Tag: mental illness
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The Bridge
It only appeared in the fog, the old bridge. Not the morning fog when the rising sun burned off the surface of the river. The rare sunset mist defying the golden glow spilling over the horizon. The mist that was both there and not there, with impossible shapes darkening it. With the bridge that couldn’t…
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The Round Peg in a Square Hole: No Words
I’m a writer. I don’t mean that I write for the public, though obviously I do. I mean that I express myself through the written word. I love the way words come together to depict complex ideas and emotions, the beauty in the way they flow. With my pen, I can think. Except when I…
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Not Helping
“Aren’t you on medication? I thought it was helping. Why do you feel so bad?” If you have a chronic illness, you’ve probably heard some variation of this ad nauseum. We live in a culture that expects some version of Star Trek medicine, where every problem can be fixed, every ailment can be cured, with…
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Mr. Meanie
“I was yelling at Mr. Meanie! He just WON’T! LEAVE! ME! ALONE! I can’t do anything right anymore!” The above came from my tearful, sobbing seven year old son. He had thrown his playthings and rushed to his room growling like a cornered tiger. To an outsider it might have looked like a temper tantrum,…
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Apocalypse
The bomb hit at sunrise. Shards of glass melted into the asphalt, like black ice waiting to land me on the flat of my back. Twisted metal beams hung overhead, barely visible in the greenish haze that should have been sky. I couldn’t breathe. Debris filled my vision, the emptiness overwhelming. The whining creak of…
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The Lens
Savannah groaned. Here she was, supposed to be photographing this society fundraiser, and the camera lens was dirty. Again. She reached in her bag for the lens cloth. After a meticulous wipe that covered every square millimeter of glass, she nodded with satisfaction and lifted the camera again. She snapped a candid of a bored…
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Glitch
“Hey, Job, you’re glitching again.” Mara’s voice came through the neural transmitter. “What’s up?” “This uniform doesn’t fit,” Job’s voice sounded tinny. “The collar has restricted blood flow and the shoulder seams are in the wrong place.” His shoulders twitched repeatedly, and one finger ran first left, then right, then left again under the thin…
The Word Worker 