myspokenheart

musings on life, love and laughter from my spoken heart to yours


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‘The Story of Me’… (Another piece of fiction… )

This is not  biographical. This is a piece of fiction. One day while at work, I believe it was in 2010, it was a very slow day and I opened up my note book and just started writing. This has been edited but not as much as some of the things I have written. I know this one will be my story. This one will become something more, when I am not sure, how with great discipline (gulp) but one day it will be something.

 

The Story of Me…

My name is David Michael Jones. David Michael. It’s a good strong name. A biblical name. A proud name. A boy’s name… But I am a girl and this is the story of me.

My father named me. I suppose he didn’t expect a girl. In reality he didn’t expect a child.
I like to think my mother had some beautiful name picked out for me and just didn’t get a chance to share it. Oh wait, I’m getting ahead of myself here. My mother. I never met her. She died when I was born. Leaving my dad to take care of a baby in the midst of his grief. It’s actually a very sad story, one I have only heard a few times, but have romanticized a million times. My mother is my hero. An amazing, selfless woman, full of courage – at least that is how I choose her to be… strong and beautiful.

My mother and father were still in the newlywed stages of love, when she began to feel that something was wrong. She was ill, she was tired, she felt ‘off’. After 4 different doctors and months of being told that she just needed to relax, that she was making  herself sick with all her worrying, that everything was fine, that she just needed to go home and be a good little wife, an eager young specialist, fresh out of med school, discovered the cancer. She was told that her and dad needed to take aggressive action, there were options, new treatments. And albeit they would be painful and would make her feel sicker sometimes, there was hope. Everything was set for radiation and chemo and all that fun stuff. They were prepped for all the lovely hours they would spend at the hospital and were just about to get  underway when mom discovered some other unexpected news. She was pregnant.

She now had a choice to make, which to everyone but her was no choice at all. She could abort me and go ahead with her treatments as scheduled, or she could attempt to live long enough to carry to me to term. The doctors said there was little chance she’d last long enough for “it” to survive without treatment, and that she couldn’t maintain the pregnancy while undergoing treatment, so either way “it” would die. But if she aborted “it” and went ahead with the treatment and if she came out clean and whole she could always try to have a family then. Well my mother said there was no choice to make. She would not sacrifice another’s life, no matter how small or “insignificant” to save her own. And that if God was willing we would both survive the ordeal and live happily ever after.

Well this story isn’t a “happily ever after” story. Just as she was coming up on 8 months mom took a turn for the worse and an emergency caesarean section had to be scheduled. They needed me out so that they could try to save her. It turned out I was born at approximately  9:30 on a drizzly May morning, and that my mother died at approximately 9:30 that same drizzly morning. No-one would tell me exactly when she died, or when I was born, but they said it was the anaesthetic, she was too weak, too sick, too frail for the surgery.
(I like to think that the nurses wanted me to be able to pretend that she actually had a chance to see me, maybe even hold me, and to fall in love in with me before she died. But I am quite confident that she died minutes before my birth.)

And that is how I came into this world.

Then there is my dad. I have seen the pictures of him before the cancer, before mom’s depletion, and he looks so happy, young, carefree, handsome even. I never got to know that man. The man I know is sad, withdrawn, worried, he looks tired and broken. He is a good man. He tries. But he IS a broken man. I know he loves me, but he is always just a bit distant. Always standing on the edge of my life, watching. In the early years I was raised by his sister Jane. I lived with dad, but Jane was always there. She got me up every morning. She cleaned me up, took me out, held my hand. But every night after supper she went home to her own place, only to do it all again the next day. Then she met this guy. She said he was “the one” and slowly we saw her less and less. When they got married they moved away, and then it was just me and dad.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good dad. He doesn’t lose his temper, and he has never hit me. But living with some-one who is chronically depressed is hard. When I was young I really didn’t notice. But as I got older I started to  realize that it was there. Like a thick fog surrounding him. He looks normal, he seems normal. He smiles sometimes, he even laughs. But he is lifeless. He died with my mother. You can see it in his eyes. He never laughs with his heart, and some days it causes me to feel broken myself.

