“In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice,” said Victor Frankl.
Every story requires pain and suffering. If the protagonist doesn't experience pain, he or she won't change. “Pain develops character. If you have a story where someone learns through joy, the audience won't buy it,” said Donald Miller at his Storyline conference.
Joy is great. Your story should incorporate some joy. But pain is the Great Teacher.
Photo by Daniel Zedda
Pain Can Be Powerful
The psychologist, Victor Frankl was a contemporary of Freud. But Frankl, unlike Freud, believed the main pursuit of life was not pleasure but meaning. Humanity, in other words, was hardwired to search for meaning. Only when they couldn't find meaning would they seek to numb themselves with pleasure.
Born to a Jewish family in Vienna, Frankl and his wife were captured in 1944 by the Nazis and sent to the concentration camps where his wife would die.
In the concentration camps, prisoners weren't allowed to stop their fellow prisoners from committing suicide. However, when he saw someone being to lose hope, he would approach them.
What's wrong, he would ask.
Life has no meaning, they would tell him. The Nazis want to kill us. It would be better for me to be dead.
He told them the only thing he could think of, If you don't commit suicide, if you let the Nazis kill you, you will show the world they are evil. And you will help the world to never make the same mistake.
He gave their suffering meaning. They were no longer victims. They would be martyrs. And because their suffering had meaning, they persevered.
You Are a Bringer of Meaning
Your characters must suffer. There's no getting past it.
You must bring pain. You must show hurt. You must inflict trauma.
It's the hard responsibility of every writer. However I think it's important that you know why you have to dwell on these dark things.
By bringing meaning to the pain of your characters, you bring meaning to the pain of the world. This is why people need story. They want to know they are not alone. Others suffer just like them. They want to know their suffering has a purpose, that there is hope, redemption. That there is life not just beyond the pain, but in the pain itself.
You think you're just telling a story. But the truth is you're bringing life.
Note: Credit to Don Miller who talked about Victor Frankl and the meaning of suffering at his Storyline Conference. Thanks for sharing this, Don.
PRACTICE
Write about a character in pain. What is the meaning behind it?
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments. If you post, please comment on a few other pieces.
And may peace be upon you.
I guess I should think more about what pains I’m planning for my characters. :3
By the way, whatever pop-up you installed (If you like this, check out…) is working. I’ve already got myself lost with it! -x’s out of the current one-
You should, CZ 🙂
Awesome. Good to know. Thanks. You don’t find it too distracting?
Joe, great post! Something I’m struggling with right now is showing my protagonist’s pain when she is the one causing pain. Go figure! BTW, like the new pop-up for related posts. Tell us more. 🙂
Is that like the daddy that say’s this is gonna hurt me more than you when about to thrash child?
Suzie, something like that. Mom used that a lot, but I don’t think she ever really knew how badly her punishments in the form of words, sarcasm, and manipulation hurt us, as well as the physical pain from being hit with belts, yardsticks, rulers, the flat palm of her hand. Deeply painful but the punisher had no awareness. Of course, I now know why she punished as she did, or perhaps I should use the word “disciplined.” However, if I tell that part of my story I give away a huge turning point in my memoir.
“You are so stupid!” her mother was screaming at Mary. Mary was picking up pieces of delph. Mary’s brother was stood to the side smirking and her step-father was giving her one of those looks, those ‘I’ll see you later’ looks.
This was Mary’s life; her brother caused trouble for which Mary got the blame, causing her mother to lose her temper meaning she’s need a couple of spliffs and some mellow Southern Comfort to chill her out till she passed out, meanwhile her mother’s husband would use Mary for his own ends.
Mary had an alter-ego, her name was Morrigan, Queen of the Crows, Queen of the Dead, no one messed with Morrigan. It was always later, much, much later that she could invoke Morrigan. She had rituals, she would purge, she would shower in the hottest water possible, scrubbing every centimetre of her body till it tingled (for Mary’s tingle read scrubbed raw till blood appeared). As she dried her body and yanked at her long black hair so tufts of rat-tails would come loose from her scalp, she lit candles and placed her arms from elbow to wrist in the candle flame, backwards and forwards till she could feel it. Finally she banged the back of head against the wall of the bathroom until she became Morrigan.
Morrigan left the house, dressed all in black, with a long black cloak, she paused in alleys, she slithered between shop doorways, watching, waiting for her step-father leaving the bar so she could if she wanted to, kill him.
