Writing Exercise: Pain

[TheExperimentalist]

If anyone would like to read the whole document, let me know.

 

[TheLobster]

This snippet would probably have the title "Death of the Author".

I'd go with "Sorrows of the Young Writer."

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

Thank the gods Derrick and Steve had been there. I fought back the tears as I washed my makeup from my face, considering the bruise the asshole I’d been dancing with had left on my cheek when he slapped me with the back of his hand. Dancing. We were just dancing, having fun. What the fuck?

Steve grabbed his arm before he could hit me a second time with his fist. Derrick made sure he knew it wasn’t polite to hit a lady. My only satisfaction was knowing my friends had made sure he got the worst of it.

Zed had always been a safe place, as long as you were careful, even for a girl like me. It wasn’t an openly gay club, but it was known to be ‘friendly.’ I guess I could take a bit of the blame… Hell no. Fuck that. We were just dancing. I didn’t give him any idea of having a chance of anything more. Why would he care? Why would it matter? It was just a dance.

But he did. And had it not been for my friends, the cost of my great deception would have been a trip to the emergency room. I knew girls that had been there and decided I was lucky not to be joining them, but fucking hell, why? It just didn’t make any sense, not to me. I didn’t choose this.

I grinned at the thought that Dr. Marshall would have been pissed as hell if the asshole had broken my nose. That made me retrospective. I admired his work, my cute nose and rounded jaw, my decidedly female hairline and smooth throat; no hint of an Adams apple. My breasts were perfect, not huge, but nice and pert. My waist nice and trim flowing down so smooth hips and very nice legs.

I was fucking gorgeous. That asshole should have felt lucky to be dancing with a girl like me.

There, between my legs, the bane of my existence, the source of his ire, his hatred, his anger, his wrath.

“You fucking freak! You goddamn pervert, get away from me!” and his hand found my face. Rage filled his eyes. All because my tuck failed.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. Sure, the bruise would heal. I could cover it with makeup, but the pain in my soul only grew.

Fucking why?

 

[ElectricBlue]

This is an extract from an autobiographical story that I submitted very early to Literotica, almost the reason I joined the site. This coda is matter of fact, the rest of the story more lyrical. But this bit hits the gut (I hope).

One of the great shames of this great southern nation is what the "benevolent white man" did to the aboriginal people. We have a stolen generation who were removed from their parents, dispossessed and a diaspora.

One of the dreadful consequences of this theft of children was a breakdown of marriage within aboriginal people. Because the children had been removed from parents, they might never know who their kin might be. This meant they could never take the risk of marrying another aboriginal person, for that person might be kin, and marrying within kin is the biggest taboo.

Their solution, this tragic generation, was to marry outside their people, marry into the white man. That way, they could never accidentally marry their kin, their cousin, their sister, their brother.

Clio had always said she was half Italian. It was her explanation for her darkness, her dark skin, her black eyes. She may have been half Italian, but I discovered later, so much later, that she has aboriginal blood in her. I don't know how much, she never ever told me, I never knew.

Clio's story is so much more complicated than mine. Her parents were from the stolen generation, and her mother truly had lived a long and hard life, and maybe her husband was Italian. I don't know.

It is an indictment of this country, that even in the late seventies, a little koori girl from a small country town would be scared of the stigma of her race, and would never say who she really was. She never told me, I never knew. The girl with the most beautiful smile in the world.

 

[redgarters]

A snippet from a WIP, since it has been allowed.

The clock on the wall was broken. It had to be. Those last two hours felt like ten.

The room was stuffy and airless. Like the walls were slowly pushing in on me.

There was a paper cup of grey machine coffee in my hands. It tasted like nothing. I drank it anyway. Sipping it gave me something to do.

Then the silence just… took over.

A nurse brought sandwiches. One turkey. One ham. Packaged tight in plastic, with a packet of mayo and mustard.

I opened it. Tried a bite. Couldn’t muster the appetite.

Ash in my mouth.

I looked at the clock for the hundredth time. It was past four. three and a half hours since she’d been shot. Every time I heard someone walk past the door my head snapped up like yanked by strings.

Then nothing.

At some point I started whispering prayers. I wasn’t sure to who. Whoever might be listening. Whoever might help.

Please.

Please let her come back to me.

Please don’t take her away.

I hadn’t prayed in years. Not since I was a kid hiding under the covers, praying for the sounds of yelling and slamming doors to stop. For escape. For my mom’s boyfriends to disappear or something.

Please... just let her live. That’s all. Let her live.

I’ll take anything. I’ll take a wheelchair. I’ll take machines. I’ll take whatever you give me.

Just don’t take her from me.

I don’t know who I meant by “you.” God. The universe. The people in the green scrubs who held her fading life in their hands. Whoever or whatever power was watching. If anyone or anything was.

Just let her come back to me.

Let her come home.

The door opened. I held my breath, staring at the person in the scrubs, standing there looking serious.

No. Please. No.

 

[Kumquatqueen]

I reached for my bedside lamp. Muscles inside my arm clenched their claws, reminding me I didn't want to do that. True, only I didn't want to lie in the dark all day, either.

Attempting to ignore the sharp scratches of muscles resenting any demands, I sat up.

Crunching neck: present and correct, no worse than usual. That cold burn whooshing down my spine, unsurprising. I paused until less light-headed, or rather, until I was bored of waiting and decided I could stumble to the curtains.

Nerves in my calf stabbed me while my opposite ankle tugged, resisting my standing on it. Gripping the bedpost, I ignored that information.

Daylight sprang in; mission achieved. I turned to return to bed, the pressure on my chest making that imperative. A Labrador sitting on your ribs, the doctor described it. Better than the elephant it once had grown into, still heavy. Inflamed lungs oppressed me, more than anything else. A metaphorical weight on the mind, feeling physical, two for the price of one.

The dog went on a diet over the next ten minutes. Enough for me to stand again and step towards the stairs. Ignore the throbbing in the left calf, pay attention to every placement of my right foot so as to stretch the tendon in a good way, not wrenching it further. Five, six. Down the stairs, right foot first onto every step. Mark the pelvis complaining about being pulled out of alignment, push my sacrum back into place at the end, perform two twisting exercises to keep my physio-terrorist happy more than because they did any good.

I reached the kettle. It needed water. I tensed, helping my shoulder to scream as little as possible. Not so bad when I lifted it; horrible pinch as it filled. I dropped it in relief. While it boiled, I performed calf stretches, hoping in vain to alleviate their painful hypertension.

Resting the kettle on the countertop, to avoiding its weight when pouring, I carefully left space for sloshes as I collapsed on the sofa, panting with the effort.

Half an hour to make tea.

Anyway, good morning. How are you?