Thank you for writing in my prompt about suicide. It hasn’t ended yet, but I’ve read all of you incredibly talented people’s writings so far, and I loved every single one.
Thank you for sharing your experiences. There is strength in words, and I hope you guys are okay.
My messages are always open to those who want a friend.
(p.s. There will not be a winner.)
Cold Fire
Fire or ice… which would I choose? Not that it matters, but it’s funny you ask for my opinion: fate has already chosen for me.
Fire is impulsive. Infectious. Insatiable. It grows and grows until it consumes everything but itself and in that moment when fire is at its peak, it recognizes its mistake. In trying to become bigger than itself, it has killed itself.
Ice is strong. Structured. Silent. It remains as it has been and will be. Each crystal knows its place and stays where it is needed. A thousand men can trample it a thousand times over, yet it does not break until—in an instant—it shatters...
Fire or ice? Which would I choose?
Ever since I was a child, I knew the danger of the world. I recognized it in the wild of the winter storms and the scorch of the summer’s heat. I saw it in the wolves roaming free in the forests and the rats scurrying through the city streets. I have seen it from miles away as the cannons sang their chorus of death and in the trenches as men roared their prayers to an empty sky.
This was no place for passion or desire. A calculated mind was critical to my survival. Did it make me distant? Cold? Unforgiving? Perhaps, but that was what I needed to be. I did not ask to become what I am; I hardly had a choice in the matter.
Perhaps that is why I find your question so amusing: I’ve never been given this choice before. Fire or ice?
I would choose fire. Unpredictable, passionate, and wild—nothing like me.
I choose fire.
An angel in disguise
It was the best of times and the worst of times. Sitting in the Rio de Janerio airport at midnight with my newly-adopted seven-month old daughter and five-year-old son. All three of us in tears. This was an unexpected stop on our flight home. With three carry-on bags and totally exhausted children, I couldn’t fathom how we would get on the next flight.
That’s when an angel appeared, disguised as a very elderly man wearing what appeared to be a janitor’s uniform. He picked up our bags along with my son and nodded toward where the plane was boarding. A sympathetic flight attendant allowed him to get us to our seats as I constantly repeated one word -- gracias!
Two Faces
Smiling, helping everyone
Sulking, no homework done
Always cheerful, and seen hanging out
Insecure and really lonely at heart
Laughing and joking along
Crying when she’s home alone
Being there for people
when they’re feeling down
Screaming into the void
when she really needs someone.
. . .
“Do you need someone to talk to?”
“Please save me, I feel hopeless.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll get better!”
“Why am I so useless?”
“Love yourself!”
“I hate myself...”
“I’ll be here for you”
“Don’t I need someone too?”
. . .
Split personalities,
one contrasting the other.
Masking herself,
While inside, she suffers.
Regretting the past,
She puts up walls.
Dwelling on mistakes, but alas,
When will she move on?