Watching and waiting, waiting and watching; thinking of her baby sister asleep in the cot. “Touch her Derek, and you will die!” she howled into the night. She swept along the road howling like a banshee, Morrigan Mary, no one dares….
A very, very disturbed girl. The story has emotion and I like it. Nice writing Suzie.
thanks JB, yes she is or was in this piece – usually she is more hard, less emotional, more manipulative.
Wow I like how she goes kind of crazy at the end. Thanks Suzie for a good read.
yeah she’s my crazy chick. She was retired a few months ago. But she has a story to tell so has come out of retirement.
Thanks for the comment, Mh
Oh, what an angel of Death Mary Morrigan may be.
Wooo Suzie, you go girl!! I don’t know if this was ‘off the cuff’ or a character you’ve worked on before. But it came across as fully-fledged. Love the use of the name change for the separate personalities too. It just worked!
Mary/Morrigan is girl who has been a character of mine for a number of years but the scenario is new, the self-harm and the stepfather are new
Shows she’s evolving darling, growing with you…
Absolutely! Characters have to overcome pain and suffering to grow and be interesting. Who wants to read about the nice middle class guy who sat on his couch and did nothing while the accolades rolled in?
Would have love to do more but 15 minutes were up.
Read and enjoy 🙂
***
Ryger walked along the Street of Beggars as snow softly fell from the gray cast sky. His stomach was burning with hunger. He was dragging himself as opposed to walking. It felt like he was in some kind of twisted nightmare. He looked at himself in the glass window of a butcher’s shop—his hair was wild and tangled, his eyes were wilder. His sword belt still hung around his hip but his sword was no longer there. He was wearing a soiled, brown tunic and breeches that seemed to be of the color white a long time ago. Ryger touched his face and the man in the mirror did the same. What happened to him? How could he have fallen from so high a place? It was just a fortnight ago when he was a part of the honored Kingsguard and now he’s struggling just to find food. A man bumped into him, breaking his train of thoughts. Ryger continued on walking.
“Well, well, look what we ‘ave ‘ere boys,” came the high-pitched voice of Symon.
Ryger heeded them no mind. He continued on walking along the narrow alleyway. On either side of him, he could feel the sharp eyes and the violent smiles.
“Is the knight ‘imself. Give way for Ryger the White!” Symon laughed and his men laughed with him.
“Where’s your sword knight?” shouted Big Bardo.
“’Ere’s ‘is sword,” Symon leapt in front of Ryger with a long stick in hand. The captain of the thieves pointed the end of the stick at Ryger’s throat. “Take your sword knight.”
Ryger could hear the other thieves standing up and surrounding him. There was a time, before the alcohol and the wine and the spirit of drunkenness had overtaken him, when Ryger could singlehandedly defeat these outlaws. Now, he was just a beggar in the streets. Ryger knew Symon and his crew won’t leave him until he played their game. Ryger reached for the stick. Symon smiled, showing off the gaps in his teeth.
“Careful now boys, old Ryger ‘ere got ‘imself a sword,” Symon laughed.
Ryger held the sword in his left hand, his sword hand, and he watched and waited what the thieves will do. He heard one of them move behind him. Ryger turned around but the poison of alcohol had dulled his movements. He saw the fist coming, it landed hard and true on his right temple. Ryger fell to one knee.
“Stand up knight,” he heard one of them say.
Ryger stood up and raised his stick sword—his hands violently shaking from fear and from the damage the excessive drinking did to his body.
“Let’s spar with the knight boys,” he heard Symon say.
I like this, I like that it can’t be in the time of knights because there is a butchers shop with a window. I like how it is in “our” time but not in our time, like a misplaced person, and he is a displaced person. Want to read more!
Thanks Suzie! 🙂
That was very well done. Was this idea from something you are working on or is it one that came off the top of your head for today’s practice? Just curious because I am new to the site and when I see someone who writes so well I’d like pointers on how they did it. I know I need a lot of improving and that is why I came here. Anyway, good stuff. I wanted to keep reading to know what happened next!
This was really well done!!!! Just curious, was this an existing story idea you expanded upon for today’s practice or did this little plot come to you new today? You could make a whole book out of this one small story, I wanted to keep reading more.
It’s something I’ve thought of just for this practice, but I’ve an itch to expand it more (though not right now). I’m glad you liked it. 🙂
Good portrayal of the physical degradation and deflation of morale that alcoholism can bring. You might take a look at your verb tenses. But the piece is effective — the heart goes out to the mighty one, fallen.
