Tag: Grief
The Empty Chair
Our gracious host, Rochelle, at Friday Fictioneers
encourages us to be creative by writing a story in
100 words or less using the photo shown below.
Here’s where the photo prompt took me.
Happy 54th Anniversary, Rochelle & Jan!
November Air
This week at Glyn Wilton’s Mixed Music Bag,
he’s asking us to write about a song in which
the title or a line mentions the current month.
Here’s my November artist and his song.
Go Gently: A Musette For Jim
Originally written in April, 2024 after the
sudden death of my husband’s identical twin,
I have brought this back for Reena’s Xploration
Challenge #397 – Creative Experiments and More.
That’s Entertainment – Letter N
Welcome back to “That’s Entertainment!” –
The A To Z Challenge.
I hope you enjoy my musical selections.
Let’s see what’s up today!
The Facade
Written for OLWG #406.
The three prompts are shown below.
Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction;
it is not about me and my husband.
The only parallel is the death of my
husband’s identical twin on April 2, 2024.
This is a look at what might have been.
Identical Grief: A Haibun
Written for dVerse Poetics: Picking Up The Pieces
where today we are sharing grief. This is my haibun.
Tomorrow will be 4 months since my husband’s identical twin brother died suddenly. His wife returned home from a walk and found him on the bedroom floor; she said he was still warm. The news felt like an arrow ripped through our hearts. Jim was dead. How was my sister-in-law ever again going to walk into her bedroom without picturing her husband’s body? How was my husband Bill going to face the rest of his life as the lone twin? At one time there were three brothers; now there is only Bill. This is the most difficult trial for him. My husband lost a piece of himself that day. We are numb, disbelieving, questioning, dazed, numb, numb, so unbelievably numb.
You know how people say that time flies? Not when it comes to Jim; time has stopped for us. Logically we know he’s dead but our hearts cannot accept it. It’s unbelievable, inconceivable for us. It doesn’t feel possible. We function normally every day, do the same old crap, talk and eat and laugh. We watch movies, go shopping, pay bills, gab on the phone, babysit. We live the same lives we lived before Jim died except he’s not here to share them and we cannot wrap our heads around that. It just doesn’t feel like he’s dead. He should be here. It’s not right that he’s not here. It’s like someone has played the cruelest joke on us.
Now, when my sister-in-law looks at Bill, it’s Jim’s face she sees. And sometimes when I look at my husband, I see Jim and I find myself pondering why Jim was the twin who was taken.
I am Bill’s wife but Jim was his other half.
save them in your heart
golden summer memories
for when winter comes
No idea who’s who!
NAR©2024
This is “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Affaire de Famille
Written for The Unicorn Challenge were Jenne encourages us
to write something magically creative in 250 words or less
using the photo below for inspiration. Here is my story.
The letter arrived the other day. Terse, to the point of being almost rude. Where have people’s manners gone in today’s society?
You see, this building .… the one with the orange shutters and the sign which reads MOULIN À HOUILE …. has been in my family for generations. We were among the best olive oil makers in the region for more years than I can count.
My twin brother, Marcel, and I grew up here at the elbows of our grandfather, father and uncle as they worked the presses in the mill to produce the purest of olive oils. The huile d’olive was then bottled and prepared for distribution to fine-end stores and restaurants. We had a thriving family business.
As is the nature of all familial enterprises, there was no question that Marcel and I would take our place working in the mill. It was as innate as taking our next breath. Then the unthinkable happened; our father died suddenly leaving no will and, during our grief, his brother secretly arranged for the takeover of the business, employing only his sons and kicking Marcel and me to the curb. We tried having the decision reversed but were unsuccessful.
One by one our uncle’s sons abandoned the business leaving him alone with strangers in his employ. Now it is our time for payback.
My gun is aimed at the open window while Marcel keeps guard. Our uncle appears, my finger teases the trigger and abruptly I’m plunged into darkness.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Family Affair” by Sly and The Family Stone
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
The Cruelest Joke
Written for The Unicorn Challenge, where we are asked
to write something creative in 250 words or less
by using the photo below for inspiration.
This is my story.
The moment we stepped out of our car, the temperature felt like it dropped twenty degrees and a cold wind whipped my black-stockinged legs. We cringed at the frigid slap in the face and huddled deeper into our jackets as we climbed the steps to the church.
We found the seats reserved for us …. second pew directly off the center aisle. I clutched my husband’s hand and felt his body quiver as he raggedly exhaled, desperately trying not to cry. The tears would come, but on his terms.
The pews on both sides of the church were filled with people celebrating a life and mourning a loss. Everything leading to this moment had been a maelstrom of emotions; there are very few things that shake us to our core like a sudden death.
