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

Wed Jan 4 02:29:07 UTC 2012

Bridget,
It has been a long time since I have written you. Your "Tattered remains of
Christmas is one of the most powerful brief stories of domestic violence and
its personal history and manifestations in its beginnings that I have ever
read. I can hardly believe that it is fictional. The language is beautiful
on an ugly subject. Emotionally, I was unable to critique it. I take a long
time to process certain things. This is one of them.
The book I am trying to finalize is on this subject. I have had to write it
in third person, and learned the craft of poetry in order to further
distance myself from the experience itself as well as the further
victimization of our court system. 
I attempted to write my entire book in poetry without any prose. This
prologue is prose poetry, supposedly, in that it has aligned margins at the
right, and has some subtle differences from straight prose. It might be what
you described earlier as stream-of-consciousness. I do not know if it will
come out that way as a cut and paste.
I do not compare this to your story. It is literally "torn fragments" which
is how I thought mentally the first few months and on into several years on
Prozac and in pain. I could not write with my right hand for 18 months,
which added to the fragmentary nature of left-handed notes.
Please do not be afraid to critique this in the same way you would any
writing. I have submitted the manuscript in 10 contests for poetry, and have
not placed. I am in the process of re-writing and re-organizing the book
which has about 70 pages. The title is "Run, Quail, Run."
If I could write like you, it might have been published.

Your story has fictionalized something   in a riveting way.

Prologue

Torn Fragments-From and Beyond the Hospital Bed 

She cried from bottomless pain. His isolation, his loneliness, How will he
eat and manage things? A nurse stormed, "Woman, your right hand fractured,
an IV in your left, a broken nose-punctured eardrum, kicked black and blue,
you worry about him!" A pretty young counselor appeared to her, explained;
too much alcohol, blackouts, followed by total denial. He must maintain, "I
loved her so much, I could not have done this. It is her fault." If so, then
is he lying to himself about things that happened repeatedly throughout his
life? Has it always been denial followed by fiction that she so firmly
believed? And what of her own imaginings? She must understand her choice of
partner. If red is for courage and white for surrender, what color is a
broken heart? Her ninety-year-old mother, terrorized, sleeps with a gun at
her side. Three and one half weeks, she feels nothing with her bitten
tongue. Why were no breathalyzer tests done on both of them? Passed out cold
when they went to pick him up, they had to break in. Next day in jail he
said, "I've not had a drink in ten years." One deputy smelled alcohol, one
did not. Released because of his age, domestic animals, and diabetes, she
has to prove that he has been drinking since then.
No one will let her stay alone. Gratitude overwhelms her. A week and a half
to cover his actions while she lay helpless, his attorney excused his
incessant calls trying to get her back-bribes and threats. "Business," he
claimed. First call he asked, "How can I get hold of someone to clean up
this mess?" Blood on the carpet, couch, walls. Like a minor detail. Like...
"What is this?" She, in rote, said, "Put lots of cold water on it. Keep
blotting it." Oh My God! Did she think she would return to claim it? Can you
believe she told this man how to clean up her own blood? Do you believe this
happened once before, leaving her with three broken ribs, a gash in her
head? Do you believe his ex-wife talked her out of pressing charges? "Poor
man-childhood filled with abuse." It was then she said he'd beaten her
twice, never remembered, denied it. Did they train this man so he beat those
who would provoke him, creating the monster of their own destruction?	The
first wife died, the next ran off- but the ex is still here, returned three
times to defend him. Is it money? Is it the roller coaster after which
nothing else will do-or simply learned helplessness from which one cannot
return to "Go" alone. She did not know the entire hospital staff was holding
its collective breath lest she return to him. Is this what women do and why
police give up?
The post office will not separate and forward her mail. He owns the box. He
will not put hers in General Delivery. Should she steal her own mail until
he changes the key and pray she does not get caught? A stand-by officer took
her to their home-did not stand by, while she got some things. Six miles
from town on a country road, Quail Run,he said, "Call me if he comes in the
gate." He wouldn't give her two days to move her things-only eight hours,
but his attorney said he would be gone. He was not, came in the house, got
his gun, then left. 

						(stanza break)
An army of volunteers with their armada of pick-ups saw the intimidation, 
held her together, got her out in six hours flat. They passed him in the
lane coming back. Her mother's prize irises were left lining the long
driveway. Why is the perpetrator in charge while the victim jumps through
hoops?
Homeless now, in this small town, how does she start anew? Her possessions,
waiting lists for housing, storage-a strange new life, A woman in a real
estate office-one look at her-helped in every way, found her a protected
place, injected starch straight up her backbone. Did anyone ever love him
enough to make him accountable? Does she? In just ten minutes he lost
forever-an extended family he worked hard to become a part of, his
compatible partner, the near culmination of their hopes and plans. He gained
a prison within himself. In those same ten minutes she lost a man, a future,
a dream, a place she helped to plan, to build, to plant and grow. The
loneliness has not yet begun, the coping is too strenuous. When will the
nightmare end? If others judge her by those five years, where will she be in
their hearts? They cannot know that 51% of their time was a near miracle of
joy, the rest despair. She feels ashamed. If, oh, if she were to go back, he
would protect her-no one would know-until the next time, when one might see
the announcement of her accidental death. She cannot betray her "sisters."
They helped her stand firm when she cried, could not cope with his imagined
pain.
A writer should experience everything. Should she kill him and go to jail?
Or should she kill him and hire a man like Johnny Cochran for her defense?
Alone, she will be her own conversational partner. Is that healthful? But,
Wow! She can write and have macaroni and cheese for breakfast . She has
wanted to die sometimes but friends and family have given her reasons to
live. Yes, he did try to isolate her, but the erosion of the cement which
bound her to her family and friends had not gone too far. She knew she
always walked the dangerous edge with him. She is left with crumbs. Her
friends gather them like diamonds-hold them close. What does he have?
She must see a counselor to move through this fog. She is in no-man's land.
Or has she finally entered man's land? She has always played by the rules.
Why is the system failing her now? She does not walk alone. In the middle of
her fire, people are suffering "smoke inhalation" trying to save her. Now
she must be responsible for her own fire prevention. How?
He has been taught some bad lessons. With alcohol, it's like he got in a car
with no steering wheel. It hit her! Whatever happens, there are so many
possible mistakes, she is not required to make this particular one again.
Will she ever be able to love or trust again?
Everybody, take out a life insurance policy on her. She is going to testify.
Is she afraid? You bet! Her sister said she would put a "white light" around
her, her mother said she was putting a "hex" on him. A friend said she'd
asked God to look after her, another pinned a guardian angel on her lapel.
She will take whatever she can get-he is looking for her!
Note: Neither my title or subtitle can be bolded, nor bigger, so I don't
know what is going on.
(But that is not unusual.)
Jackie  
-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Sunday, December 11, 2011 7:54 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