Thanks for the advice. I’ll check on it again 🙂
Gone was the old spunky spirit, replaced by a new lethargic one. “’tis a pity,” he heard Symon say,
Hey there JB…have you forgiven me for asking for your first name yet? I am sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to. It was a flippant remark. I stand behind anyone’s right to call themselves whatever they choose….Anyway, enough said. I hope we can continue to be ‘friends’ 🙂
About this piece I wanted to say, it feels like observing an accident on the highway. You don’t want to look, but you have to. To see a character’s fall from grace brings forward empathy, and a curiosity…to see, does he resurrect his former glory, or go downhill even more so?
Wait. Wow. I didn’t get mad or offended. I’ll try to find my reply to your comment before. I forgot what I said but did I sound like I was offended? I’m sorry. :/ its not a big deal for me when you asked my name :/ I apologize if what I said seemed to sound that I was mad.
Thanks for the comment. Glad you liked my story. 🙂
Oh…no I didn’t get any reply. I asked and then there was this big silence in response. Which I took as meaning you were offended. Aha! No, don’t worry trying to find it JB. Just knowing you were fine is all I needed to know. Let us sally forth from here! 🙂
descriptive, to the point, perhaps after that first punch he would throw up, thats happened to me when i was smacked in the head when drunk. Anyhow i like your approach to these often used time periods.
My hats off to you
A sea of people clad in black were standing around six-year-old Molly. “Poor girl, losing her mother at such a young age,” these people would whisper here and there looking at her with sad expressions in their faces. The grown ups thought she wouldn’t understand what they were saying, but she did.
She wouldn’t have a mommy like every other kid at school did. She wouldn’t have someone to go to her plays and meets because her father will be busy at work. She’ll be bullied by the other girls and no one will be there to comfort her anymore.
Her daddy was a good man and he was a great daddy. But girl stuff should be kept between girls and not shared with dads.
“You should find someone nice, Arthur. Not just for you, but for Molly as well,” whispered Aunt Greta. Molly tugged on her father’s coat and he looked at her with an even sadder expression. He was no longer crying on the outside, but she knew he was still crying inside.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea Greta. I can take care of Molly on my own. Dating isn’t something I should be thinking about so soon,” he paused. “We’ll be fine. Won’t we, Molly?”
She nodded politely like a good little girl but she knew they wouldn’t be fine. Not fine at all.
She wanted to cry but her mommy told her she had to be brave and she was a big girl now. And big girls don’t cry when they’re out with a lot of people.
Molly did not cry at her mother’s funeral. But when they got home, she ran to her mommy’s room and hugged her pillow and cried all night. Her daddy came by and saw his little princess crying so he sat beside her, hugged her and cried too.
They cried all night until they could cry no more. “We’ll be all right, Molly. We will. I promise.”
Unisse, lovely telling of pain on the inside, the heartbreak at losing a parent
Thanks Suzie 🙂
Unisse. What makes this for me is not just the pain but the idea that she has no other woman now in her life. Her father, despite being a good father, is a man and he says to the woman who suggests her remarry that they will be fine. He is in pain too and will not remarry so his pain trumps his daughters and he doesn’t even know it doesn’t realize what he is doing to her. I’m sure this could be seen from a male point of view too but being a woman my heart breaks for his child who is already a victim of fate. There are so many many layers to this so many what ifs.
Joe! This is the Holy Grail of “story”. Suffering in the service of opening a character to their higher nature. This is the whole thesis of my eBook that you helped me launch a couple of months ago. Wow — I am so glad to hear this spoken of. And I know Donald Miller is one of the few who gets this. I’d like to hear more — a lot more! — about your Storyline sessions.
Hum . . . Did you mean to send this to Joe or to all of us?
Well, I guess it’s for anyone who wants to share in my excitement. And anyone who wants to consider looking at this question of suffering as not just another story element but as the “Holy Grail” of fiction. Yes, I’m trying to support this notion of “meaning”. It gets such a bad rap, these days. You speak about meaning and people roll their eyes, as if, “didn’t you know that we stopped talking about “meaning” somewhere in the late 70s. As if, “don’t you subscribe to post-modernism with all its relativism?” My answer is no, I don’t. It’s as if people are frightened to talk about meaning. And well they should, because Miller has it right… it takes suffering to open us up to our higher selves. Otherwise we just noodle along functioning by our tired old belief systems. B.S. that doesn’t serve anything but our most selfish aims. So, yes. when I hear about “meaning” as a product of the hero’s journey, then I do indeed want everyone to discuss it as much as possible. So, thanks for asking… since it allowed the discussion a little more air time.
