#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence
Please #Share! short #story about #rape #abortion #political insanity
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
#fiction
not fallen
#shortstory
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence
Please #Share! short #story about #rape #abortion #political insanity
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
#fiction
not fallen
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
#fiction
any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please #Share!
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence
Please #Share! short #story about #rape #abortion #political insanity which I am trying to get seen
could you offer suggestions as to where/who/how to further this effort.
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
#fiction
not fallen
Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.
Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.
I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.
The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.
I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.
I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.
Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.
Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.
Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.
Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.
Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.
Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.
Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!
I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.
Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.
Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.
Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Pushed to understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.
At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.
Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”
Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”
any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please #Share! [and don't forget to #vote]
#fiction
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence
not fallen
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.
Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.
I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.
The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.
I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.
I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.
Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.
Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.
Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.
Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.
Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.
Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.
Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!
I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.
Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.
Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.
Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Pushed to understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.
At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.
Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”
Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”
any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please #Share!
not fallen
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
https://yprophecies.wordpress.com/2023/09/03/not-fallen/
Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.
Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.
I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.
The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.
I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.
I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.
Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.
Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.
Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.
Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.
Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.
Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.
Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!
I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.
Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.
Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.
Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Pushed to understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.
At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.
Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”
Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence
any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please #Share!
#fiction
not fallen
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
https://yprophecies.wordpress.com/2023/09/03/not-fallen/
Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.
Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.
I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.
The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.
I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.
I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.
Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.
Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.
Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.
Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.
Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.
Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.
Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!
I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.
Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.
Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.
Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Now I understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.
At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.
Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”
Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence
any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please Share!
not fallen #fiction
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame and devastation.
Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that alley,
so near my home I had no thought of danger.
So routine, my walk from the subway after my
work day, even though, late Fall, well past twilight.
I expected just another evening of my uneventful life
since I came to this city to pursue my career.
I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me from behind,
covered my face with a huge, hard hand so I wouldn’t
scream, or see him, too close to count on darkness.
After, released to drag myself home, I drank sloppy
mugs of red wine and cried, on my way to blessed
unconsciousness.
The morning alarm brought me back, to understand
my desperate need for normalcy to push this whole
melodramatic mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one
foot at a time, eyes forward, focused on each next chore.
Somehow my face, my body, lied for me, kept to my
habitual script.
I very much didn’t want to talk about it, to seek
comforting or support. I wanted it to go away – to
never be.
I found a new route home, discovered along it that I
had become hypervigilant while walking alone through
city streets. This city of strangers that I had hoped would
be my home had become a hostile place to push away in
self defense.
Pushed into an unwanted future where the test
comes up “Pregnant” after those ugly symptoms
could no longer be ignored.
Pushed now to find a way to take care of my needs,
to confront politics, that whole divisive headache
I had believed not part of my life.
Suddenly I’ve become a victim of multiple powerful
men – the power of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical, deceitful
misogynists using pumped up hate to get ahead.
Much as I desperately try to normalize these agonizing
days, weeks, this nightmare escalates. Those
nonignorable symptoms keep getting more and worse.
Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable situation
because these symptoms seem serious. I have heard
of high risk pregnancies that require constant monitoring,
even sometimes termination to save the vessel for future use.
Surely I would not be forced to continue having this thing
growing in me if it would kill me.
Barely holding my multiply suffering body and mind
together, I push myself to take control and get to the
closest ER.
Look! I yell into me, trying to center, to find refuge in
rationality. I am a normal person, leading a narrow, normal
life. These health crisis professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!
I have made it to what I have built up in my anxious
imagination as the blessed temple of healing.
Unfortunately, it is more like Purgatory – the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more needy of
immediate care. I submerge my fear and pain in silent
singing, measured breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes when he hadn’t but
was feeling bitter honestly. Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice or anything
but judgement of an unkind kin. I had been so happy to get
so far away, to reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with
possibilities.
Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many sick days out,
fallen (failing) performance, there goes my once so bright,
golden promising job and its perks, like health insurance.
Pushed to realize my life is meaningless beyond my private
sphere. Now I understand that my fragile forming friendships
here are far from strong enough to be burdened with what has
become my Truth.
At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have become so weak,
barely aware of being lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to take my blood.
The hands and voices are concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot and tears and fear
and rage. They inject a fluid to induce labor, ready me to
push at their command.
Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled, pushed from
its unwelcome lodging. I feel only pure
exhaustion, running blood. Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.” Apparently too far gone for
further ministration, I am left with the agony of life falling
out of me. Faintly, plaintively I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it does, with severe
health issues requiring extensive expensive care. It enters
this tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take on this
responsibility? Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy children, would
have been responsible, and humane.”
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #dangerouspolitics #herstory #health
[...]
He wandered out of the room.
In a few seconds, he was back, bringing the sandwich half.
"Eat this," he said. "It's good."
"Really, I'm not at all--"
"Take it, for Chrissake. I didn't poison it or anything."
Ginnie accepted the sandwich half. "Well, thank you very much," she said.
"It's chicken," he said, standing over her, watching her. "Bought it last night in a goddam delicatessen."
"It looks very good."
"Well, eat it, then."
Ginnie took a bite.
"Good, huh?"
Ginnie swallowed with difficulty. "Very," she said.
[...]
Winter Solstice
The night she was conceived, a faint sliver of light from the new moon travelled the sky. The night she was born, the moon was full and fat, a bright reddish harvest moon. The symbolism had been explained to death when she was still a small child.
Tied to the moon from birth, she was less concerned with the sun. When others mourned the last setting of the sun behind the mountains at midwinter, she remained calm. It would return a few days later.
So she was surprised when that year she was chosen to fetch back the light. Early in the morning they woke her up, and out into the dark and cold she was summoned, where the ritual play was carried out: There was no light in the village, someone had to go to the dragon’s cave and bring back fire, or the sun would never return. Would she be the brave soul?
She set out with a wry smile at the dramatic farewells. It was less than a mile to the cave, the provisions were unnecessary. A short walk later, she was there. She smelled the smoke from the entrance, heard the soft crackling as she stepped inside the big cave, and could just make out the large shape softly lit against the darkness.
Walking towards it, she saw the small fire burning under the belly of the stylised stone dragon, smoke flowing out its nostrils. She had never been party to this side of the ritual before, and briefly wondered who had snuck down earlier and lit the fire. She approached the stone beast head on, and now saw the fire through its holes-for-eyes, bright and flickering in one, softer in the other. Suddenly she understood. They were the sun and the moon, and the fire behind them was one.
She dutifully lit a torch from the dragon fire and carried it back to the village, so lost in thought that she was startled by the crowd that warmly greeted her, the ritual complete. A few days later, she rejoiced with the rest as the sun returned, clearing the mountains briefly for the first time in nearly a week. The light would grow day by day.
#pagan #solstice #WinterSolstice #story #shortstory #myth #writing
Finally I finished the film for a Kickstarter I am making with my internet friend, Ifeanyi. We will probably only be able to sell the actual book in Denmark and Nigeria due to postal prices, paper crisis etc. etc. But I hope some of you could be persuaded to use a few bucks on the pdf. I'll be back with the announcement when the Kickstarter goes on air.
https://katharsisdrill.art/film/Otagburuagu_film.mp4
#writing #book #shortstory #otagburuagu #Katharsisdrill #Nigeria #Denmark #Kickstarter
Not unlike Hemingway's advice of One Good Sentence
https://link.lithub.com/view/602ea77d180f243d6532f731g1xs7.j89/73fa2b8d
A classic - Tobias Wolff's "Hunters in the Snow"
What is the story Hunters in the Snow about?
The story deals with three characters hunting together in the woods; Kenny, who is hard and brutal; Tub, who is fat, a target of ridicule, and lags behind the rest of the party; and Frank, who is the most "frank" of the group. Each character has a distinct personality which changes as the story progresses.
Since it’s close to Halloween, I decided to write a short story. Parts of this story may or may not be true, but what I have seen will be forever in my memory and lives within my dreams. It’s not a scary story, but it’s of a mysterious world local to this area and below us. I will not disclose the names or places. Some of you may have been there too.
My story begins nearly a few decades ago in 1993 on a pleasant autumn day here in Kansas City on a busy street. I was with someone I worked with and we were given an opportunity to remove the remaining retail display cases of a former major local electronics retailer for our project. For a small fee, we were given addresses, master keys, and alarm codes for the former superstores.
