Week 489 (September 17 - September 30) Stories Topic: Forgetting CLOSED

[C.P., Windrunner]

You have until the 30th of September to post a story and from the 1st to around the 7th of October, we’ll vote for which one we thought was best!

Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group. Only one submission per person is allowed.

Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long.

REMEMBER! A short story is not merely a scene. It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

This week’s topic is: forgetting

The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject/photo but it must relate to the topic somehow.

Most of all have fun!

[Anne]

I've been away for so long...doing other stuff...feels real good being back in the writing saddle again. Hope I can keep it up! :)
For what it's worth, here's this week's story.

Title: Fresh Start
Note: All references to medical treatment are fictitious.

Caro held her head high as she followed Dr. Lana into the institute's office. She knew this would be difficult; at the very least, painful and humiliating.

She straightened her tan skirt as she sat in the leather armchair across the desk from the doctor. She wet her lips – the pink lipstick applied earlier had long since rubbed off – and folded her hands to keep them from pulling on her ears or tugging at her short blonde hair, newly shorn per instructions.

Dr. Lana folded her hands atop her desk, soft tawny eyes smiling at her client.

"I want to be sure you understand the risks. It's highly experimental. Still in the research phase. We've seen promising results among 100 subjects so far although you understand I cannot guarantee you will experience the same. You would be the 110th."

"What happened to the other nine?"

"Three dropped out. Four began to show problems so we stopped the treatment. They are recovering nicely but cannot continue. One unfortunately died – a sudden heart attack. And tragically, one ended up with brain damage. You've read the information in the packet? And the consent? It clearly states that these are among the risks, although we consider them to be very low."

Caro nodded and handed over her signed consent, liability waiver and medical history form. Waited as the doctor reviewed everything. Braced herself.

"So why do you want this treatment? Exactly?"

"I want to start over, a new life. With no emotional baggage."

"I see you've spent a good part of your adult life in counseling, taken a variety of drugs – both prescription and, er, illegal, as well as various types of shock therapy."

"Yes."
"It hasn't helped?"

"It does for a short while, but then,, then it all comes back and, and I lose control."
"How do you lose control?"

"I yell. I scream. For no reason. Sometimes I throw things. Sometimes I hit people. But sometimes..." She hung her head down and began to rock. "Sometimes I set fires. To things. Certain clothes. The sofa. My neighbor's car. I drove by the church and saw a wedding party leave. It set me off. I went inside and trashed the flowers and decorations. They stopped me when I got ready to douse the place in gasoline. My parole officer said it's this or jail. Or an institution."

"Do you know what you're doing when you're doing it? And remember afterwards?"
"Yes and yes."
"How do you feel about it?"

"Horrible." Caro looked up, her eyes full of tears. "Horrible. And I can't stop. It's like something is driving me. It's all those other memories. Things trigger them. And then..." her voice petered off.

"So you're not here because you want to be?"
"I do want to be," she declared. "If I don't do this, I, I'll have to kill myself or spend the rest of my life in jail or an institution."

"How old are you?"
"25."

"How old were you when this started?"
Caro hesitated, thinking. "Maybe 12 or 13, I'm not sure. I remember yelling a lot and throwing things around that time. The fires didn't start until I was around 17 or 18."

"I'll need you to tell me exactly what happened in your past to trigger this. A timeline would be best, as accurate as possible. Lay down on the cot and I'll put the electrodes and probes on your head, then set up the scanner to map your brain. You understand I'll have to shave your head. All will be recorded."

Caro nodded, lay down and waited patiently for the prep to be completed.

"Caro, do you want me to restrain you?"

She looked up with gratitude. "It might be best. Full body please."

Dr. Lana then asked, "Have you ever hurt anyone?"

The young woman squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. "My two step-uncles and their two friends. When I was 16 I escaped; they liked to put me in the car trunk and take me to a church and -- " she choked and paused, "and I still can't stand the smell of flowers ---but they were high that time so, so, I got hold of one of their guns."

Her voice cracked before she continued, "Two have spine injuries, one has some brain damage, the other got a damaged lung and shattered shoulder."