Now some might think life has handed me a raw deal, that it’s just not fair. They may even go so far as to say God has a cruel sense of humour, that he has cheated me. I have even had people ask me how I can live knowing I took my mother’s life. I don’t know what they are talking about. I didn’t take anything! I was given a gift. A precious gift. And I know what that gift cost. I understand its value. I think I am lucky, luckier than most actually. God is good, and for that I am grateful.

Just like so many things that happen to us in life they define us, mould us. It’s those things, those moments, the ones that are beyond our control that make or break us. We choose to either succumb and live defeated lives or we rise to the occasion and choose to really live. I like to think that I am a masterpiece in the making. And therefore I refuse to be broken.

 

This content is the creative property of My Spoken Heart and Andrea Crowell – it’s author!
© Andrea Crowell and/or “My Spoken Heart”, “MSH” or any variance of.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, links and reblogs may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to “My Spoken Heart” and it’s author with appropriate and specific direction to the original content/source.

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Opinion please… but do be kind…

Another piece of Fiction for you to read. This one was started in late 2011 and is currently untitled. It is very different from the first one I shared, this is definitely not a fantasy, as it is definitely more of a mystery/drama. I am only providing the prologue even though there is also a first chapter to this. Please keep in mind this is still rough. I hope you like it…

 

Prologue (Currently Untitled)

She was sitting at her desk, back to the window, staring blankly at the computer screen. There was a picture on the desktop and even though she was the one who had selected it, and in spite of the fact that she appeared to be staring straight at it, she was completely oblivious to what it was of. Actually she was completely oblivious to everything. In that very moment all she felt was numb…

Everything fell silent. The radio was playing some familiar song, one she would often hum along to, but she was completely unaware of it. There were people just around the corner talking and laughing loudly, she could not hear them. She was startled back to a semblance of reality as the phone rang and made her jump. With shaky hands she grabbed the receiver, and swallowing down the taste of bile she spoke clearly into the phone.

“Thank-you for calling City Centre Employment, how may I direct your call?” always the picture of professionalism. Her calm even voice, it lied. She put the caller through to an available Employment Counsellor, and went back to staring; she was counting down the minutes. It was nearly quitting time.

She couldn’t get out of the office fast enough. She didn’t care where she went or what she did; she just needed out… Now! The clock stated that it was 4:30 and without a word she fled to the safety of her car. The numb that had consumed her was rumbling in her guts. It was becoming something else. Something she was afraid of. It was a foreign feeling to her. She wasn’t completely sure what to make of it, but it felt raw and edgy. It wasn’t organized or professional but chaotic and needing release. She needed out. She needed to breathe. She just needed to drive. It didn’t matter where, all that mattered was she wasn’t here…

She pulled into the parking lot of a decrepit Chevron station a few kilometres south of town. She didn’t know this area, as she had only ever driven through on her way to somewhere else. She checked her gas gauge, just over half a tank no need to fill up. She went around to the side of the building and parked near the air and water. She turned her engine off and stared at the empty lot which shared a fence with the Chevron. The fence had definitely seen better days. She looked at the overgrown shrubs and grasses and the garbage strewn about. It looked like her life, sad and pathetic…

Her hands were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles white, when she heard the tapping. She realized it was now dark out. How long had she been sitting here? She was confused. ‘Tap, tap…’ there was some-one outside her car tapping on the driver’s window. From what she could make out the individual was clean cut, and wearing what appeared to be a uniform. He must be a cop or maybe a security guard for the gas station. He seemed to be asking her something.

“Are you OK Ma’am?” tap, tap “Ma’am?” She tried to crawl out of the mental fog enveloping her, as she tried to unroll her window. He signaled at her to open the door. “Ma’am How long have you been sitting here? Do you need help? Can I talk to you?”

