ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
46 year old wife and mother who is trying to put her past behind her. [July 2006]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (13) Alien Within (Poetry) What comes with self examination. [15 words] Angel Of Death (Non-Fiction) A corrupted childhood contaminates the present-writing purges, but just slightly...*Caution, could be considered graphic* [706 words] [Horror] Dark Anger (Short Stories) A follow up, sort of, to Darkest Fairytale, sort of. [815 words] Darkest Fairytale (Short Stories) A story written out of the depths of confusion so it's a bit confusing to follow. *Could be considered graphic* [1,571 words] [Drama] Ending (Poetry) Just a few questions I asked once upon a time ago... [21 words] Escaping Reality (Short Stories) This is an account of a real event that has a fictional ending...the ending that I know she wanted. [981 words] God's Retribution (Short Stories) A follow on story written in early January. God is displeased and one child suffers the consequence. [425 words] [Spiritual] Remember...Do You Remember? (Genres) A long prose that asks tough personal questions which require deep internal self-examination to find the answers...if answers can be found. [271 words] [Mind] Seeking God (Short Stories) This story was written in December when a vision of the god from my childhood came crashing into my present. [767 words] [Spiritual] Taken Fetus (Non-Fiction) Ripped from within her. [697 words] The Frustrating Switch (Short Stories) What happens when stress takes me beyond the breaking point? This is glimpse into my world... [667 words] [Psychology] Washed In The Blood (Short Stories) During a particularly depressing time and trying to find a way to cleanse myself of shame...well this story came to be. *Caution, could be graphic.* [631 words] When I Was Eight (Genres) A long three part prose about a dark desert night when a child was scared into submission. [501 words]
Tempest: Calming The Storm Monica L Sprague
Alone in the giant room, mostly alone at any rate; one of the bell choirs practices for the rally ring. I sit in a chair by the bells that I know to be ours. Closing my eyes, I listen to the song being played so beautifully by the bell choir in front of me. Tempest, that’s the title. It’s appropriate. A fierce storm is exactly what I feel inside right now, right this very minute. I gotta get up, gotta get out of the room but I’m glued to the chair until the final notes ring out. Then I rise, quickly searching the room for … for what I don’t know. Sharp, I scan the room for something sharp. The need to cut is enveloping me and I must quickly find a way to ease the tension that’s built up inside of me. But I find nothing; there is nothing sharp on any of the tables surrounding me. I look to the left, there is a concession, but it is not open yet. I stumble blindly from the room and into the entry way. The Schulamark bell company is setting up equipment in front of me. A door is to the left. I go right. There, in the great halls marked B and A, a gun show. The doors are closed, items covered. The show isn’t open yet, I think to myself, a knife … maybe there is a knife in there. I’ll have to come back when it opens later. I wander farther up the hall.
Going past the information desk and the signs directing bell ringers to classes, I smell the faint scent of chlorine. Drawn like a moth to a flame, I move forward. There, the source, a wall fountain. Its magnificence overcomes me and I stand there watching the water flow, hearing the soft splash into the pool below. I listen intently for him, for a word from god, but all I hear is the sound of the water. No good, this isn’t helping. I approach the ticket window and ask one of the women if she has a pair of scissors I can borrow. She does, but I must bring it right back. I agree.
I slip into the farthest restroom and look at the scissors in my hand; how sharp are they, I wonder. Separating the blades, I hold the shortest edge tightly in my right hand and drag the longest edge across my left wrist. It bites quickly, almost too quickly and I draw a quick breath of pain. Ah, pain. Yes, that is what I was searching for, the pain. I draw the long edge across my wrist again. A deep gash becomes bright red almost instantly. I look at the cut. Not deep, not deep enough really. I set the scissors on the edge of the sink and look at the two slits in my wrist. Not bleeding enough. I pull at the edges of the cuts, pull at them to part the wound; make the cuts wider, bleed more fluidly. There, the blood pools on the top of my wrist. I smile.
Picking up the scissor again, I realize that my fingers are sore. Looking carefully, I see little cuts on my fingers. I must have been holding the scissors tighter than I realized. Only slightly red and not bleeding, yet there is pain. I put the scissors into my left hand and slowly drag the edge along my right wrist. Slower hurts more deeply although the cut is much shallower. I close my eyes tightly. A loud bang from somewhere unknown and I startle abruptly, the scissors bite deep at the jump. Quickly the blood runs down my arm and onto the edge of the sink. I grab a paper towel and wipe the blood off the sink, only to have more drip from the fresh wound. I wrap another paper towel around my wrist to ease the flow as I continue to wipe the blood off the sink.
Calmer now, I watch the paper towel slowly becoming red. The pain is gone. Only the redness shows that anything happened at all. I walk confidently out of the bathroom and back towards the great hall C, where the mass bell choirs begin arriving. I notice the doors to the gun show are opening. Can I get in with no money? How would I acquire a gun? Just then I feel a hand on my shoulder, Jean stands slightly behind me and smiles softly. I turn and follow her into the great hall, my longing heart left at the door to the gun show.
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