Glitterhole <the death of me>

Glitterhole <the death of me>

Status: Finished

Genre: Other

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Other

Summary

A piece I wrote that was inspired by a story told to me about my grandmother. This was written with the intention of being performed, and is not punctuated properly. We did perform this as a musical storytelling piece at an open mic as "Glitterhole" For this purpose the story was highly dramatized and far removed from its original inspiration, although staying true to its root form.

Summary

A piece I wrote that was inspired by a story told to me about my grandmother. This was written with the intention of being performed, and is not punctuated properly. We did perform this as a musical storytelling piece at an open mic as "Glitterhole" For this purpose the story was highly dramatized and far removed from its original inspiration, although staying true to its root form.

Content

Submitted: January 08, 2012

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Content

Submitted: January 08, 2012

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the night had been too long, she had barely slept through the labor. not her own, but of one whom once she loved. now robbed of beauty and will, her mother had become her ward. the doctor left after te bleeding stopped, or the coffee can had run dry. Her mother was by no means able to keep him company any longer, and his charity wore thin as his need for carnal company overcame moral duty. She may have lacked empathy for her mothers fate, but she was incapable of malice. ultimately that same fate would be her own, and so she must carry on.with great effort she dresses.
 
the box sat outside her mothers door at the end of the dusky hall. it was long and thin, like for delivering flowers. She hefted it in her right arm, her left having long since been resigned to carry the weight of her dead limb. and so she shuffled down the stairs, carefully balancing the box. The noise from her mothers room was agonizing. her mothers torment apparent in her whimperings.  either awake in a false reality, or encompassed by dark slumber, in dreams that offered no solace. 
 
the girl fell in the dirt at the bottom of the steps, hard. she wanted to rest, but she had disturbed the box. she struggled to stand, hastily recovering its sinister contents. once a promise, then barely a life and now only a pitiful memory...the shovel was at the back of the yard, where they had buried them for years. When she did the last one her mother had at least been there, but now she was on her own, and this would be her last burden. She contemplated her own future as she dug, her mother was now useless, and her clientele would not pay for a cripple. 
 
so she dug until she could support herself on her stick no more and sunk to the ground. digging desperately now with both hands, having abandoned the shovel. She did not dig as deep as the rest, her spirit was waning, and she wondered who would dig her own. She laid the box in and hastily covered it with earth. the crude cross had been made by a neighbour. there was no sign, no sentiment, for the born dead have no names.


© Copyright 2018 Jack Lazarus. All rights reserved.

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