Agreed! I just added Joe’s words, ‘You are a bringer of meaning. Your characters must suffer. There’s no getting past it.’ to my Great Quotes file
all in favour of publishing, wd PJ
Yep, ever since your book I’ve looked at stories, movies, and even television shows in a whole new way!
In late afternoon in winter the sun sets early slanting down in layers. She had the television on the shopping network. She had lights on in each room. She tried not to look a the windows. She had stopped drawing the blinds when her husband died. She would eat cheese and crackers in front of the TV. She would sleep on the sofa. Her children had told her to sell the house and move into something smaller. She couldn’t leave yet.
love this Mh, the pain isn’t told, isn’t shown yet we can see it as clearly as 3D MiB!
Thanks Suzie!
This was very short, but I got a lot from it… she was still gripping onto what she had lost and was not ready to give up the reminders of her lost husband. Life was moving on and she was stuck – creating even more prolonged pain. It just goes to show that you don’t need a lot of verbiage to get across a feeling that we can all relate to in some way. Very succinct and well done!
Thanks Christy
I like the stripped-down quality of this. The style gives an organic feel of the desolation.
Thanks John.
Why bother? There was no escaping the pain, and she knew it.
Thank you Carey
I love the feeling of being unable to move on. I can feel the sadness of this widow. Her husband’s gone but she couldn’t accept that fact. I can imagine her vividly. Great, great writing. 🙂
Thank you JB
I like your way of investing meaning in to the tiniest details. The lights on in every room is genius
Thank you Yvette. I did work on the details for this one.
I sense of hopeless stuck what is the use feeling. Wonderful writing.
Thank yo so much Pilar. It made me kind of sad to write that short thing.
Ok, here goes… be honest in your critique because I really do want to better my writing. Thanks!!
Aodh walked across the great south balcony. He needed this time to be alone so he could inwardly scorn the loneliness. Power and wealth was his for the taking, but love and companionship he could never have.
The granite sparkled beneath his feet. It reminded him of his empire. All those little specks of light moved when he moved, as if they were put there for him, waiting for his presence that they may bow in submission to please him. The little reflections were like all those people he ruled over. Each tiny life meant nothing to him as an individual, but collectively they made for him an empire which was the child he loved and cared for and provided guidance and protection to.
Aodh loved his empire, but he loved no one person in it. He learned early on not to let anyone close. He knew he had to produce and heir and the thought of having to rely on another in order to do so irritated him deeply. He did not want to be like the father he loathed, finding a reason to dispose of the Queen so he did not have to share his power with her. Herein lay the quandary… how then would Aodh find the one whom he could trust?
The breeze rose up from below, carrying with it the scents of lilies and lilacs and rain drenched earth. The clouds had parted and the sun was spilling down upon him fully now, illuminating his tousled hair like a torch. But blackness taunted him from within. His loneliness was insurmountable as was his longing for something he did not understand, something all those half minded people he ruled over got to enjoy at their whim. They knew not what prize they had in the simple life, and it was ironic to Aodh how they instinctively yearned for his position and power. If he could, he would trade it all in just to be free of the wretched ache in his soul.
What kind of a king would he be if he broke the traditions of his forefathers? Where would the respect and fear of him run to if he pursued his own happiness and forsook the happiness of his subjects? He was known to be the most powerful and successful emperor of all time, but what no one ever suspected was the feeling of towering isolation that ate at him every day and night, plaguing him even while he slept.
His father’s words echoed in his mind, words beaten into his core since boyhood… “Anyone who won the love of an Emperor must pay for the honor with their life.” So he strove to drive out the pain of his wretched solitude by being the best Emperor he could be, though deep within himself he never would know if it was ever good enough because he could never trust anyone enough to tell him that they cared.
At night in his dreams he dashed toward the setting sun, longing to stay in the warmth of its light because he feared the darkness that was creeping up on him from behind. He ran and ran but could never catch up to the light, not realizing that if he only turned to run into the darkness that he would be through it much more quickly and the light would be there waiting to greet him on the other side.
This is my first post, I hope I did this right! I appreciate all honest comments because I am serious about my writing and need to see where I can improve. First post probably equals yucky writing, sorry! But we all have to start somewhere, lol! Ok, here goes……
Aodh walked across the great south balcony. He needed this time to be alone so he could inwardly scorn the loneliness. Power and wealth was his for the taking, but love and companionship he could never have.