The stores still had the large brand name across the storefront for years after they locked the doors, much like we remember Blockbuster did. I don’t remember any “for sale” or lease signs in any of the stores. I assumed they are still privately owned properties of a wealthy family. Why is this important? We had to call them after we failed to disarm one of the alarm systems and faced the loud alarm horn. Apparently, someone in the family changed the alarm codes and walked us through how to disarm us.
They also invited us to check out the long stairs going down below the basement. They told us to grab the flashlights at the door, because there was no electricity beyond the bottom of the stairs. They asked us not to touch anything down there, but welcomed us to look around. And this is where the story begins.
We thought it would only take several minutes, but we were gone for a few hours and it seemed like a lifetime. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs, leading into a dark concrete tunnel that lead into caves and more tunnels. The first mile of the tunnels deep below the Kansas CIty streets lead through caves filled with old WWI supplies that appeared only several years old like we had gone back in time. We did not have cameras on us like we do today, but our experience will be with us forever. This is where the world begins.
But the tunnels never had an end. There were many deep into this underground world where others ages ago built communities and contributed to a rich treasure unlike anything seen on the surface above.
Several years later, I bought a house in southern Kansas CIty several miles away from the site. The house, like most others in Kansas City, had a room in the basement totally enclosed in concrete. The real estate agent explained they may be from the cold war era and serve as a shelter from a nuke. Some of us had converted these rooms into fully furnished entertainment rooms.
What I will never forget and what will always be with me is a section of crumbling wall that lead into the tunnels. This is where the story never ends. The tunnel would always call me and ask me to reach new places. After work many nights, I would travel further. This is where dreams and the real world become mixed. I would meet others and share a permanent bond in these tunnels. I sold the house a few years ago and it might even be on the market today as it’s been through a few owners. I guess the tunnels didn’t invite them as they left so early. But every time I close my eyes, the world below welcomes me again and shares its great treasures.
"The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" by Ursula Le Guin is a short story published in 1973 that won the prestigious Hugo Award. It is a great story worth reading because it relates to our own society.
If you haven’t read it yet, you can do so here:
https://learning.hccs.edu/faculty/emily.klotz/engl1302-6/readings/the-ones-who-walk-away-from-omelas-ursula-le-guin/view
"Quelli che si allontanano da Omelas" è un racconto pubblicato nel 1973, che vinse il Premio Hugo. E' una metafora della società e della storia, e anche per questo vale la pena leggerlo. E poi, è di Le Guin.
#Omelas #TheOnesWhoWalkAwayfromOmelas #QuelliCheSiAllontananoDaOmelas #UrsulaLeGuin #LeGuin #allegory #shortstory #philosophicaltale #raccontofilosofico #HugoAward #PremioHugo #allegoria #sci-fi #fantascienza
QUELLI CHE SI ALLONTANANO DA OMELAS
Con un clamore di campane che fece volare altissime le rondini, la Festa dell'Estate venne alla città di Omelas, con le sue torri fulgide in riva al mare. Il sartiame delle barche nel porto scintillava di bandiere. Per le vie, tra le case dai tetti rossi e dalle facciate dipinte, tra i vecchi giardini invasi dal muschio e sotto i viali alberati, oltre i grandi parchi e gli edifici pubblici, avanzavano le processioni. Alcune erano decorose: vecchi
in lunghe vesti rigide color malva e grigie, gravi maestri artigiani, donne tranquille e ilari che portavano in braccio i loro figlioletti e camminavano chiacchierando.
In altre vie, la musica aveva un ritmo più svelto, uno scintillio di gong e tamburelli, e la gente avanzava danzando, la processione era una danza. I bambini correvano dentro e fuori, e i loro acuti richiami s'innalzavano come i voli incrociati delle rondini sopra la musica e i canti. Tutte le processioni si snodavano verso la parte settentrionale della città, dove sul grande prato irriguo chiamato Campi Verdi ragazzi e ragazze, nudi nell'aria luminosa, con i piedi e le caviglie macchiati di fango e le lunghe braccia agili, allenavano prima della corsa gli irrequieti cavalli. Questi non avevano finimenti ma solo cavezza senza morso. Le criniere erano intrecciate di nastri argentei, dorati, verdi. Dilatavano le narici o scalpitavano e si vantavano reciprocamente; erano immensamente eccitati, poiché il cavallo è l'unico animale che ha adottato come proprie le nostre cerimonie. Lontano, a nord e a ovest, sorgevano le montagne, che cingevano per metà Omelas sulla sua baia. L'aria del mattino era limpida e la neve che incoronava ancora le Diciotto Vette ardeva di un fuoco d'oro bianco attraverso le distese di aria assolata, sotto l'intenso azzurro del cielo. C'era
abbastanza vento da far garrire di tanto in tanto gli stendardi che delimitavano la pista della corsa. Nel silenzio dei vasti prati verdi si poteva udire la musica che si snodava per le vie della città, ora prossima e ora lontana ma in costante avvicinamento: una gaia e lieve dolcezza dell'aria che di tanto in tanto tremolava e si raccoglieva e prorompeva nel grande scampanio gioioso.