Her hand reached for the door handle as she gently pushed at the door. It was the last voluntary movement Karen ever made…

 

This content is the creative property of My Spoken Heart and Andrea Crowell – it’s author!
© Andrea Crowell and/or “My Spoken Heart”, “MSH” or any variance of.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, links and reblogs may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to “My Spoken Heart” and it’s author with appropriate and specific direction to the original content/source.


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A piece of Fiction…

The following piece of fiction was written last year for my first attempt at NanoWriMo… I did not complete NanoWriMo last year and stalled at 7,093 words – As I had decided that I did not like the tense in which I had written the rest of the Story, and so I am only providing the Prologue. I hope you enjoy it…

(Raven Leigh) Prologue:

It was the blackest stormiest December nite anyone in the valley could remember. It was a moonless, starless nite and the howling wind whipped snow and sleet and ice across the sky. The winds were cold and fierce and the icy snow was piling up in drifts. The violent gusts were shaking the trees causing the icicles to rain down. The midwife was afraid that one of the powerful gusts would blow over one of the surrounding trees causing it to land on her meager home. Venturing outside would be ludicrous in such weather, which is why she was so surprised when the young woman came to her, belly huge, eyes wide with pain and fear. She was in full labour. Gran could not for life of her figure out how this beautiful young stranger had even found her way to her little gypsy caravan. It wasn’t even on the direct path, but nestled in amongst the trees to provide a bit of shelter, just past the meadow. It seemed that one moment Gran was alone with her thoughts and the next there was a brisk chill in the air and the young woman was just there standing in her doorway. The woman was beautiful; she had a calm, gentle peace about her even in the midst of her pain. She kept very quiet, not saying a single word; she didn’t even ask for help, perhaps she knew she didn’t have to. She appeared to be still quite young, roughly a quarter century old. She had large brown doe eyes, which seemed to say all the things that her lack of words could not. They were filled with wonder and would flicker with what seemed near panic at each contraction. Her hair was short and tawny, her skin soft and brown. She only breathed loudly as the child came, still no words, no utterances. Gran was curious as to where she came from, how she got there, where the father of the child might be, but this was not the time for questions and even if it were certain questions are best left unasked. This was definitely not the time for such things; there would be plenty of time to talk after. Right now tending to the wee one who had just arrived took precedence. The young woman looked at her new born child and smiled gently, then laid down her head and closed her eyes.

Gran held the baby and carefully looked her over. Everything was as it should be five fingers, five toes. It was a girl; in fact she was an extremely beautiful baby girl. Gran poured some warm water into the washing dish and carefully cleaned the wee one up. She had huge dark eyes like her mother and a shock of inky black hair. She was very pale, and delicate, and quiet like her mother. The wind outside was relentless; it howled like a child in a full blown state of tantrum and shook the little caravan like as if a giant was outside bashing it about, making the baby whimper quietly. Gran sang softly to babe and mum, lulling them as she went about her business. She called out would you like some raspberry leaf tea? It will ease the cramping and make you feel better.  As she wrapped up the now clean little bundle and was carrying her over to the mother, but the young woman was gone! There was no trace of her anywhere. Gran opened the door and scanned across the meadow she couldn’t make out anything  it was so dark and windy, the sleet was coming down almost vertically creating near white out conditions… did she see movement a hundred feet or so off? Could it be? No, it was just a lone doe heading into the bush. What on earth? Thought Gran to herself.

Well little one looks like you are stuck with me for now. Gran half sang to the babe. So sweet, so helpless and already alone in the world, we’d best give you a name; no we can’t have you nameless on top of it all. Gran peeked through the moon shaped cut out in the shutters into the blackness of the nite. Black as a raven’s eye out there it is; Aye dark as their feathers out in the leigh. Hhhhmmm… Raven Leigh, that’s what I shall call you little one, that’s what I shall call you.

Yes, that was nite she came into the world.

This content is the creative property of My Spoken Heart and Andrea Crowell – it’s author!
© Andrea Crowell and/or “My Spoken Heart”, “MSH” or any variance of.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, links and reblogs may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to “My Spoken Heart” and it’s author with appropriate and specific direction to the original content/source.