The granite sparkled beneath his feet. It reminded him of his empire. All those little specks of light moved when he moved, as if they were put there for him, waiting for his presence that they may bow in submission to please him. The little reflections were like all those people he ruled over. Each tiny life meant nothing to him as an individual, but collectively they made for him an empire which was the child he loved and cared for and provided guidance and protection to.
Aodh loved his empire, but he loved no one person in it. He learned early on not to let anyone close. He knew he had to produce and heir and the thought of having to rely on another in order to do so irritated him deeply. He did not want to be like the father he loathed, finding a reason to dispose of the Queen so he did not have to share his power with her. Herein lay the quandary… how then would Aodh find the one whom he could trust?
The breeze rose up from below, carrying with it the scents of lilies and lilacs and rain drenched earth. The clouds had parted and the sun was spilling down upon him fully now, illuminating his tousled hair like a torch. But blackness taunted him from within. His loneliness was insurmountable as was his longing for something he did not understand, something all those half minded people he ruled over seemed to enjoy at their whim. They knew not what prize they had in the simple life, and it was ironic to Aodh how they instinctively yearned for his position and power. If he could, he would trade it all in just to be free of the wretched ache in his soul that came with being Emperor of all.
His father’s words echoed in his mind, words beaten into his core since boyhood… “Anyone who so wins the love of an Emperor must pay for the honor with their life.” So he strove to drive out the pain of his wretched solitude by being the best Emperor he could be, though deep within himself he would never know if it was ever good enough… or if in the end anyone ever really cared enough for it to matter at all.
What kind of a king would he be if he broke the traditions of his forefathers? Where would the respect and fear of him run to if he pursued his own happiness and forsook the happiness of his subjects? He was known to be the most powerful and successful Emperor of all time, but what no one ever suspected was the feeling of towering isolation that ate at him every day and night, plaguing him even while he slept.
At night in his dreams he dashed toward the setting sun, longing to stay in the warmth of its light because he feared the darkness that was creeping up on him from behind. He ran and ran but could never catch up to the light, not realizing that if he only turned to dive into the darkness that he would be through it much more quickly, and the dawn of a new hope would be there waiting to greet him on the other side.
Oops, went over by a couple minutes. Sorry if this posted more than once, I don’t know how to work this Disqus thing that well yet!
Oops, looks like one paragraph replicated itself somehow. I guess I need pointers on copying and pasting from Word into Disqus too! lol Hopefully you were able to see past my oops and get the gist of my little story!
Hi! Welcome to writepractice. 🙂
I love your story. The descriptions were vivid and I could feel the feeling of being alone by the emperor. Nice writing. 🙂
Thanks!!
Although I have plenty of inspiration around me, I have a very hard time writing about pain. However, this post has encouraged me to have to the courage to face the pain and create something wonderful!
“F***, F***, F***, F***!”
He slammed his palms against the steering wheel of his truck so hard they began to ache.
“Ahhhhhhhhh!” “Ahhhhhhhhh!”
His yelling was almost more of a grunt. Like the sound someone would make when trying to move a piano by themselves.
“Uhhh, Uhhh, Uhhh!”
He was pulling on the steering wheel now; like he was trying to rip it from the dash. No longer an internal dialog; he started talking to himself out loud.
“James, what do you plan to do now? You realize you won’t be able to keep your house, right? When projects are scarce like this, the kinds of mistakes your guys made today will take you down!”
James paused for a minute, looked into the rear view mirror, and caught the corner of his forehead; he was sweating nervously.
“I don’t know how to tell her! We just moved in a year ago!”
He tried to practice a little.
“Hey honey, guess what? This house that I just got us a year ago? The one you have dreamed of having your whole life? Well, we are going to lose it dramatically and tragically in front of the whole world and our friends!
Love you!”
He continued talking to himself.
“She is going to be so mad at me. We won’t even get full price for the house. It is a short sale, or worse, foreclosure waiting to happen.”
James looked at the overpass coming up. A small river ran underneath.
“I still have that $750,000.00 life insurance policy. I could run off this thing right now and and solve all kinds of problems. They would get over me soon enough, and they could keep the house and start over debt free.”
Woa, talk about evocative. You really dragged me in there James!
Thanks, Yvette!
That one is a strong memory for me.