Gioioso! Come si può parlare della gioia? Come descrivere i cittadini di Omelas?
Non erano gente semplice, vedete, sebbene fossero felici. Ma noi non diciamo molto spesso, ormai, le parole della gioia. Tutti i sorrisi sono divenuti arcaici. Data una descrizione come questa, si tende a formulare certe ipotesi. Data una descrizione come questa si tende a cercare il re, montato su uno splendido stallone e circondato dai suoi nobili cavalieri, o magari su una lettiga d'oro portata da schiavi muscolosi. Ma non c'era
un re. Non usavano le spade, e non avevano schiavi. Non erano barbari. Non conosco le regole e le leggi della loro società, ma credo che fossero pochissime. Come facevano a meno della monarchia e della schiavitù, così facevano a meno anche della borsa-titoli, della pubblicità, della polizia segreta e della bomba. Eppure ripeto che non erano gente semplice, pastori zuccherosi, buoni selvaggi, miti utopisti. Non erano meno complessi di noi. Il guaio è che noi abbiamo la pessima abitudine, incoraggiata dai pedanti e dai sofisticati, di considerare la felicità come qualcosa di abbastanza stupido. [...]
Come posso parlarvi degli abitanti di Omelas? Non erano bambini ingenui e felici, anche se i loro figli erano effettivamente felici. Erano adulti maturi, intelligenti, appassionati, le cui vite non erano disastrate. Oh miracolo! Ma vorrei poterlo descrivere meglio. Vorrei riuscire a convincervi. Nelle mie parole, Omelas sembra una città di favola, lontana nel tempo e nello spazio, "c'era una volta". Forse sarebbe meglio che la immaginaste
come ve la suggerisce la fantasia, ammesso che sia all'altezza della situazione, perché di certo non posso accontentarvi tutti. Per esempio, la tecnologia? Credo che non ci sarebbero vetture o elicotteri per le vie e sopra le vie: questo consegue dal fatto che gli abitanti di Omelas sono felici. La felicità si basa sulla giusta discriminazione di ciò che è necessario.
Nella categoria mediana, però (quella del superfluo non distruttivo, della comodità, del lusso, dell'esuberanza, e così via), potrebbero benissimo avere il riscaldamento centrale, la metropolitana, le lavatrici, e tutti i meravigliosi congegni non ancora inventati qui: sorgenti luminose fluttuanti, energia senza combustibile, la cura per guarire il comune raffreddore. Oppure potrebbero non averli: non importa. Come vi piace. Io tendo a
pensare che la gente venuta dalle città più in su e più in giù sulla costa sia arrivata negli ultimi giorni prima della Festa su trenini velocissimi e tram con l'imperiale, e che la stazione ferroviaria di Omelas sia il più bell'edificio della città, benché più semplice del magnifico mercato agricolo. [...]
Quasi tutte le processioni hanno raggiunto ormai i Campi Verdi. Un meraviglioso odore di cucina esce dalle tende rosse e blu dei mercanti di commestibili. Le facce dei bambini sono amabilmente appiccicose; nella benigna barba grigia di un uomo sono aggrovigliate alcune briciole di torta. I giovani e le ragazze sono montati sui loro cavalli e cominciano a radunarsi intorno alla linea di partenza. Una vecchietta grassa e ridente distribuisce fiori da un canestro, e giovani uomini alti portano quei fiori nei lucenti capelli. Un bambino di nove o dieci anni siede al limitare della folla, solo, e suona un flauto di legno. La gente si ferma ad ascoltare, e tutti sorridono; ma non gli parlano, perché non smette mai di suonare e non li vede, e i suoi occhi scuri sono completamente assorti nell'esile e dolce magia della musica. Finisce, e abbassa lentamente le mani che stringono il flauto di legno.
