always held surprises, new stories, and new worlds for our imaginations to explore. Everything began with 'Once upon a time' and ended with 'Happily ever after.' We lived in a land where we all owned pet tyrannosaurus rexes, maybe a few dragons, a sword that rivaled Excalibur and faeries and pixies, who just happened to make great playmates. Fae food for some reason always seemed to be so much better than your average meal, and who needs an adult to talk sense to, when you could have a talking lion?
Literature
Numbers
1600
The number of calories
Consumed today
131
What the scale says
That I currently weigh
100
A perfect flute score
Earning a hug from my father
3
The number of hugs last year
With which he could bother
6
The number of years
It's been since he died
82
The lowest grade on my report card
I cried
101
The number of non-accidental scars
Currently on my body
21
The number of roles
Which I've embodied
5
Written on the tag of jeans
I could not force myself to buy
4
The age when
I told my first lie
12.5
The number of crew hours
I have left at the least
150
The amount of money I need
For Beauty and the Beast
7
The
Literature
it rained one year ago today.
so i thought i
was invisible; and i
could hide from you and
your glances that cripple
and
break me.
-
so i thought you were
deaf; and you couldn't
hear me and i didn't
have to hide my words
along
with my actions.
-
so i thought i was
gone; and you weren't a part
of me anymore, but you found
ways
to stay inside of me when
i was
inside out.
-
it is cold outside and i'm
sitting on your porch
waiting for you to
come home
again; i remember one
year ago today, when we stood together
in the streets; in traffic.
we felt free.
we felt safe.
Suggested Collections
Attempt number two at flash fiction, trying to get away from anything romantic-related.
Comments5
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I love the subtle repetition in this piece. I admit that the ending was expected, but it somehow managed to hit me, nevertheless.