Tag Archives: depression

Neglect

fleur

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

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“Screw it.” Sam’s aging body sat heavily onto the wrought iron chair. Long legs were stuffed underneath the matching table. The garden she had lovingly created looked like crap. He’d neglected everything over the summer. Now the morning air had the familiar chill of autumn.

No one had died. They just left him. He finally thought he’d gotten his life together, but they just left him. The divorce was quick and clean. Danny moved his family, Sam’s beloved grandchildren, to the middle-east for his dream job. The other two kids were too busy. Her garden was his life in shambles.

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Anhedonia

lightning

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

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A storm was coming. It was perfect. A trick of the wind let him hear the laughter of old men swapping jokes at the nearby truck stop. Wyatt trudged through the freight yard. Old, rusted cargo containers were stacked high around him. In another life he would have found it artistic.

He couldn’t feel the humor in laughter nor the joy in art anymore. He hadn’t for a long time. Not since she came to stay.

She never spoke. She didn’t have to. He could feel her mood, her one mood always with him.

The demon Anhedonia brooked no pleasure.

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Visiting Heaven

amanda stairs

PHOTO PROMPT © Amanda Forestwood

If you like my work, buy me a virtual cup of coffee at Ko-Fi.

The gate at the top of the stairs was open. God again allowed mortals to have visiting hours in Heaven. She could see Mom once more. How long since the last visitation? God saw when He first allowed this, it turned into a disaster. No one visiting wanted to leave the bliss of the world to come.

Of course, they were still alive so they had to go. But then came mass waves of depression and suicide. God cut off visitations but that was worse. Now an entire world had come to faith, but only if they could see Heaven.

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Fugue State

lisa fox

PHOTO PROMPT © Lisa Fox

If you like my work, buy me a virtual cup of coffee at Ko-Fi.

He didn’t remember how he got here. It was some sort of posh restaurant. He was alone, although there were two menus on the table. An unknown appetizer was sitting in front of him looking particularly vile.

The taste of his soft drink made him want to vomit. He tried to act calm, then realized not only did he not know where he was, he didn’t know who he was.

He started to get up when a fairly attractive young woman approached.

“Hello. I’m Joy, your server. Welcome to your first day at cognitive depression treatment clinic. Shall we begin?”

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My Personal Ecclesiastes

miles

© Miles Rost

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There is no me. There’s just doing the laundry, paying the rent, riding the bus, going to work, going to school. You know. Nothing that’s important. So here I am feeding coins into the washers and dryers at the laundromat, trying to read a book and realizing that I don’t enjoy it. In fact, I don’t enjoy anything. Not a damn thing. I eat good food. I mean, I live in San Francisco, so there’s a lot of good food. But so what? I’ve considered suicide for a long time. I walk out of the building and into traffic.

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Cloister

cloister

© Roger Bultot

A terrified Sandoval Carson treaded across rough, ancient stones paralleled by pitted archways and shrouded by overgrown vegetation. The cloister was just ahead, and so, he hoped, his salvation.

Once he had stepped through the dark mirror that had once been a patio window, he was young again, though, he suspected, only here. He had to find the one who could help him correct all his life mistakes.

“Hello, Sandoval.” The voice was behind him.

“Can you help me?” Carson pivoted and then faced himself.

Dark Carson lunged at him screaming, “I’ve always hated you.”

“Me too,” he gurgled, dying.

It’s been a while, but this morning, I decided to contribute to Rochelle Wisoff-Field‘s weekly photo writing challenge. The idea is to use the image above as the inspiration for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 100 words long. My word count is 100.

The color adjustment of the photo made me feel apprehensive, as if I were looking at a horror film, one where the hero was about to be pounced upon by the monster at any moment. In this case, the monster is himself.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

EDIT: Forgot to add a title and to mention that this is just one of many “Dark Mirror” tales I’ve written over the past few years. Usually, they take a person to their greatest desire or need. It obviously meant something grim in Sandoval’s case.

Be Kind – Everyone You Meet is Fighting a Hard Battle

suicide prevention day

Image found on Facebook

Today, Monday, September 10th, is World Suicide Prevention Day. I found that out on Facebook when it was associated with the television and film franchise Star Trek, and the original series debuted on September 8, 1966. That anniversary was only two days ago.

I hadn’t realized these Star Trek related actors had all committed suicide, including TV and film icon Brian Keith. Most people know that Robin Williams committed suicide, and I think I recall that Get Smart actor Ed Platt (“the Chief”) took his own life.

I’ve been wanting to write about something today, but the topic eluded me until just a few minutes ago. Decades ago, I worked for a suicide prevention hotline in Berkeley, California, on the “graveyard” shift, so, as you can imagine, I’ve talked with many people who had been having tough times.

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The Digital Muse

houses

© Dale Rogerson

Another day, another sunrise. The sky is an ugly, pale yellow, and life is bland and uninspired.

“Hey, you.”

Addy turned toward her laptop sitting on the small desk in her bedroom. The speakers were on, so it was chattering away at her again.

“What do you want? I’m depressed.”

“Get over here. You have to finish your story. Marguerite’s trapped in that waterfront warehouse by Marsden’s goons. Will Preta be able to save her? You’ve got to help.”

A twinkle appeared in Addy’s eyes as she sat down at the computer, opened the file, and began to write.

I wrote this for the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields flash fiction challenge. The idea is to use the image above as the prompt for crafting a poem or story no more than 100 words long. My word count is 99.

To me, the image is pretty depressing, a smoke-filled summer sky, and the promise of another scorching day. The original version of this story before I edited it down, was more descriptive, but there’s only so much you can do with 100 words.

I leveraged characters from my story The Haunted Detective, and as far as the talking computer goes, I’m leaving that part rather vague.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

When Julia Wore Her Thorns

maslk of thorns

Photo credit: Enzzo Barrena

The mask of thorns was almost a part of her now, as if it were growing out of her skin instead of inexorably piercing it, boring through muscle and bone. Blood, thick as syrup, slowly described glacial paths across her face, then down her delicate throat and onto her chest and shoulders.

Julia’s body was paralyzed in a sea of stones. At first, they felt crushing, and she impotently thrashed and screamed in claustrophobic terror. Now she could barely feel them, just like the thorns, her nerves disconnecting from pain, or for that matter, from pleasure as well.

Was it irony that brought her the tiny, yellow bird, or was that Vaughn’s idea of a joke, like the parable of the Zen Monk, the Tiger, and the Strawberry? No, that’s not right. The real meaning of the parable was not to let yourself get distracted by pleasure when you need to save yourself from imminent danger.

But the bird was the only kindness in a world of horror, and trapped as she was, Julia had no hope of saving herself.

“Don’t be stupid,” chirped the bird. “Vaughn didn’t do this to you. You did.”

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Reconstructing Gwen

deconstructed woman

Photo credit: Flora Borsi

Gwendolyn Anders was being deconstructed. No one else could tell the forty-five year old divorced woman was falling apart. She couldn’t afford to let anyone know. She had to keep moving, go to work each day, make sure her two kids got to and from school, did their homework, ate healthy meals, made it to soccer practice.

She did her best to adhere to the “supermom” stereotype, and as far as the rest of the world was concerned, she was successful.

Inside where no one could see, she was bleeding to death.

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