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Literature Text
Some news shakes your world, it rocks you to your very core and leaves you a shell of your former self. That's what happened to me. When the doctor informed me I had an expiration date of barely six months I broke down. I couldn't believe her; I wouldn't believe her. There was nothing wrong with me, it had only been a routine check-up anyway. Clearly, one of the nurses had given her the wrong chart. I mean, I felt fine, there was not way I could be dying.
They say you go through five stages of grief when confronted with your own mortality, well they can all bite me. They have no idea what it's like. How could they? They're all still living in their own little worlds, where everyone lives forever and life is perfect. Screw them, all of them. I can't understand how they have the nerve to suggest that they have even the slightest clue of what I'm going through.
I mean, I wouldn't mind so much, but six months? That's all I've got left is six months. There are so many things I still want to do, so many places I still want to see. If I had just a little more time, even a year, I might be able to do all the things I never could before. I don't care if it's God or science, I just need a little more time.
Who am I kidding, there's no God and medical advances won't progress fast enough to help me. There's no point to any of it; I'm going to die and there's nothing waiting for me after that.
I am going to die. There's nothing I can do, so I may as well make the most of the time I have left.
They say you go through five stages of grief when confronted with your own mortality, well they can all bite me. They have no idea what it's like. How could they? They're all still living in their own little worlds, where everyone lives forever and life is perfect. Screw them, all of them. I can't understand how they have the nerve to suggest that they have even the slightest clue of what I'm going through.
I mean, I wouldn't mind so much, but six months? That's all I've got left is six months. There are so many things I still want to do, so many places I still want to see. If I had just a little more time, even a year, I might be able to do all the things I never could before. I don't care if it's God or science, I just need a little more time.
Who am I kidding, there's no God and medical advances won't progress fast enough to help me. There's no point to any of it; I'm going to die and there's nothing waiting for me after that.
I am going to die. There's nothing I can do, so I may as well make the most of the time I have left.
Literature
I Hate This
I HATE This!
I hate this.
I am not interested in nobility and bravery.
I shouldn't have to spell out what I need.
They all should figure it out, what is this like, for her?
They should know what they need to tell me.
You'll still be dependable, steady, pretty, desirable, competent.
They'd better not treat me like I'm made of porcelain,
No walking on eggshells around me. Do they think I'm weak?
Haven't I been strong enough?
Don't I always handle everything that's thrown at me?
I don't want that "kid glove" thing!
What? Me? Oh don't worry about it…it's no big deal.
I'm sure it will turn out to be nothing. Oh, I'll be fine,
Literature
My allotment
"For a man is destined to but once to live and allotted to each one time to die. This is the way it has been and will always be."
_____________________________________________________
Well, I can't really explain how it all happened or even why, so you'll get no help that way. What I can do is tell you what happened and maybe you can help me with the rest.
I was born the same as everyone else, went to school in Bozeman – hated it just like everyone else – grew up, got a girlfriend, got a job nearby; you know, I was a normal person. I got married and had two kids. I never moved out of the area. When my eldest was just three, war b
Literature
By the Highway
The trees were all dead. No leaves, bare fingers stretched towards the sky in a twisted sort of prayer. The houses below them had no prayer – not even one coming from a tree – that could save them. They were ramshackle, they were peeling paint and broken pipes. They were forgotten glass shards embedded in a crying toddler's foot, or cold wind blasting its way through a broken window. They were everything that a house should not be, hazardous and inhospitable and ugly.
They spared the families embarrassment, though, the houses. They were all the same, the same despair, the same inescapable, cavernous appearance. They were nothing to
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The Kübler-Ross model of Grief. Just a little idea I had, turned out better than I expected.
Feedback questions:
1. Does each paragraph accurately depict the stage of grief it is attempting to display?
2. Do the ever decreasing paragraph lengths serve their purpose of reflecting the ever diminishing time the narrator has left?
Feedback questions:
1. Does each paragraph accurately depict the stage of grief it is attempting to display?
2. Do the ever decreasing paragraph lengths serve their purpose of reflecting the ever diminishing time the narrator has left?
© 2011 - 2024 AtrumMiles
Comments10
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I didn't realise until you said it in your comments that each paragraph was meant to portray one stage of grief, but now I read it again it makes perfect sense. It's simply written, but it has a lot of impact. It's very clever how the paragraphs get shorter, too.
A very powerful piece, I think. Its strength lies in its honesty and the way you've constructed it.
I also think it's interesting how you've turned the grief on its head, sort of, by applying it to the narrator, and having them directly mention the 5 stages.