Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Writing:// Suicide Exercise 9.02.2008

Wherein our hero, BA Boucher, writes about killing himself, he ultimately fails

I frequent a site called Critique Circle. It's a fun, alarmingly workable site that allows for different writers to come together and tear into the soft flesh of your still unripe work. In all seriousness, it is well put together and the other writers are for the most part patient, giving, and helpful. Some don't know what the hell they are talking about but that's par for the course.

The forums are a different beast.

One thing the site does well is exercises. A simple topic where you write a fast 500 words and then you are judged by everyone and eventually left disappointed in yourself and your spell checker.

Here's one I did for suicide. And this is the reason why I should never write about suicide

You are committing suicide. How? Why? Will anyone be there to stop you?

Try to keep it below 500 words, or just over —- no extremely long entries.
Writer: Candle

There's a pressure in my head. A thumping. A thunder. Every time They see me and open Their mouths I feel my mind filling with weight.

It's jealousy They feel, it has to be. What else could it be? I see the judging in Their eyes, Their disappointed half smiles when They find Themselves lacking to my measure stick. It's almost worth living for.

If it wasn't for this pain behind my eyes and ears and gums and nostrils. My tongue is thick and listless from the viscosity. This damn pain!

I went to every shrink in the book. Quacks every last one of Them. "Hello, sir, please tell me of your pain." Not five minutes in and I feel the piercing stab of Their eyes.

My head has begun to tip to the left because my neck isn't strong enough for the growing weight of my once beautiful head.

I have to make it stop.

Two choices, One pistol. Them or Me?

I spread plastic tarps over my expensive Italian sofas. For the mess, one part blood, one part steam.

I polish my shoes.

Dry clean my suit.

Clean my gun.

I shower, shave, and dress. Immaculate.

As the gun skips across my veneers my wife enters the room. She sees me in the the middle of a plastic room with a gun in my mouth.

Her face shows concern.

I loosen my grip on the gun.

Her face shows disappointment.

The gun leaves my mouth.

She asks me why? Then, there it is, that look, She becomes Them.

The gun throws a bullet into her condescending smile.

The barrel is still hot and burns my tongue.

I take one last look at Heaven...Even God looks down on me.

The gun fires.

I got a 1.88 out of 4. That's what I get for five minutes when I should have been working on a presentation report.

Maybe I should do more of these

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