In case you were wondering, I didn’t try to kill myself that day. 😉
I was wondering, so thanks for telling me! There’s a whole lot more to life than money. And I should know!! Ha ha. Like writing for one thing….and James, you have a talent for it, so keep up the good work 🙂
Thank you very much!
http://goo.gl/AfIQ5
She let her eyes wander around the bare motel room again. Then stood and walked into the bathroom and looked at the hollow-eyed, ashen-faced girl in the mirror. To give him up had been like ripping the heart out of herself, but it was all by prearrangement; momma said, daddy said, the nuns said; and all of them had managed to make her feel like a criminal in the process. Especially mom — one night mom had stood with her hands on her hips and snarled, “Well — are you happy with yourself?” All of this trouble and mortification because she let herself love to the physical maximum — and it didn’t much matter to her which of the boys it was, even after one of them and his parents refused to even talk about the situation, just totally denied any involvement on his part.
With whom would this child end up living? What were his chances at a happy and purposeful life? She should have known better; had been taught better; but nothing had prepared her for her late teenage years and the emotional mine-field of this in-between age and the harmonal influence and — she just failed them all, and failed herself, didn’t she?
The knock on the door told her that her father and clueless little brother were here to take her back home. She looked herself in the eye; let Dad and Tony wait a minute. “I will love whatever children I eventually have with all the love I would have given him. I will listen to my children. I WILL LISTEN and have two-way conversations with them, not deliver monologues from the moral mountaintop. The cycle of smug ignorance will stop with me. She looked again at her eyes in the mirror and saw a strength and a resolve there that had not been present for weeks. A second knock sounded, somewhat impatiently. She dried her face on a tissue and walked calmly to the door.
I felt the emptiness when I read this. But I like how at the end you made her turn her pain into strength. And I also like how you effectively used the “show, don’t tell” method of writing. At first I thought maybe she broke up with a boy, but when I realized further along she had given up a child it really delivered the punch of pain.
At the time I am experiencing my own pain. In the moment that I am in, I can only express what is coming from my heart. Trying to write about something that is not present, not felt, is impossible. This is what writing on the thoughts of a whim is all about for me. Even as I write this response, tears well up in my own eyes, due to the pain I feel on a consistent basis from what I am dealing with day to day. I wish I can give a better response than what I have. I do try to read these posts and gain insight on better ways to express my emotion in my writing. I hope I have shared something of worth and where I am coming from.
Jenn reached to punch the button on her alarm clock that would stop the crescendo beeping sound designed to wake her up. It had succeeded in it’s intended purpose. She was awake. She was also cranky as all get out and felt a migraine headache looming. Didn’t seem fair to feel this bad in the morning when she hadn’t indulged in a single drink the night before! Doctors had insisted that alcohol was not a good mix with her pain meds and migraine pills. Lectured her about famous people who took their pills with a beer or a glass of wine and never woke again. Some times … when the morning light hurt this bad … she wondered if they had done it on purpose!
She rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed. Everything hurt and the room was spinning wildly. This was not going to be good. She began to lie back down and then instantly knew that she had to move fast. She got up quickly and ran to the bathroom. Her knees fell straight to the cold tile floor and her forehead smacked the porcelain toilet seat. She groaned at the new flash of pain and then lost her battle against vomiting. It felt like her insides were being torn out and the pain in her head was growing worse. When her stomach was empty, she reached up and flushed the toilet, without moving her head. The cool mist that came off the water felt good on her flushed face.
Just then the snooze alarm, in the bedroom, began it’s arc of high pitched noise anew. She shut the bathroom door with her foot, wrapped a bath towel around her head, grabbed another as a pillow, and lay down on the cold tile floor to cry. It hurt too much to do anything else.
I “wimped out” and did physical pain. Too tired tonight to tackle emotional. I’d wind up curled in a ball on the floor weeping! 🙂
Boy was that visceral. When her head smacked the toilet seat I felt it. That was strong evocative writing.
Thanks for taking time to read and comment! 🙂
Hi Beth, nice story. I was going to say the same as Marianne about the head smacking the porcelain seat. That really puts the reader IN the story!!
Thank you so much! I’m very appreciative of the feedback.
All across time and space the lesson of pain was brought forth.
Across the room, Barbara warned her toddling boy, “Don’t touch that, Billy. Mommy’s cooking.”
Across the street, Jessica admonished her adventurous wandering child, “Stay away from the street with that bike, Jane.”
Across town, Nadeen pleaded with her son, “Don’t you be hangin’ out down on the corner with that bunch of no-count crackheads.”
Across the tracks, Esmerelda admonished, “Stay away from her, Carlos. That girl is bad news.”
Across the state, Jeni spoke advisedly to her departing student, “. . .and don’t be wasting time on those porn sites. You’ve got better things to do with your time.”
