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Anything but Mine (619 hits)

Category: None
Labels: Comp

Rating: 1.44 on 12 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Labels:

Submitted by goferforhire <goferforhire.at.yahoo.com> (View user info) at 2006-06-19 13:30:19 EDT


http://www.ubersite.com/m/89324

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slideshow. Rewind. Slideshow, scattered, photos, flashes, visions, light, color, fire, sound- a scream. Shit, I remember the scream now like a fucking hawk shooting out of the sky, and another noise, louder- tires squealing, horn blasting, metal crunching into metal and glass crashing into millions of little pieces and the fucking sirens. One more thing, one more snapshot of memory scattered among the other little fragments- the vague smell of gas and a wet feeling near my forehead.

"Don't go toward the light, Ryan."

"Don't you fucking die on my you little piece of shit!"

Margaret fucking Atwood.

... You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.
Well all children are sad
but some get over it.


Hospitals make me uncomfortable. The cold light, the sterile smell and all the old people walking around with needles in their arms and their asses hanging out. The nurse is gorgeous today as she stabs me with the iv. If I wasn't halfway in a coma I might try to squeeze out a come-on line but something tells me she's married anyway. She looks like the kind who'd have an affair. Jesus fucking Christ, but my head hurts. The fluorescent lights hurt my eyes and I keep hallucinating that I'm back in my house and someone's reading some damn book of old-woman poetry.

... Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun...
said to yourself in the bathroom
"I am not the favorite child."

My mother and father are staring at me again. They always do this when they want to tell me something unpleasant, like if they just look at me long and hard enough I'll get the point and they won't have to say anything they don't want to deal with. My sister's grinning like an idiot because she knows they love her and I'm just the failure, little Ryan that got an i.o.u on his birthday.

"You're adopted."

Dad blurts it out before mom can sugar coat it. I stare back at them expecting an explanation, but it doesn't come. Mom goes back to baking cookies, dad to digging through the cabinets to find a lightbulb, and sis looks at me like she just got away with letting all 13 of her ex-boyfriends piss on my face while I was asleep instead of just one. I mutter something about guessing that's why neither of them give a rat's ass whether I live or die or fail out of school. Dad shoots me a condescending, frustrated glance and snaps at me.

"Listen, Ryan. Your mother and I made a mistake when we picked up an extra child. We did our best to raise you as we could, but we just didn't have the energy or time to spend on you. We're sorry we didn't make you feel warm and fuzzy inside, but we've kept you in food and clothes and that's all you really need. I don't feel guilty in the least that you turned out the way you did- whiny and worthless to society- and you know why? You're not mine. You're no one's responsability but yours."

...when it comes right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or a burning car,
and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.


I'm awake, I think. The hospital still bugs me, but I recognize some of my friends and my heartless bitch of a sister. Looking over at her, holding her fiancee's hand and idly playing with her hair, I silently thank Satan, Jesus, Buddha, and L. Ron Hubbard that I'm not related to her. A smile on my face, I turn to my friend Richard, my best friend since high school. He's staring at me like he wants to say something.

"Pull the plug."


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User Reviews


Submitted by Maltese (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:27:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

I'm +2ing all your posts as a sign of good faith. I just want to show that there is no animosity between us. Friends?

Submitted by WatchMyStep (user info) at 2006-06-23 21:47:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

Liked it.

Submitted by Paloma (user info) at 2006-06-23 20:33:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

Submitted by whysenheimer (user info) at 2006-06-23 20:11:56 (#)
Ranking: 2

I liked it. Interesting style.


I agree.

Submitted by whysenheimer (user info) at 2006-06-23 20:11:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

I liked it. Interesting style.

Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-06-23 19:56:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1

Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-06-20 14:54:15 (#)
Ranking: 1

It was a little too choppy for me to warrant this a +2, as I found it hard to assimilate, but the story concept is good.
===
I'm with Thorny here, gofer. I'd like to see you rewrite this, I think it has a lot of potential.

Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2006-06-21 00:42:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1

.

Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-06-20 14:54:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1

It was a little too choppy for me to warrant this a +2, as I found it hard to assimilate, but the story concept is good. Try dividers between the prose and the poetry, maybe? That might have helped a bit.

Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-06-20 02:35:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

Erase & Rewrite

Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-06-19 15:58:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0

The man got hit by a car. If it reads choppy, that was intentional. I appreciate the constructive criticism though.

Submitted by PeopleAreStrange (user info) at 2006-06-19 15:36:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0

I liked the Margaret Atwood poem. But this read like a rough draft, it needs some polishing.

Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-06-19 14:35:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2

+2 M. Atwood

Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-06-19 13:37:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0

All poetry courtesy Margaret Atwood- 'A Sad Child'

Orgasmatron will write a poem. I did not.


Well, you know boys, a nuclear reactor is a lot like a woman. You just
have to read the manual and press the right button.

-- Homer Simpson
Homer Defined