A man appeared at our pew; I recognized him as the manager of the funeral home. He spoke softly to my husband and together they started to walk to the back of the church. I looked up at my husband’s face and he gave me a sad smile.
There was a heavy silence in the church, mourners sitting side-by-side lost in a fog of grief. Had someone played us the cruelest joke?
As one, the pallbearers heaved the casket onto their shoulders and the organ began to play. That’s when I saw my husband walking behind his brother’s coffin, our widowed sister-in-law on his arm, and there were tears.
Now we will try to move forward.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is Al Green with “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Go Gently: A Musette
For Jim
Sudden
Dreams in the night
Undone
Weeping
A pain too deep
Creeping
Broken
No goodbye words
Spoken
NAR©2024
This is Kate Rusby, “Underneath The Stars”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
The Suit
Written for Weekly Prompts Colour Challenge ~ Black
Bill stood at his open closet mumbling and cursing under his breath as he pulled out one pair of pants after the other. He was in a mood that has no definition or perhaps many definitions, none of them good. He was searching for something to wear for the funeral of his twin brother, Jim, who died suddenly on April 2. Had it been anyone else’s funeral, Bill would have just pulled out a suitable pair of pants and a dress shirt, but this was his brother and he said he needed his black suit. He couldn’t find it in the closet and he was getting angry but, of course, the errant suit was not the cause for his consternation. I walked to the closet and spotted the suit immediately. Handing it to Bill, I hugged him and kissed his cheek. As I ironed his shirt I could hear him crying softly. “Why’d you have to go and die, Jim?”
NAR©2024
This is Brooks and Dunn with “Believe”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Ponte dei Sospiri
Written for Friday Fictioneers. Greetings, friends. Some of you know, others do not. We had a death in the family last week … my husband’s twin brother passed away on Tuesday. I’ve taken some time off from writing but now I’m ready to return. You may read about our loss here if you are so inclined. Thank you for your thoughts. This is my story today.
It wasn’t in the evening when a calm tide rolls out, nor in the early morning as the glorious sun rises but rather in the middle of the day, just after noon when he crossed the bridge and left us stunned and lost. One minute he was with us …. happy, strong and alive. The next he was gone, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, he crossed the bridge and slipped away. We had no time to prepare, no time to say “Goodbye and fare thee well, brother”. He was just gone, peacefully and silently across the bridge.
NAR©2024
This is “Bridge of Sighs” by Robin Trower
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
STOP THE HEARTACHE
As soon as I pressed the “publish” button, I got a little thrill. This is the 400th story I’ve written for my site sine I began writing in 2017. That is a great accomplishment for me and I thank each and every one of you for making that possible. I hope you enjoy #400 as you read this latest ink. 😎
“Mr. Bennett, we did everything in our power but the injuries were too extensive. I’m sorry. Your wife did not survive the surgery … the surgery … the surgery … your wife did not survive …”
My eyes flew open and I gasped for air like a drowning man. My fisted hands clutched the disheveled sheets on my bed. I was soaked in sweat, my heart racing. The recurring dream came back last night. Gradually my heartrate slowed down and my fists unclenched. Laying on my back, I stared up at the softly whirring ceiling fan. I closed my eyes for five seconds and the tears started. It never gets better; it never gets easier.
Three years ago my darling Olivia, my life-force, my soulmate, my wife of two ineffably brief weeks died in a ghastly motorcycle accident while on our honeymoon in Barcelona. Frozen in place, I stared at her broken body; my brain told me she was dead but my heart and soul refused to listen.
I remembered the ambulance and police arriving, the excruciatingly long ride to the hospital, the lonely wait in the eerily quiet emergency room and the surgeon’s words … those words that haunted me day after day after day. My wife was dead, my brief marriage erased and my heart crushed. We hadn’t even opened our wedding gifts.
I dragged myself to the shower, trying to wash away the dream. It didn’t work. It was time for me to leave here, escape the memories and the sadness. Our friends stopped calling long ago and there was nothing left for me. My parents were dead; Olivia’s parents wished they were dead instead of her. In this huge world I was utterly alone. It was time for me to go.
A loud thunderclap announced it was not a good day to take out the bike. I’d been sleepwalking for three years and I’d had enough; I needed to do this. For the first time in forever I removed my wedding ring and placed it on the dresser next to my phone and wallet.
“Will the bike start up?” I wondered “Or has it died, too?” I grabbed my helmet and walked to the garage. The bike was plugged in; when did I do that? In one of my rare moments of clarity? I slipped on my gloves, opened the garage door and climbed on my bike. It was pouring and I had no idea where I was going. It didn’t matter; I stopped caring. Now I needed to stop the heartache.
NAR © 2023
The Elephant's Trunk 