Across the country, Betty said, “Don’t be texting while you drive, dammit Barney!”
Across the world, Indira warned, “Stay away from the mushrooms, Amal, until you know the good ones from the bad.”
Across the universe the cry went out from mother to child, “Be careful, Booby.”
Across the hall, Jessica spread wide her aching legs and, with great pain, delivered her firstborn into a world filled with it.
Usually when I read something I try to pretend my own vision of how it should end and usually don’t like what I have read because the ending I have imagined is the same as author wrote it down as then I feel like my thought wasn’t innovative and new enough as someone else thought of it.
For starters I felt like I knew where this was leading to however the ending just surprised me. So I really liked how it all linked together as if this was the whole idea, whole story and there won’t be anything else.
I really liked the overall feeling of it. Glad I read it all as I wanted to stop in the middle.
Thank you for sharing! ^__^
That was intense. I really like that. It’s almost like a prose poem so succinct . The pain of life.
Although I wrote this a week ago I though this would be my chance to show it off as first part of this story finally got written down because of one of your posts here. Although then I didn’t find a courage in me to post it, I do now. I did write this part in 15 (more of less) minutes and I think this belongs more to this posts theme anyway.
Sorry for any mistake as English is not my main language.
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I closed my eyes for a bit hoping to wake up from this nightmare in my lovely bed but I woke up after a second or two from devastating pain in my armpit near ribs. For starters I couldn’t understand why I felt these pain but then I managed to turn my head to that side to see that one of my father’s weapon blades tip pierced through my mothers’ body and now started to slowly go through my skin. I thought it was because her slack body pressed on me so I placed my hands on her chest and tried to pull her away from me however the blade continued to go through my skin. I couldn’t scream as then my mothers’ blood poured into my mouth and I started to choke. I couldn’t defend myself and I couldn’t move at all. I panicked understanding that I could die here together with my father and beloved mother.
The crowd started to scream and applaud, and then they pulled all the lights on us – the survivors! Only then through my mothers’ bloody hair I saw my brother standing near us. Crowd only saw that he was pretending to be the one who struck them both down but they didn’t see that he was pressing fathers’ weapon deeper in my body. Last thing I saw before everything went black was my brothers laughing face and evil eyes looking down on me while his hand still pressed on the weapon allowing it to pierce right through my upper rib cage.
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The sun was shining brightly outside. It was spring and the air smelled fresh and new.
It was Phoebe’s favorite time of year. During the winter months she craved the season that would bring about new life. Despite her yerning to feel the sun’s warmth on her skin, she lay in bed motionless, blinds pulled. The house was completely silent. The occaional tear trickled down her face like a rain drop on a roses freshly bloomed petals.
Her face was as blank as a statue’s. She blinked slowly, rolled onto her side and pulled her body into a fetal position. With a sigh, she closed her eyes.
Phoebe always thought the term “broken heart” was rather cliche’, but she was now discovering how accurate of a term it really was. She felt like an ice cream scoop had been plunged into her chest and left an empty cavity where her heart used to be.
That was such a great article. I have a novel I’m working on and my characters experience pain and before I was going to down grade it but now I plan on giving their pain meaning so my readers will connect with on a whole new level. Thanks.
Shaquanda you should check out PJ Reece’s ‘Story structure to die for’.
Good call, Shaquanda. We try to be positive because we think everybody wants joy and happiness, but the storyteller knows you can’t have joy unless you have suffering.
The cello rested in the corner, a taunt and an insult. Some days she feared it and wouldn’t go into the room, other days she rebelled against the fear and spent almost the entire day doing small tasks that took her into the room, near enough that she could show it, or the gods, or fates, or whatever, that this wasn’t beating her, that she didn’t care, and that it didn’t define her. Sometimes she just sat in the room with it and cried.
On the days that weren’t as bad as any of those she would open the case and clean it, maybe pluck gently at the strings with her “good” hand. She didn’t have the strength to move it far from the corner, and even if both of her hands had the dexterity to play she couldn’t sit upright for any length of time or bend her knees properly to embrace it.
It had been nearly five weeks now since she had played, and the doctors told her six for the first of the casts to come off. Then she could start the journey with the physical therapist. She hadn’t asked if she would be able to play again, and they had only made vague statements about how young and strong she was, how the prognosis was “good”, reasonable expectation of regaining full range of motion and so on and so on.
She wasn’t sure if she believed it or not. Whatever happened with her bones and muscles and nerves there were other kinds of atrophy and breakage that were just beyond their purview.