"Will they have anyone coming after you? Because if you might be in danger, we'll have to take special precautions."

"My lawyer took care of that. We changed my name and everything. Just in case."
"So are you ready to tell me your story?"

Caro took a deep breath. Then another. "No, it's always hell to talk about this. But I'll go ahead and start."

Caro spent the next 3+ hours recounting her years of abuse and terror at the hands of those four men starting at the age of 8 after her parents were killed. The beatings, burns, broken bones, knife wounds. And more. Then the rapes started when she was 13.

When she was done, her wrists and ankles were red and raw where she had begun thrashing during her account, her palms bloody where her nails had dug in. Her skin was hot, pale and clammy, her pulse and breathing so fast she felt she might pass out. She felt someone place a cool wet cloth on her forehead, gently stroking it down her closed eyes, cheeks, her neck, back up. She began to calm down.

"You did good," a soothing voice intoned. "We're all done. I have everything I need."
"What now?" Caro croaked.

"Now I'll wheel you to the treatment center. We can start right away. Are you ready to lose all those memories? Forget everything?"

"Oh yes," Caro breathed out those words. "Definitely."
"I'm going to put a mask over your face. Breathe in. Deep breaths. Count for me. One, two, three..."

***

Three days later, Caro opened her eyes to see a window filled with bright sun, blue sky and puffy clouds. Soft music played in the background. She was in a hospital room, flowers sat on a mirrored dresser across from her, a pitcher of water had been placed next to her, and a call button was pinned to her nightgown. She lifted her arms up, wiggled her fingers and toes and considered. All in all, she felt pretty good.

Dr. Lana came in, smiling broadly. Success blazed across her features as she sat down on the bed and took Caro's hand.

"What do you remember?"
Caro shrugged her shoulders.

"Do you remember your parents' accident? When they died?"
She nodded. "I was eight years old. And I went to live with my step-uncles." She frowned. "They weren't nice people."

"Do you remember what they did? The not-so-nice things?"
"No. Not really."

"Does it bother you not to remember?"
"No. I'm fine with that. That's why I came here. Right?" Caro wasn't quite sure, but it seemed so.

"Yes. Yes. Good. What do you remember of the last several years?"
"I was in school. On and off. It took me a long time to finish high school. I think I'd like to go to college. I want a better job. I haven't been able to keep a job very long, have I?"

"I think that's a fine plan."
"Do you think I'll be able to make friends now?"

"I don't see why not. We have a program to help others like you readjust, meet people who are starting over. And I'll send a detailed report to your parole officer, your doctor and lawyer."

Caro drew in the deep scent of fresh flowers and smiled, looked out the window again, feeling very hopeful. Peaceful. "I'd like that. Very much. I can't wait to start over."

[Pat]

What kind of contest is this? Is there some sort of recognition or publication associated with it?? many thanks, pat

[Pat]

Guess that’s as good of a reason as any.

[Anne]

Pat, no publication aside from it being posted here.
Recognition comes from those that read your story and may comment or offer feedback on it (feedback upon your request); as well as the votes in the Polls that may come your way after the story submission period has ended.
See Polls in the top right menu section of this page. (Polls are closed during non-voting period.) The moderator will open the Polls for voting for a specified period. Hope this helps.

[C.P., Windrunner]

As Anne said, the contests are a way to share writing and get feedback from others in the group. They're for fun and learning, a push to get people writing.

All of which is stated in the group description on the home page.

Hopefully you have fun participating if you decide to.

[Garrison]

AUTHOR: Garrison Kelly
TITLE: Immune to My Own Edge
GENRE: Nonfiction
WORD COUNT: 1,475
RATING: PG-13 for violence and language



I might be the only person in the universe who feels this way…but when I’m writing a controversial scene in either my prose or poetry…I sometimes forget the weight of my own words. I’ve become immune to my own edge, if you will. A cowboy obliterating his opponent with a gatling gun and splashing his guts like a tidal wave? A leonine samurai decapitating a ninja with his katana before sucking the poor bastard’s insides out with the spine as a drinking straw? A femme fatale seducing a man into bed with her before she bites his penis off and shoves it between his ears? These things may be shocking to my audience, but they’re normal to me. They’re so normal to me that I wasn’t even trying when I wrote those descriptions. Now it’s time to crack my knuckles…

