The subject has been on my mind lately. Shocks from Hollywood and the unseen, unexpected deaths of those we loved and entertained us with smiles, tears, and recalling the goodness of their renowned talent. Before retiring, working with doctors in the medical and psychiatric field, I had experiences with patients that contemplated suicide. Oftentimes therapy sessions would be successful [at least for a short period before needing follow-up therapy]...Sadly, other times it wasn't Our human minds are a trigger sometimes. A force so powerful! Thought and actions go hand in hand. Time and time again, there is 'no hope' for those that want out. So... I was compelled to return to my computer, sit down, and write this thought; to 'paint a picture' so to speak...of what contemplating ending it all would have been like. Not in today's life, but a long time ago...back in the 30s. I've read in documented papers over and over about the choices made; disillusions if you will. In ways it was of human self-destruction of two kinds...man made from over farming the land and secondly the tragic outcome of it all. This fiction may be disturbing to some. Be forewarned...
IN MY OKLAHOMA HOME...
"Just after sunrise, she unwrapped herself from the grimy bedding as a fine grit danced in the light of day filtering in rays through the glass on the far side of her one room home. Gazing out the dingy window pane, Franny could see very little difference in the day from what she had seen for weeks now. On the window sill, and on the timbered floor, a pyramid of dust had collected overnight while she slept fitfully. It was imminent. With an unsightly, gray, mass of cloth, she routinely thought of wiping it away only to stop in her daily drill to just sit in her own silence and reverie; despair and misery. With a heavy sigh. as she lifted her head to gaze outdoors again, she searched the sky for any break. Nothing but a gilded, encompassment of swirling powder.
The land, parched. The heat of the Summer morning, forthcoming. In her mind, a loud scream was heard. A continual scream of anguish. Was what she noted in her painful, weary, detachment, a silent scream or was it real? She never knew.
The wind howled. The flakes and flecks of the Oklahoma land battered against her prairie shack in a shocking torrent. For her, it was deafening at times. Franny choked on the particles as they filtrated through the exterior walls and doorway. Another scream! But this time she... after her temporary black out, she gained awareness that the soiled rag on the floor by the window was left behind and she found herself beside the only fine piece of furniture indoors. Her grandmother's hutch.
Above the intricate carving, raised from the chiseled compartments, Franny reached atop; pushing her soiled, dirt encrusted, hands through the webs that have collected over the days, to grab her small revolver always loaded for uninvited intruders. For protection.
With the pistol in hand, she wiped her forehead of the sweat beads, that have accumulated mysteriously, onto her tattered smock and returned to her corner by the window. One lone teardrop trickled down her hollow cheek as she put the barrel to her temple. Surprisingly, the cold steel cylinder felt comforting..."
THE DUST BOWL of 1930s
photo courtesy of Google Images
In My Oklahoma Home
written by Anni
© August 2014
all rights reserved
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