Come se quel piccolo silenzio privato fosse un segnale, all'improvviso squilla una tromba dal padiglione accanto alla linea di partenza: imperiosa, malinconica, penetrante. I cavalli s'impennano sulle snelle zampe, e alcuni rispondono con un nitrito. Seri in volto, i giovani cavalieri accarezzano il collo dei cavalli e li calmano mormorando: «Buono, buono, bello, speranza mia...» Cominciano a schierarsi lungo la linea di partenza. La
folla lungo la pista è come un campo d'erba e di fiori al vento. La Festa dell'Estate è incominciata.
Lo credete? Accettate la festa, la città, la gioia? No? Allora lasciate che descriva un'altra cosa.
In un seminterrato, sotto uno dei bellissimi edifici pubblici di Omelas, o forse nella cantina di una delle spaziose case private, c'è una stanza. Ha una porta chiusa a chiave, e non ha finestre. Un po' di luce polverosa filtra fra le crepe delle tavole, e indirettamente da una finestra coperta di ragnatele di fronte alla cantina. In un angolo della stanzetta un paio di strofinacci, ancora induriti e incrostati e fetidi, stanno vicino a un secchio
arrugginito. Il pavimento è sporco, un po' umido, com'è di solito nelle cantine. La stanzetta è lunga circa tre passi e larga due: uno stanzino delle scope o un ripostiglio in disuso. Nella stanza è seduto un bambino. Potrebbe essere un maschietto o una femminuccia. Dimostra circa sei anni, ma in realtà si avvicina ai dieci. È scemo. Forse è nato così, o forse è diventato stupido per la paura, la denutrizione e l'abbandono. Si mette le
dita nel naso e di tanto in tanto giocherella vagamente con le dita dei piedi o i genitali, mentre siede aggobbito nell'angolo più lontano dal secchio e dai due strofinacci. Ha paura degli strofinacci. Li trova orribili. Chiude gli occhi, ma sa che gli strofinacci ci sono lo stesso e che la porta è chiusa a chiave e che non verrà nessuno. La porta è sempre chiusa a chiave; e non viene mai nessuno, solo che qualche volta - il bambino non sa cosa sia il tempo - la porta fa un rumore terribile e si apre e lascia apparire una persona, o parecchie persone. Una, magari, entra e sferra un calcio al bambino per costringerlo ad alzarsi. Le altre non si avvicinano mai, ma sbirciano con occhi impauriti e disgustati. La ciotola del cibo e la brocca dell'acqua vengono riempite in fretta, la porta viene richiusa, gli occhi scompaiono. La gente sulla porta non dice mai niente; ma il bambino, che non è vissuto sempre nel ripostiglio e può ricordare la luce del sole e la voce di sua madre, talvolta parla. «Sarò buono» dice. «Fatemi uscire, per favore. Sarò buono!» Loro non rispondono mai. Un tempo il bambino urlava per invocare aiuto, di notte, e piangeva parecchio; ma adesso si limita a piagnucolare, "eh-haa, eh-haa", e parla sempre meno spesso. È così magro che le sue gambe non hanno polpacci; il ventre è gonfio; vive di una mezza ciotola di farina di granoturco e di grasso al giorno. È nudo. Le natiche e le cosce sono una massa di piaghe infette, perché sta seduto di continuo tra i suoi escrementi.
Tutti sanno che è lì, tutti gli abitanti di Omelas. Alcuni sono venuti a vederlo, altri si accontentano di sapere che è lì. Tutti sanno che deve stare lì. Alcuni di loro comprendono perché, e alcuni no; ma tutti capiscono che la loro gioia, la bellezza della loro città, la tenerezza delle loro amicizie, la salute dei loro figli, la saggezza dei loro dotti, l'abilità dei loro fabbricanti, perfino l'abbondanza dei loro raccolti e il benigno clima dei loro
cieli, dipendono interamente dall'abominevole infelicità di quel bambino.
