A Suicide's Story

I'm not wise or wonderful

I'm not so very old

But even then I do believe

A suicide's story must be told

They say that life's a struggle

And who ends it must be weak

I can't bring myself to agree

Atropos' job is for the meek

A warrior born was I

To stand and fight with pride

And all of life's challenges

Lay conquered in my stride

I may be called a coward

This battle I'm seen to flee

But though I strain my weary eyes

No battlefield I see

The chase holds no excitement

The hunt no longer bold

The flame that once burnt brightly

Flickers, dies ... it now grows cold

Won't keep the reaper waiting

Charon's boat I gladly board

Eternal sleep I do embrace

For verily I grow bored

The queer man and his quilt

He was a queer man. He'd read books, but only a little of each, at a time. He was afraid of taking in too much of a good thing at once. Just as he was unable to detect the subtle flavours in a fine malt after having one too many, he feared the same would happen with words. He would start a book, read a few pages, savor every word and thought, and then start a new book, sometimes not even from the beginning. He wasn't curious; he was a gatherer. He gathered words and sentences and thoughts, much as a girl gathered flowers in a field; not to make a perfect bouquet but simply to satisfy her desire. He stitched a patchwork quilt in his mind, every square a masterpiece, the pattern appealing only to him - ever changing, ever expanding. Nobody understood why he read just so, and he never tried to explain. People said he was queer. He simply smiled and draped his quilt around him. He was always cozy and warm

Instant Fiction

He tried to outrun his past every day. When he returned home, it was waiting for him

"This is the last cigarette I'll ever smoke", he said, as he tossed the glowing butt away. The gas station erupted in flames

Tears flowed down his face, as he stood outside her door. He wanted her to see, but the rain blinded her

They sat around the bonfire singing loudly. When the fire died and the singing stopped, they heard the snarling of the wolves surrounding them

The last to go

What would be the last to go? He wondered as he slit his wrist. Although this was his first time, he knew how to do it right; being right was extremely important to him. Not those bumbling attempts of an amateur, no sir, that just wouldn't do! This was no act of impulse, or broken teenage heart; this was a well thought out and planned deed.

He cut upwards, towards the elbow, not across, as the silly ones did. He knew this wouldn't give the doctors much of a chance, were he even discovered in time. Time. What is death but a cessation of time? He digressed. It just won't do, he reprimanded himself. This was not the time for frivolous thoughts and whimsy. This was the time to observe, to discover...to learn. What would be the last to go?

He didn't look in the stream of rich, dark blood for fear or pride, as he knew he had relinquished those. He saw dignity leave, but that was only to be expected; he lay naked in a bath tub, with a slit wrist, wearing only  a grimace - nothing remotely dignified about that! Anger, nay, rage came next, swirling dark in the swiftly gathering pool on the bathroom floor, creating an ominous pattern on the pristine white tiles. He was unable to identify a pattern. He was sure he would. His defining qualities were gone, and baser ones followed. This didn't make any sense to him, as vanity, bias, luck and envy flowed in quick succession.

Irritation set in. The pain was ever increasing and it was exceedingly difficult to stay focussed. He had to know what he had within him, that which would endure. He saw love trickle away and the smile on his face served as a reminder that his sense of humour was still intact. Love is truly overrated, he thought, with an impish grin. FINALLY, he almost cried out at the sight of honour and duty, ever so glad he still had those. Lust was a precious few drops clinging on to his wrist, and that too dropped away. This clinging, this last little bit of futile resistance, was hope. "Abandon all hope..." This wasn't the time to recall Dante, although he might well be headed for Hell.

The pain was near unbearable and his vision faltered - strange shapes formed and vanished. Mist and fog. He could identify disappointment, as it washed over him like a tidal wave. Disappointment gave way to a nervous anxiety, as panic set in - HE HAD TO KNOW!

He couldn't keep his eyes open, nor could he think straight. Hell, he couldn't think at all!

All of a sudden, he felt an unfamiliar and complete peace descend upon him. An emotionless release of curiousity - the only thing that had kept him going thus far. He breathed his last thinking there was something yet remaining inside.

Were it possible to realize something after death, it would have brought him great joy to know he was right; being right was extremely important to him. But he wouldn't have recognized what remained, probably because he never even knew he had it.

She couldn't let him suffer any longer. She couldn't see his pain. She had to put an end to his curiousity and release him. She stayed when no one would. She was mercy.