The other day I wrote chapter 21 of my fantasy WIP Beautiful Monster. In this chapter, an imprisoned elf reaches through the bars of his cell and grabs a mercenary by his facial hair. He then proceeds to pull this mercenary’s face into the steel bars as hard as humanly possible, getting more aggressive with each tug. The mercenary’s eyeballs pop out, his teeth shatter and roll on the ground, his nose gets plastered to the back of his skull…to put it as delicately as possible, this mercenary is fucked. Too graphic for you all? Well, that’s funny, because this is just another day at the office for me. This is easily as brutal as it gets in my novel and I didn’t even flinch. I’m immune to my own edge.

How did it get to be this way for me? Too many mental illnesses and pills numbing my mind? Too much brainwashing via the television? Not enough flinching when I watched movies like Saw and Hostel? It’s one thing not to care too much if it happens in a fictional setting, but in a documentary or news story? My god, does that shit hurt. I’m not immune to other people’s edges, just my own. If there’s a news story on TV about police brutality (which has become commonplace in America, unfortunately), I’ll get so pissed off that my jaw will be sore from all the clamping down I’m doing. My mind will do more hundred mile an hour laps than a NASCAR track. But if I write about it in one of my stories? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

Why is this happening? Is it because I’m in control of my stories and poems and therefore already know the outcome? But what if the outcome is negative? What if a character is so haunted by their PTSD that they hang themselves from the ceiling fan with a chain whip? Will I be immune to that as well? If I’ve written it, yes, I will be. But only if I’ve written it. If I imagine it in my mind, then I’ll cycle through every harmful emotion I can think of, be it sadness, anger, or depression, which coincidentally spells the acronym SAD. Imagining scenes is much more fun than writing them, even with the harmful emotions.

That’s why I never understood it when people say that jokes can only be funny if you, the comedian, are the first to laugh about it. Sometimes I laugh at my own jokes, but not all the time. And yet, whenever I tell a joke I don’t laugh at myself, my audience laughs at it all the same. Want an example of a really disgusting joke? Okay, here it goes. Where do necromancers go to adopt children? An abortion clinic. You may laugh at that joke, you may not. Did I? Maybe a little bit at first, but I don’t hee-haw at it every single time. I must be immune to my own edge again. Here’s a joke I definitely didn’t laugh at, but other people found fucking hilarious. What do you call a Viking who saves people from drowning? Leif Guard. Not the most offensive joke I’ve ever told, but it’ll probably get more laughs than my necromancer joke, and that’s only if you pronounce Leif like you would “life” instead of “leaf” or “layf”.

Okay, so I’m immune to my own violence and comedy, but what about sadness? I can safely say that I’ve never cried at my own scenes before. I’ve had characters rape each other, attack animals, and die by the hundreds. Not one single tear. Then again, it takes a lot for me to cry these days. Well, it used to, anyways. I used to talk about having a 2007 benchmark for the last time I cried and that was because I blew my chances at signing up for Evergreen College. I can safely say that as of 2020, that record has been shattered. It’s not just the American news or the depression of being cooped up in my own home due to Corona Virus. Those things tax the fuck out of my mental energy, sure. But if you want to know what made me cry alone at night with nobody watching…I repeated the words “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over again. Who was I declaring my love for? I don’t know. Who was I apologizing to? I don’t know. It could have been anybody. Hell, it could have been my entire audience because I felt like I let them down in some way. I wasn’t immune to that. But writing about the experience? Not one tear drop.

While I feel nothing when I write my own controversial scenes, my audience feels everything. I’ve had people tell me they cried at my sadder stories. I’ve had people tell me they had chills up and down their spines at my lovey-dovey poems. I’ve had people cringe in pain as they read my more violent poems and stories. I say these things not to brag, but as a warning to anybody reading this piece of nonfiction. You have no idea how powerful your words can be to another person, for better or worse. A simple, “Hi” can be the difference between isolation and a pick-me-up. A tweet can be the difference between connecting with your audience and losing them forever. If a salutation and a tweet can have that much impact on someone’s life, imagine how a whole book can make them feel.

