5 comments

  1. Karen

    We had a beautiful autumn this year in Colorado. The leaves stayed a beautiful orange, yellow, and gold until they fell in late November. As I rolled my powerchair out and enjoyed the snow-capped Rockies, and listened to praise songs on my Walkman (LOL, I’m a “fossil” who still uses a Walkman!), I thought the color of the leaves was a metaphor of my life as it winds down on this earth, awaiting either rebirth in Spring or when at last I go Home? Either way, I can’t wait!

    1. mcullen Post author

      More beautiful writing, Karen. You have a gift of painting lively and lovely pictures with words.

  2. James Seamarsh

    Winsor & Newton Cadmium Yellow Pale Hue, a bright yellow, a yellow that flashed the smiles of a thousand sunflowers on a bright day. I squirted another line of the paint onto my canvas. Where was my yellow?

    The tube was defective, so I bought another, then another. I even tried a different brand. But my yellow was gone. After four different tubes I knew it wasn’t the paint at all. It was me.

    At the time, I thought it only odd and didn’t pay enough attention. But as the months passed, I became more and more sad. The melancholy bled the color from my life, turning my world gray.

    I knew I was not well. I couldn’t paint. But it took another two years for me to realize. Nightmares haunted my sleep, and waking became a chore. I was drowning in such a profound sorrow that living became painful and death floated on the horizon like a welcome island. It was one of those mornings, head splitting apart as I yanked myself conscious, that I knew I was not going to make it on my own.

    1. mcullen Post author

      First a note. . . in freewrites such as this, we treat this work as fiction. In this case, the narrator (the person telling the story) is unknown. Therefore, we refer to the narrator, or to the character in this story.

      Whoa. . James. . . powerful writing. Well done. Opening paragraph draws me in . . good visual with “a thousand sunflowers on a bright day.” The specific and precise verb “squirted” and definite action “line of the paint onto my canvas” paints (literally and writerly sense) a vivid action scene I can see a narrator performing. The second paragraph brings in more specific detail and begins the mysterious ascent (descent?) of the story. The third paragraph speeds up the action and goes deeper in to the life of the character in this story.

      And the fourth paragraph, such genuine honesty, the story builds to a crescendo and time slows with “death floated on the horizon like a welcome island.” I pause here, with second reading, contemplating what that would be like, what that means. With first reading, I’m in a hurry to read to the end to find out what happens. With second reading, I take the time to ponder what this means to the narrator, what this looks like to him or her and what this looks like for me.

      And then “head splitting apart as I yanked myself conscious,” I get a sense of what this is like for the narrator . . . extremely painful. I do like the ending, “I knew I was not going to make it on my own.” It’s a satisfying ending, in a lyrical way and hangs resolutely with the mystery of what happened. Did the narrator get help? Is there resolution? Thanks for posting this provocative piece, James. A pleasure to read and contemplate.

  3. Karen Reid

    I agree–I read this and found myself on the edge of my seat, wondering, “What did he do next, when he found he realized he couldn’t make it on his own?” This is a very provocative piece in that it also lead me to think of the times I’ve been at the “end of my rope,” and what I did when I knew I couldn’t make it on my own. The first time, when I was only 16, I read the “Upanishads and the Bhagavad Gita,” but came up empty. Then I went to Catholic church every morning, peeking at the nuns so I could go through the ritual of mass, finally one morning as I knelt before the crucifix I said, “Jesus, are you real? ‘Cause if you are, I need You.” I didn’t think anyone heard and I never went back. But a year later someone challenged me to read the Book of John, and I didn’t find what I was looking for–I found WHO I was looking for!

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