by Constance R.
He winced as she gripped his hand tighter, his own breathing quickening as she struggled with her hyperventilation. He could only watch as the pain twisted her face, the tears and the lights that hung menacingly above blinding her.
"It's okay" He spoke gently, his voice hushed, trying to swallow his own panic and giddiness. "Come on--come on, you can do it."
He was Peter, freshly 16 with light brown hair that managed to hang just in the center of his vision, soft heather-blue eyes and a complexion that seemed to pale with the passing minutes. She was Dana, also a delicate 16, with black hair that now fell in wisps about her grimacing face and dark eyes that were squinting at the swarming world before her. She was the one he promised to protect, to never leave. The one he swore forever to. Together they were two quiet people, innocent and the essence of what their small community would have once called perfect and sweet. But they were now imperfect--misshapen, shunned, and glared at from newspapers and porches as the passed silently by, heads bowed, hands clasped tightly; one stomach knotted in shame and the other's bulging with a promise and curse.
Peter stroked Dana's hand lovingly as it trembled uncontrollably, as her fingers dug into his skin and her voice cracked and trailed off to disgruntled groans. The people's eyes in the hospital had held the same judgement as their friends and neighbors, critically tearing at them as they had stumbled in through the pouring rain, dripping and crying, unsure of how the life they had brought was to make it safely into the world. He had refused to leave her to the nurses and doctors, clinging to her hand, letting her know that a small part of the world was there to love.
He could remember the night, nearly nine months ago. Dana had been curled in his arms, the stars far above and the world seeming to hold its breath as they regained control of theirs. She had cried, silently, and after sleep had taken away the immediate shame he had also shed his tears. Somehow, he'd felt it that night--as if he could already hear the tiny heart beat, the gentle prodding of feet against flesh and the curious shape that would be revealed by an ultrasound. He thought Dana had known too. Or not. He wasn't sure.
As she had cried, he had whispered his assurance to her that his love was steadfast, and that no matter what hurricanes of trouble may come over them that he would always be there. He would not desert her--not for anything. He'd proven that to himself now, as he gripped her hand, through her blood and his brimming tears. He now knew for certain.
The shrill cry scared him at first, he and Dana's hearts hammering as one. But once it subsided to a steady, throbbing noise that filled the room, as the source was cleaned, wrapped up in a soft blanket and handed to him, the tears cascaded down his face. Rocking the child, Peter shook with his own sobs, looking down at Dana, who's eyes seemed far away and who's mouth gaped open as she drew ragged breaths. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it gingerly, a smile breaking through.
"It's okay" he whispered to her, the child's cries subsiding as if on cue, the two of them peering down at her tear-streaked face. Peter leaned close, clutching the baby protectively, letting the child and Dana's cheeks brush one another gently. "We're going to make it--Just hang in there. It's over, I'm here...he's here. We'll pull through, I promise, I promise..."
Saturday, August 9, 2008
A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 1/4)
It was just another regular Tuesday, and there was absolutely nothing indicating that this day would at all differ from any chosen previous one I'd had the good fortune of experiencing. In fact I distinctly remember thinking to myself "What a fantastically normal and regular day," as off I went to the Little Shop around the Corner to purchase my daily fresh bread rolls and yesterday's newspaper - which always lay in the same place, absolutely free of charge, if only one knew where to look for it.
I made to cross the road, just as a tiny kitty-cat ran straight across my path, being all black as charcoal from the nostrils of its little nose to the tip of its tail, all the way down to the frantically trotting paws. Now, I really must hurry and say that I am in fact not a very superstitious person – must the sky fall down and the Devil take my soul if ever I spoke a lie – but black cats are an ill omen, however way of putting it!
So I decided that this delightfully normal day was as good a time as any to stray off my regular path to the Little Shop around the Corner, and try another way. Rather than crossing the road I continued down the street a bit, stopping every now and again to have a look into some forgotten neighbour's garden, my mind simply overflowing with exclamations such as "Oh my, those are some fabulous roses right there" and "Mrs. O'Malley certainly must have some time on her hands, creating a lovely garden like this." None as beautiful as my own, of course. Oh, may all sorts of blessings befall my modest soul but is my very on garden the pride of the street, or so I flatter myself thinking.