You know…maybe that’s why I was crying and apologizing that one night I broke my 2007 record. Maybe I felt like my books were having a negative impact on people’s lives. I know that’s not true since book sales have been piss-poor since I became a pro. But what if my sales spiked one day and my audience was angered by what I had written? What if Debra Winter’s characterization in Occupy Wrestling was deemed unintentionally misogynistic? What if my poems bored my audience to tears because of how the lyrics resemble corporately-produced rock songs? What if my depictions of rape and assault in Poison Tongue Tales were done in an insensitive way? Can I do anything about these problems now that the books are published? I could, but Amazon is making me jump through hoops just to make cosmetic changes to one of my poetry books. But even if Amazon was 100% cooperative, that would mean redoing six published books and always being behind because I’d be overwhelmed with work. It seems like a lazy copout, but it’s reality. I don’t have the energy to micromanage every single book I’ve published, especially when they’ve been on the market for so long.

But…what if someone didn’t see my writing in an offensive light? What if somebody loved it regardless of all of my negative thoughts? Art is subjective, after all. What’s disgusting to one person could be bliss to another. Yeah, I’m immune to my own edge, but I’m not immune to my own worrying after the fact. Maybe that needs to change. Maybe I should start holding my head high. But in the middle of the cluster-fuck known as 2020? That won’t be easy. But that’s one advantage to having immunity to the most controversial parts of my writing: I can get lost in the process and escape from the world, even if only for a little while. Maybe I can find that nugget of joy among the sea of diarrhea. Isn’t that why we write in the first place? Isn’t that why people say, “Write drunk, edit sober”? Don’t worry about the technicalities now, just barf onto the page and be happy for just a little while. I guess I’m not an uncaring sociopath after all. I’m just looking for joy where I can find it. If that joy includes evoking strong emotions from my readers, then goddamn it, I’ll embrace that shit until the day I die.

[Garrison]

Anne wrote: "I've been away for so long...doing other stuff...feels real good being back in the writing saddle again. Hope I can keep it up! :)
For what it's worth, here's this week's story.

Title: Fresh Start..."

Anne, in such a small space, you've captured the brutality of psychological trauma perfectly. I should know something about mental illness and I would have loved a treatment like the one Caro got. Thanks for your story this week! It's been a while since you've participated, but it was well worth the wait. It'll be wonderful to see you in the next contest as well! :)

[Anne]

Thanks so much Garrison! You've always been generous with your feedback. As someone who struggles with unwanted memories, my story hit close to home for me as well -- I guess that's why I love the Fantasy genre so much :)
I really enjoyed your essay this week as well. It seems a different style from what I recall of your past writing, but that's the great thing about writing isn't it? -- being able to branch off in different directions to go with whatever moves you!

[Garrison]

Thanks, Anne! It feels good to switch things up every once and a while. There was a time when I felt like I was writing the same story over and over again with two angry wizards butting heads. But then I rekindled my love for nonfiction and here we are. Thanks again for the feedback, Anne!

[Doug]

ERASING HIS REMEMBERING

A man bought a fine oil painting from the enlightenment era. It portrayed a sidewalk dining scene. He took it home and hung it in his great room to admire during dinner.

He had a party for friends to come and see it. Many of them said "It is nice but there must be an illusion of life which is subdued and hidden under the bright colors and busy portrayal of that life unlike modern paintings which portray reality without the busyness and excessive colors." He thought about it and wondered if they were right and he should have bought a modern painting.

Eventually, he decided to test that theory and he began cleaning the oil off until he only had a charcoal sketch left from under the finished painting. He rehung it in his great room and invited the previous guests to return to see what he had discovered.

No one seemed to like it although they said they liked the modern theme and it was "enlightening". He was confused since that is what he had before.

After great thought, he decided to take it down and cleaned it more thoroughly to make it post modern. Surely he would be on the favored side of his friends after he did that. After gallons of cleaning fluid were consumed, he rehung it in his great room and had another party.

