[stylist] Holiday exercise: Tattered Remains of Christmas, fiction, language & strong content

Tue Dec 13 04:12:56 UTC 2011

Bridgit

Good story, I really got into the state of mind that the guy was
experiencing. And here is a question --- you can always explain things so
well --- what is the voice that this piece is written in? Like the guy, as
he is running, chasing  all these deep emotions and memories and while there
is signs of this guy being in Present time as he is aware of the cry's of
his daughter, yet in his remembrance of times past, you use ".... The static
in your hand charged through me..." then later you use "....Huddled in front
of the decimated Christmas tree, a bruised ball of fury, I reach my hand out
to you...." (with other references sprinkled through out like that, like
with the use of "you" and "your" he is talking at her, sharing his memories
with her.) Yet when the woman, his wife gets into the picture, it is in real
time and they have direct interaction. MMm, maybe I'm answering my  own
question, his state of mind in is going in and out of reality, of past and
present, from fuig state to --- whatever. (guess first couple of readings
found me not liking it, that writing tactic; maybe not understanding it.

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Sunday, December 11, 2011 8:54 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Holiday exercise: Tattered Remains of Christmas, fiction,
language & strong content

Here is a contribution to our holiday exercises. It does contain some
language and it deals with some adult themes. Keep in mind I wrote this
between baking, running after a toddler and cleaning, smile! And I haven't
written much fiction in a while either. I hope to maybe work on something
that is creative nonfiction for this exercise too since that's been my focus
for so long. We shall see. It is attached and pasted in the post.

950 words

Tattered Remains of Christmas

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter

Shards of glass litter the floor, reflecting light like drops of water.
Red, blue, green, purple-a shattered rainbow whispering about days now past.
Mocking the serenity oozing from Christmas cards standing in judgment around
the room. Cozy scenes of warm hearths, glowing Christmas ornaments and
families full of joy.

Wailing breaks the silence pushing against the walls. Marisa cries for
comfort in her crib; my heart stretches hoping to reach her. Her cries blare
through my mind in surround sound. This can't happen anymore, I think.

The world has turned to stone outside, a bitter cold silencing the hope of
renewal. The wind whistles a sorrowful tune replacing the shouting, the
anger, the rage. Mounds of snow land on top of the ground beating it,
pushing it down. The white purity of the snow is tainted by dirt and gravel
and the piss of Homer, our neighbors golden retriever.

A warm, sticky rivulet trickles down the side of my face. The blood shed for
you, a message poured from the pulpit. Sanctity, redemption, mercy-words I
don't know. Touching a welt leaving its purple, green and yellow mark; a
mark the world knows well, but glances over as though nothing were out of
the ordinary.

Blood streaming down my heated face, I close my eyes. It pools in the
corners, single drops of blood replacing the tears I can't summon. In the
darkness behind my eyelids, I escape to another time; another moment.

Water ran down creasing my face. Rain cast iridescent shimmers around the
park as we reached for one another. The static in your hand charged through
me as we ran for cover. Laughing, ready for anything, we felt the future
blessing us. Young and foolish, bitterness, misery, disillusionment-these
words were foreign to us.

Leaning in towards one another, leaning towards our future, towards lives
not yet shaped, we shared our first kiss, the brushing flutter of warm,
gentle wings. Energy crackled around us as each moment brought forth a
cascading prism radiating brilliant tones, deepening and lengthening with
every touch.

I open my eyes feeling the echo of that kiss dream across my lips. Tears of
blood seep through the part in my mouth. The salty tang of blood awakens me.
This will not happen again, I shout through the recesses of my mind.

Shattered ornaments crunch beneath my feet. Memories scattered about in
broken, jagged pieces.

The crystalline white globe, filigree designs dancing around its
sphere-given to us on our wedding day. Promises made but never kept.

Glittering green Celtic knots representing friendship, loyalty, love-the
gold and green bulb lays cracked on our floor; open, empty, nothing but a
shell.

Victorian ballerinas pirouette around the soft pink shards of what was
Marisa's first Christmas bulb. A fitting tribute, the fractured life
embracing our daughter.

My body aches as I search the room for any remnants promising relief, hope,
love. Marisa's cries wail like sirens. Her fear mingles with the tattered
remains of Christmas.

The Christmas tree cowers in a corner. Broken in half, it resembles the
homeless man crouching in the alley on Fourth Street; small, shrunken and
hopeless, wishing for the end. In this moment, my heart tightens, the
wreckage of this life bearing down on me; then I glimpse the figure huddled
in front of the tree. Finality hits me in the gut. Terror seizes me as I
fall to my knees.

Reaching a bloody hand out, scabbed, fresh and old wounds scream for relief.
Condemned and charged, my death sentence lingers in unspoken words. Images
fire through my brain like bullets.

Arms and legs tangled, creating a tapestry budding with vibrant colors.

Laughter filling the house to capacity. Capitulating in and out of each
room.

Sharing late nights on the worn sofa-father, mother, baby-contentment
saturating each breath.

Silence once meant joy; a deep, rich comfort supported by love. The cracks
in the foundation grew too wide though. Snow drifted in frosting each word,
each glance, each action. Anger is the only warmth left.

Huddled in front of the decimated Christmas tree, a bruised ball of fury, I
reach my hand out to you. You turn, seizing my gaze, piercing my mind, and I
know it's hopeless.

Beauty stains your face; the angel of my life. Fear is replaced by wrath.
Red sparks shimmer around you; deep anger unleashed, bidden by your desire
to survive. A gash on your left cheek only accentuates your beauty.

Swiping gold hair from your blue eyes, you stand. Slender grace radiating
power. Your quiet words cover me in layers of ice. "Get out."

"Please, baby?" I plead.

"I told you never again. Get out." Each word falls, daggers piercing my
flesh.

"Tonya, I'm sorry-"

"You fucked with me for the last time. I'm not raising a daughter like
this." She waves her arm like a banner.

I notice a bruise the size of my fingertips decorating her upper arm.
"Tonya, I'm sorry- I love you- please-"Remaining on my knees, I await the
killing blow.

"It's over, Trevor. Get out." She walks away, each step cracking already
broken ornaments. Blood leaves faint footprints accompanying the shattered
relics of Christmas.

I lean back on my heels, surrendering my life. Tonya coos a lullaby to
Marisa. Warmth generates her words as they dance from her mouth soothing our
nine-month-old daughter.

Left alone in the wrecked living room, I am embraced by the cold taking up
residence. Hollow, weakened by a dark growth, I splinter, now resembling our
busted Christmas tree. Broken vestiges of a life lay in ruins; I add my
shattered life to the wreckage ornamenting the room.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
 <http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/>
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/

"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan