#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

I grieved for all those years
of going to his grave–
when all along Mother had known
of the machines keeping his body alive–
machines that had more life in their batteries
than he had left in his years.

David was my idol,
Mother believed,
in the way Tab Hunter & Troy Donahue
had been for teen girls in the sixties,
but he was more my Mary,
my sacred masculine,
my intercessor to the better life.

Mother was like a blanched almond,
the Catholic holy water & Mormon fairy dust
boiling away, rubbing away the hull,
exposing & releasing something akin to cyanide.

David would do Patrick’s temple work.
It was atonement–
not through his blood
but through the water & the spirit.

With one article from The Ensign,
my mother was able to set her body free
by setting my father’s spirit free.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book

mormoni

My father’s life had been artificially prolonged, trapping my mother in marriage, so that what God had joined together, science had solidified.

Mother hadn’t divorced my father nor annulled the marriage, for she hadn’t wanted to make her children bastards.

My father’s death would legitimize everything, including my mother’s relationship with David. My father had been hovering in the wings, while David had been waiting in them.

Mother sought my absolution in one night, for a lifetime of lies. David had already granted her this thing, even as she continued to perpetuate the lie.

Mother had wanted him to live so he wouldn’t die spiritually–for the sake of her own conscience.

She had bled from every pore, for I knew she had believed that to let Patrick die after a suicide attempt would be to send his soul straight to Hell–an unpardonable sin in the Catholic Church.

How could any mortal be responsible for the destination of an individual’s soul, for wouldn’t that put them on par with God?

Mother had become as God, or Goddess, in a way, for even as she had resurrected Patrick from the dead, at least in my eyes, she was now taking away his last breath of life.

The plan was for David to do Patrick’s work in the temple, turning his enemy into his savior.

Mother believed Patrick would go to middle heaven, the terrestrial, where he would be one of the angels, never to have sex again.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

The terrestrial kingdom was Protestant heaven,
the celestial, Mormon heaven,
but even the telestial surpassed all understanding.

While my father had hovered in earthly purgatory,
I had been living in a heaven on earth,
my mother, in the hell she had created for herself.

My childhood had been one of opaqueness,
my adulthood, of startling transparency.

If God had wanted Patrick to live,
he would live without a machine,
but by that rationale,
if God had wanted him to die,
no machine on earth should have kept him in limbo.

When I’d believed my father dead,
I’d never wept,
but when I saw him alive & dying,
it was then that I finally grieved,
for his death finally became real to me.

Creative Writing Prompt: Write about a safe space (that isn’t)

For this exercise, I was required to use the words porcelain, linen, ripe, manifestation, forbidden, and permission, in the context of writing about a safe space (that is anything but safe in the story).

To me, a hospital (as long as the doctors and nurses know what they’re doing) is a safe space, because you rarely hear of mass shootings (or shootings, in general) happening in a hospital.

Nursing a Coma

Whiteness envelopes me like a cumulous cloud; a haze settles over me like a cool mist.  I feel as if I am floating through the London fog at midday.  It is here that I am safe, alone in my semi-consciousness, my broken body surrounded by angels in white.  My personhood, my humanness, is respected here, though I hover in the valley of the shadow. 

A woman with porcelain skin enters, checking my vitals and linen—a shroud of Turin—for my body must have surely made an impression on it by now.  The space buzzes with battery life; the machines never die here.  She touches me, but I want to touch her.  I want to give her an affirmation, some manifestation that my soul is still here and wishes to intimately mate with hers. 

Even as there was Florence Nightingale with her lamp, Carrie’s, whose name I no more know than that, is my lady with the light brown hair.  But the relationship between us now, as is, would be forbidden.  However, I know she feels the same, for I am like her silent priest.  She has given me permission to know her secret wish for a child.  She knows what manner of man I was before the accident.  She has read all my books, and it is through these, she feels like she knows me, that she would’ve loved the Before me, if not the After me, if I were to wake.  I let her extract the only thing I can give her, for I will have a son or daughter who will literally rise up from the dead in my genes, though he or she will bear not my name.