Every one of his friends said it was "impressive and progressive and thoroughly post modern." He felt greatly admired because they all said they wished they had something so nice. He asked if they remembered the original and they said they did.

The next day he gave great thought to what had happened with his forray into having art and how much more his friends liked him. He thought he would test their truthfulness and faithfulness with another party after he told them he had purchased new art.

When the great room was filled with guests he walked around with them admiring the white canvasses hanging around the walls. All were complimentary of his intellegent choices of pure nature without the pressure of realism imposing ideas and isms which according to them allowed the unfettered free explosion of science and creativity in his new pieces.

At the stroke of eleven, he proposed a toast. While the glasses were held high, the caterer turned all of the canvasses around to show paintings on the other sides. "Let us drink to memories and ignore the unknown future," he toasted. Some gasped in disappointment as they quietly disassembled to go home.

He had learned as they left that it was not his paintings that they admired. It was their lack of having a creation better than his that they envied. He realized what they wanted was to be superior to him and his blank artwork facetiously gave them that, but he remembered the beauty that he had erased and found his true place was with himself and not under the discrimination of their jealousy.

Many of his friends forgot to come to his next party but he remembered to invite them. It would be dull without the rented paintings, but the dinner wine was very fine.
___________________________________________________
I'm sorry a power failure intrupted this before it was finished but there it is all fixed up now.

Doug

[C.P., Windrunner]

I've been watching a lot of Danny Kaye movies lately and loving them. This story is a little more sappy than I wanted, but I like the idea and decided to post this rough attempt anyway. I'll play around with it more at some point.

At the Movies
Word Count: ~480

Louisiana, USA, early 1956

Annie stood in line at the movie theater, coat pulled up around her ears to block out the chill in the humid air. Small groups of people clustered around her, other teens out to the movies in groups of threes, fours, and fives. Annie didn’t recognize any of them and was glad she didn’t have to make excuses to remain aloof. She let the sound of their chatter and laughter surround her without feeling obligated to join in. Every time her mind tried to stray toward home she shook her head, focusing on the conversations around her, the thought of the movie she was waiting to see and the giddy, childish delight she expected it to elicit.

When her father came home after the war, he had taken Annie to see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty starring Danny Kaye. She remembered laughing so hard her sides ached, so hard she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Dad had laughed along with her, but in retrospect she always remembered that his mirth had not overflowed, that he laughed with his voice but his eyes stayed haunted.

The theater opened up and Annie found a seat just close enough to feel connected with one of the groups of teenagers, but far enough away that it was clear she was not with them. She huddled into her seat, eyes already on the screen, waiting for that same sense of awe to overcome her as it had during The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. In her mind, Danny Kaye was a beacon of light, laughter shining into a world where tears were more often found.

Dad had come home changed. When she was little, Annie remembered him being the happiest person around, always a laugh to be had. Then he was called away to fight and something inside of him was damaged, broken maybe. He had hidden it for a while, plastering on a smile for the world and hiding in his room when the nightmares became too unbearable. Then something changed, his nightmares morphed into anger and his anger morphed into yelling, then into hitting. It didn’t happen often, but there was never a way to know what might set it off.

Annie knew her dad was hurt, that something inside of him had been stolen during the war, but she also knew that that didn’t make what he did to them acceptable. How did you help someone like him? Annie had no idea, but she was looking for the answer.

The opening credits began to roll, Danny Kaye began to sing, and Annie smiled. This movie wasn’t the answer to all of her problems, it wasn’t the magic fix for her dad, but it was a light in the darkness. And she would cling to that light while she searched for a way to, if not fix, at least help her dad.

[Anne]

What a poignant story! Very touching and a good reminder to us to appreciate light and joy wherever we can during dark times.
I also enjoyed Danny Kaye! He was a great entertainer.

[C.P., Windrunner]

Thank you! I watched White Christmas, somewhat reluctantly, with my sister last year and that was my first introduction to Danny Kaye. I fell in love and have been watching all of his movies, clips from his TV show, anything I can. He was an excellent entertainer and sounds like he was a really good person.