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

[Brenda]

Hi Bridgit
I liked the description, and to me your piece was more like a poem.  I 
like how it proved it's point rather then lecturing about spousal 
abuse.  Very, sad, emotional read but I liked it.  Are you developing 
this into a larger work?
Brenda

On 12/11/2011 9:54 PM, Bridgit Pollpeter wrote:
> 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
>
>
>
> _______________________________________________
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