At the bottom of the street lives Mr. McCarthy, only he moved this summer, to London, apparently. May his unpatriotic old soul never find peace, so that he'll come back to the country that was bought him by young Catholic sweat and blood. No, actually, let him stay where he is, that unappreciative, dreadful old man!
As I looked over the little fence at his overgrown garden – what a shame that his granddaughter (for he certainly did have a granddaughter, didn't he now?) has done nothing to adorn those living things that have shot out of the ground at own will here, and now even the ivy climbing the walls of the house and – Oh look it! – covering the door so that no one might enter lest they have a machete at hand – I couldn't help but notice a collection of empty (I assumed they were so by the way that the sun seemed to shine through them – not that I gave much thought to it, of course) bottles in a first floor window. Oh, he always did love his comfort liquor that old Mr. McCarthy. Surely he has only been away since the summer, which can only be, what, some nine months ago now, on this undeniably regular day in early April.
I made to cross the road, just as a tiny kitty-cat ran straight across my path, being all black as charcoal from the nostrils of its little nose to the tip of its tail, all the way down to the frantically trotting paws. Now, I really must hurry and say that I am in fact not a very superstitious person – must the sky fall down and the Devil take my soul if ever I spoke a lie – but black cats are an ill omen, however way of putting it!
So I decided that this delightfully normal day was as good a time as any to stray off my regular path to the Little Shop around the Corner, and try another way. Rather than crossing the road I continued down the street a bit, stopping every now and again to have a look into some forgotten neighbour's garden, my mind simply overflowing with exclamations such as "Oh my, those are some fabulous roses right there" and "Mrs. O'Malley certainly must have some time on her hands, creating a lovely garden like this." None as beautiful as my own, of course. Oh, may all sorts of blessings befall my modest soul but is my very on garden the pride of the street, or so I flatter myself thinking.
At the bottom of the street lives Mr. McCarthy, only he moved this summer, to London, apparently. May his unpatriotic old soul never find peace, so that he'll come back to the country that was bought him by young Catholic sweat and blood. No, actually, let him stay where he is, that unappreciative, dreadful old man!
As I looked over the little fence at his overgrown garden – what a shame that his granddaughter (for he certainly did have a granddaughter, didn't he now?) has done nothing to adorn those living things that have shot out of the ground at own will here, and now even the ivy climbing the walls of the house and – Oh look it! – covering the door so that no one might enter lest they have a machete at hand – I couldn't help but notice a collection of empty (I assumed they were so by the way that the sun seemed to shine through them – not that I gave much thought to it, of course) bottles in a first floor window. Oh, he always did love his comfort liquor that old Mr. McCarthy. Surely he has only been away since the summer, which can only be, what, some nine months ago now, on this undeniably regular day in early April.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Reality? (poem, sonnet)
Round, and round, and round we go
Riding the rhythm of universal flow
From where we came, to where we go
For all to guess, for none to know
Maybe there’s neither beginning nor end
Or way of knowing what’s round the bend
And although your theories you may defend
Lets be real, it’s all pretend
Realities as real, as your static mind is active
As basic as what’s found attractive
As helpful as a corpse inactive
And yet some how it’s where we live
Your mind unwinds and finds its place
While all these thoughts rewind behind, without a trace
Riding the rhythm of universal flow
From where we came, to where we go
For all to guess, for none to know
Maybe there’s neither beginning nor end
Or way of knowing what’s round the bend
And although your theories you may defend
Lets be real, it’s all pretend
Realities as real, as your static mind is active
As basic as what’s found attractive
As helpful as a corpse inactive
And yet some how it’s where we live
Your mind unwinds and finds its place
While all these thoughts rewind behind, without a trace
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