Number Four

Writing is tough work. It may seem like an idyllic, cushy hobby of a job, but it's not easy. Trust me. I've been staring at the three paragraphs below the prompt wondering where the heck to take this story for so long that banging my head against the desk seems much more appealing and fun than continuing to write does. That's the frustrating thing about writing. Some days it flows, and some days (most days), even when you have an idea, it's stagnant.

I realize I've written about death in each of my most recent posts. I've always leaned more toward dark storylines. I guess it's just my preferred style, but I feel like something more uplifting in is order for the next few days. My body and mind are craving it.... Still, though, I love this prompt. I just have to get myself in the right emotional state in order to take it in the direction I have in mind. Frankly, I don't have the energy to get to that place right now. But this is something I definitely plan to come back to.

(9:00pm- Mom gave me a few good and happier sounding ideas for this number four prompt. Maybe I'll retry tomorrow. Goodnight!)



She's curled up on the couch. Tears trickle down her cheeks, and I haven't seen her blink in the last four minutes. I made her a cup of tea. Valerian root. It smells like rotten feet, but I thought it'd help her sleep. She hasn't touched it. In fact, she hasn't moved since late last night after the last wave of cramps rippled through her body.

I know the worst is over so I move the makeshift toilet out to the back porch. I want to burn it, the seatless chair with a trash bag lined five gallon bucket underneath to catch the blood and gray tissue escaping her body. I tie the ends of the trash bag together, grab a shovel, and trudge to the Japanese maple in the far right corner of the back yard. I bury what is left of my child.

This one would have been a boy. I am sure of it, just as I am sure that the first three were girls. She hadn't carried any of them long enough to determine the sex, but I knew. The girls came and went over the course of one year, and three years passed before she became pregnant again. The doctor warned us not to get our hopes up, but I insisted we name him. Thomas Caleb.