Di solito ciò viene spiegato ai bambini tra gli otto e i dieci anni, appena sembrano in grado di comprendere; e quasi tutti quelli che vengono a vedere il bambino sono giovani, sebbene spesso un adulto venga (o torni) a vedere il bambino. Per quanto la cosa sia stata loro spiegata bene, i giovani spettatori sono sempre scandalizzati o nauseati da quello spettacolo. Provano disgusto, al quale si ritenevano superiori. Provano
collera, sdegno, impotenza, nonostante tutte le spiegazioni. Vorrebbero fare qualcosa per il bambino. Ma non possono far nulla. Se il bambino venisse portato alla luce del sole, fuori da quel posto fetido, se venisse pulito e nutrito e confortato, sarebbe davvero una bella cosa; ma se questo avvenisse, in quel giorno e in quell'ora tutta la prosperità e la bellezza e la gioia di Omelas avvizzirebbero e verrebbero annientate. Queste sono le
condizioni. Scambiare tutto il bene e la grazia di ogni vita di Omelas per quel piccolo, unico miglioramento: gettare via la felicità di migliaia di persone per la possibilità di renderne felice una sola: questo significherebbe veramente lasciar entrare il rimorso tra quelle mura.
Le condizioni sono rigorose e assolute: al bambino non si può rivolgere neppure una parola gentile.
Spesso i giovani tornano a casa in lacrime, o in preda a una rabbia senza lacrime, quando hanno visto il bambino e fronteggiato il terribile paradosso. Magari ci rimuginano sopra per settimane o per anni. Ma col passare del tempo cominciano a rendersi conto che, anche se il bambino potesse essere liberato, non guadagnerebbe molto dalla sua libertà: il piccolo e vago piacere del calore e del cibo, senza dubbio, ma poco
di più. È troppo degradato e scemo per conoscere la vera gioia. Ha avuto paura troppo a lungo per poter essere libero dalla paura. Le sue abitudini sono troppo squallide perché possa reagire a un trattamento umanitario. Dopo tanto tempo, probabilmente si dispererebbe perché non avrebbe intorno i muri che lo proteggono, e l'oscurità per i suoi occhi, e i suoi escrementi su cui sedersi. Le loro lacrime per la tremenda ingiustizia si asciugano quando incominciano a percepire la terribile giustizia della realtà e ad accettarla. Eppure sono le loro lacrime e la loro collera, la prova della loro generosità e l'accettazione della loro impotenza, a costituire forse la vera fonte dello splendore delle loro vite. La loro non è una felicità svampita e irresponsabile. Sanno che loro, come il bambino, non sono liberi. Conoscono la pietà. Sono l'esistenza del bambino e la conoscenza della sua esistenza a rendere possibile la nobiltà della loro architettura, il significato della loro musica, la profondità della loro scienza. È a causa del bambino che sono così gentili con i bambini. Sanno che se quell'infelice non fosse là a piagnucolare nel buio, l'altro, il suonatore di flauto, non potrebbe suonare una musica gaia mentre i giovani cavalieri si allineano, bellissimi, per la corsa, nel sole della prima mattina d'estate.
Adesso credete in loro? Non sono un po' più credibili? Ma c'è un'altra cosa da aggiungere, e questa è veramente incredibile.
Talvolta uno degli adolescenti (maschio o femmina) che va a vedere il bambino non torna a casa per piangere o ribollire di rabbia: anzi, non torna a casa per niente. Talvolta anche un uomo o una donna di età più avanzata tace per un giorno o due e poi se ne va via da casa. Costoro escono in strada e s'incamminano soli per la via. Continuano a camminare ed escono dalla città di Omelas, attraverso le bellissime porte.
Continuano a camminare, attraverso le terre coltivate di Omelas. Ognuno va solo, giovane o ragazza, uomo o donna. Cade la notte: il viandante deve percorrere le vie dei villaggi, tra le case con le finestre illuminate di giallo, e procedere nell'oscurità dei campi. Da solo, ognuno di loro si dirige a ovest o a nord, verso le montagne. Proseguono. Lasciano Omelas, procedono nell'oscurità, e non tornano indietro. Il luogo verso cui si dirigono è un luogo ancora meno immaginabile, per molti di noi, della città della gioia. Non posso descriverlo. È possibile che non esista. Ma sembra che loro sappiano dove stanno andando, quelli che si allontanano da Omelas.