'Flash' writing anthology about chronic pain - submissions welcome!
hospital gown
a flap in the back
lights flickering
tra la la obsessive screaming
sounds of machines
dissolving matter
situated between two beds
rupture of bodies
declared missing
delivered in close up
Japan
Jane Joritz-Nakagawa’s most recent book is Poems: New and Selected (Isobar, 2018) on sale at Amazon
There is no God.
I know it. I feel it in this agony. This violence. As my brain tricks my body into ripping itself apart.
There isn’t. There can’t be.
Please God. There can’t be.
Twitter @RomGothHolly
The chaos of pain in every moment
Inside me
Playing its jarring jazz
Impromptu – No set list
Whilst I exist amongst you
Cloaked I normalcy
Sweden
I’ve slept through Christmas. I shiver and pull the covers over me; sweat, and throw the covers off. My head bobs with nausea as I hobble to the bathroom to pee. The cats stay away, though at some point I hear them sliding across the living room floor, chasing that knitted ball with the bell. They sound far away. I sink into scalding bathwater—steam rising around me, my skin red—but it doesn’t feel anywhere near hot enough. I eat a deviled egg. Hear the glass of seltzer fizzing on my nightstand as I turn onto my right hip to relieve my left. Awake time for the day: 45 minutes. Sleep time: 20 hours. In-between these two: three hours of semi-comatose wondering, wondering if I’ll ever get back a bit of the life I once had.
*from “Sick Notes: The Story Inside the Illness: Memoir Meets Case Study”
Link to Master’s Thesis on ProQuest
United States
Our minds latch to narrative,
it’s how we learn, remember, interpret.
I went to hospital to have a baby,
I should’ve returned more, not less.
Subtracted: my ability to rise, walk, move;
In my pelvis, broken bone.
What is the premise?
What is the character’s motivation?
What is the hook?
That feeling: ochre, electric, waist down.
The hook is me on the edge of my bed, listening for my baby.
My doctor: you will probably heal
what if I don’t
things that were part of me: walking, laughing, being in ocean.
My editor draws lines through this section.
[The pacing is slow, nothing happens]
Days are triangles between the bed, the couch, the bathroom.
Pain tethers me; a dog on a rope.
I’m on the bed trying to stand, the collar pulls my neck
to breathe or growl
I watch from the other side of the room how I’m changed.
WordPress: https://sarahsassonblog.wordpress.com/
United Kingdom
From our window, the clouds seemed static, frozen. Orange-and-green taxicabs drove through the slush six floors down. Tilly whimpered, buzzed for the nurse, asked for Dilaudid, whispered “good morning.” Swaddled in her sheets, she breathed hard. Phenolic air. She asked me how I was feeling. We lolled in our beds, our mothers asleep in their wooden chairs, wrapped in winter coats, their heads dangling crooked.
Tilly and I began our daily walk—we could only ever circle the floor twice. We linked arms, dragged IV poles with our free hands. The hospital hallway was long, off-white, off-world, a nearly invisible trail of half-existence. Fluorescent light faked endless daytime. Supposedly, there is also no night in heaven. With every step, that sorry tube stabbed me deeper in the gut like a helpless thief. Blood drained downward into a bag wrapped around my knee. My insides, bared to all who passed by.
Canada
My grandma had 7300 sleepless nights
Until a Shanghai doctor said
‘You have restless legs’
Pills prescribed
Leaflet read,
Pramipexole Hydrochloride
The 1st good night’s sleep
In the 7301 nights.
UK
Pain is a pre-requisite to Creation. Take for example the process of bringing forth life. Albeit it is a painful process, nevertheless, it is also a glorious creation. History stands testimony to the fact that all the great ones who ever walked the Earth have
risen to great heights walking through the aisle of pain. “Love till it hurts” is the beautiful message bequeathed to us by Mother Teresa. I consider myself fortunate to have known a few “chosen” ones who have borne the cross of their lives with a brave heart.
Their lives have made me understand the significance of the maxim of “Grace Under Pressure “. Living in the proximity of pain, at this watershed moment of my life, I endeavour to explore the uncharted realm of Metaphysics and as I inch towards it silently,
I experience the power of the Void in my own quaint way.
UK/India
Like a tennis ace, all
Crisp white shorts, and shirts
Fresh every day,
He sits over the breakfast
Table, too big
For any chair, an elbow
Planted, a one-hand scoop
Of eggs and bacon,
Solid muscle in the arm
And thigh, his neck
A bronze pillar
Of glowing flesh.
And then you see
Slight tremor, and glimpse
The massive continuing act
Of self-control that holds
This huge frame
Together, prevents
Spillage, leakage, any sign
That one day soon
Tendon may spasm,
The merest lifting of a fork
An impossible task,
And are aghast
Before this terrible
Doomed dignity.
WordPress: davidpunter.wordpress.com
Anthology: Bristol: 21 Poems (published 2017)
UK (but written in the Maldives)
she is in the sauna drinking coke and eating salted peanuts
one knee resting against the hot wood, silvery hair damp and sticking to her shoulders
we discuss midwifery and the what it’s like to catch a slippery baby
in your palms
she is standing in seal skin coat with white fur collar beside the church
mid afternoon sun coming through jewel red of stain glass window
holding a cigarette to her lips exhaling smoke and warm breath
casual flick of ash hitting the ice
i can’t say what it is about these chance encounters that reel me in
give me something to latch onto
but mystery in itself can be a sustainer for the curious
there is no such thing as “meant to be”
things are just happening – miraculous, mundane things –
and why do we need more than that?
all is as it is as it is, amen
WordPress: https://nicoleschafenacker.wordpress.com/
Canada
© 2024 Translating Chronic Pain: Moments and Fragments
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