A nice little description of physical pain as well as mental anguish, too. Lots of pain here!
His thumb clicked when it moved, a sharp pain shot down his left arm to his elbow. Again and again this pain occurred as his clicked his left thumb. Eventually, his thumb locked over into his palm unmovable, locked in place. He tried to unlock it but to no avail, but this is not what bothered him. In fact the thumb pain was a welcome respite from the current affairs. Yesterday his professor was killed it was Halloween the day the professor called Mother- in -laws day.
I was beside myself as well; the shock of the news of his passing caused the ringing in my ears to grow louder. Tears welled up as I thought why? Why would he get out of his car and try and rescue that stupid dog? It was probably already going to die. What was the Ambulance driver looking at that caused him to not see the professor? The professor’s wife I was told was sitting in the car when it happened. I cannot imagine her sitting in the car as she watched her beloved husband destroyed by the ambulance. This avoidable tragedy is for what a stray dog wounded by a previous car. What of their two daughters what shall they do without their beloved father? The professor was all of 4 foot 10 long scraggly hair and beard made him look like a character from a medieval tale.
this was my fifeteen minute practice peice on pain, i realized i need to create meaning to the pain but in 15 minutes and my gimping typing. None the less i am following thru with my goal to pratice writing.
Thanks jerry
Really I just wanted to throw in one of my favorite CS Lewis quotes as it related to pain being the Great Teacher: “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains. It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”
That’s about it!
Good quote, Ash. Thanks for sharing it with us!
She was stiff, covered in a layer of grime made of her very being.
The folds of her arms were wrapped in layers of plastic wrap, lotion, and sweat. Underneath were darkly scarred bumps with murky brown scabs, caked in dry blood. The back of her legs were cracked revealing the tender and raw meat underneath her flaky dry skin from the endless hours of fingernails
tearing apart healing tissue.
Staring at the ceiling, she refused to move. She knew the reasons for cleansing her body off with soap and water, but even then she still refused to stand; let alone walk.
“Sarah, please, take a shower.
You’re filthy and you smell.” Her mother asked.
Sarah ignored her mother’s plead. Her
mother didn’t understand. Her mother didn’t know; she could never
know.
A shower sounded heavenly to Sarah, but still she wouldn’t move. Her arms and legs felt like they were on fire, aching to be relieved.
She glanced at her fingernails. They were sticky with a layer of blood. Lying on the sheets next to her hand were the skin’s natural band-aid – ripped off before the healing process could even begin.
Sarah knew it was childish to refuse showering, but fear held her down. Water wasn’t her friend, not in this state. Soap… soap was now the devil reincarnated. They burned her, and together they tortured her with needles plummiting into her open wounds. Sarah feared for the inevitable pain, but eczema doomed her to live in such a cursed state.
Guilt welled up inside her chest as her mother’s words continued to echo on inside her head. Filthy. She felt filthy. Undeniably, she WAS filthy. Refusing to move, she stayed filthy and Sarah feared that that was what she’ll always be.
A poem I just wrote last week, in bed, before I fell asleep:
A buildup of such intense pain
I’m not going to let myself fall
Just to feel bad there is no gain
So I step up, above it all
But what do I do
Where do I go?
Who can I talk with?
I’ll just start looking tomorrow
Tomorrow comes
And another day
Do I care enough to find an answer?
Or is it here to stay?
The pain, so intense
Is this the new me?
I can run to all sorts of outlets
But to heal is what I need.
Who understands?
Who can feel what I’m feeling?
No one cares enough
To offer any meaning.
So I try to push it away
Go back to my normal self and try
Feel good by doing what I’m used to
While the pain I’ll just deny
My car and clothes in such fashion
You can tell from a mile.
Am I not happy?
Just look at my smile….
So then what is wrong?
Something is not the same
No I’m not happy deep down
Maybe I’m going insane
I used to accomplish so much
What’s holding me back from this one
I did all sorts of extras
Where has my strength gone?
Years go by
The pain long forgotten
New problems have come
Some are easy and some leave me feeling rotten.
What is it I ask?
I’m older now and I understand
But why do things still bother me
I want answers I demand
I heard speeches and read books
Reminisce through the research cart
To find answers to what can be
What is still pulling at my heart?
The answer is one item
Although so little but so vivid in every one of my veins
It’s the intense hidden feeling
The feeling of all those intense pains
I threw them aside
Thinking it disappeared
In reality it just stayed there
And never healed
Now I’m hurting
I feel so drained
I see how it has weighed me down for years
Years of being pained.