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by mon 

Posted: 27 February 2006
Word Count: 706
Summary: Something I am playing with.

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Sometimes when I was on a bicycle, I couldn’t stop myself at all. I thought that if I stopped and stood there in the middle of the chaos, I would feel lost, maybe even lonely, small, and kind of useless. So I kept on bicycling, swaying amidst car doors and pedestrians, hoping my dare would not run into an insurmountable obstacle. Pieces of conversations buzzed through my ears, then faded away, and so did dog barks, and laughter. People’s faces came into view, and then disappeared; easy come, easy go. Pearls of sweat intermingled with visions, blurring my sight. Some were memories, some dreams, some the variegated expressions of the people I darted by.
Like a long tunnel of life, it repeated itself interminably. New York was an undeniable mass of colors and sounds, which stuck to your soul for a while. Like the circus you always remembered, and the face of that clown that gave you a flower in passing.
Sometimes I felt like I had crept into that world through the shrewd expedient of a salesman, and that sooner or later I would be getting this interminable bill, delivered at my doorstep, by the stern face of a really dissatisfied soul; somebody really not in the mood for talking.
I was kind of worried about that, whenever the postman scratched my door in the mornings.
"Well, we need to talk."
The doctor sat on the uncomfortable plastic chair usually reserved for unhappy customers, and extended his hand over my left knee.
My heart started to race a little, and the visiting room seemed smaller and stuffy.
"What's the matter with my knee?"
I looked at him straight in the eyes thinking he could never lie that way. It was a trick I had learned from my ex-husband, a marine by trade.
"Oh, it's not a big deal really....well, basically you need a new knee."
He left a little gap on purpose, so that I could fit in whatever sentiment I decided to express. It was a little pre-rehearsed speech doctors must have had in their mental archives, I thought.
They probably had some quick response for those who suffered of absolutely nothing, then they had slower ones for people like me of the medium type of problems, and then they had the long pauses for those with deadly, unexplainable, and unreversible deseases.
The ones that sit straight on the chair when they first come in, and slide off it a couple of hours later, when their life pretty much ends.
It turned out that back in the 70s, when according to Doctor Shaffer, medicine was still a hothouse for newborn scientists, my 75 years old medicine man, a doctor whose name I could not remember, had removed the inner meniscus right out of my left joint, leaving not only a five inch purple scar spelling hostility, but also rubbing bones as a parting gift for my future years. Remembering that year of my life, almost brought back fond memories. It was the year I graduated from high school, and I was known amidst friends and family, as "thumper."
“Where’s our little girl?” Nameless doc had ventured in my sterilized room with a smile, rubbing his hands, and carrying a lemon-flavored Popsicle he had the audacity of consoling me with.
“Beautiful, …just beautiful.” He said looking at my scar. He patted my upper leg, and then my cheeks.
“Well hello there!” My eyes had already wondered to the green-eyed monster that entered my hospital room at the same time. The old doctor needed to leave, and the young boy-nurse needed my whole concentration. As on cue, the old man's attention span died, and humming a nameless tune, he ventured out the door.
"How are you feeling?" The nurse smiled as he cupped his hand gently over my scar. This must have been God's way of letting me know how sorry He was for my predicament, because this nurse was the best thing a bored, hurt, and demoralized young girl could hope for.
"I feel quite wonderful actually," I stared straight into his green eyes, as I propped myself up on the pillow.
"...and how about you,....let me see that tag now,...Joel is it?"

Want more???...........

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Comments by other Members

Corona at 10:27 on 28 February 2006  Report this post
Hi Mon,

Your cyclist's journey is one I can relate to and I felt you coloured this in well. It reminds me of a story I had scribbled down way back, regarding a jogger and his journey. Is this the beginning of a short or a novel?

I know what you mean with the exclamation at the end; you've started something that felt on track with what you had in mind, until it's in desparate need of a new direction right? My jogger also fizzled out, and I think it was due to the lack of interaction with other characters rather than just himself...

Is there more of this?

mon at 14:59 on 28 February 2006  Report this post
You got it.......nowhere to go, but continue the selfish journey of the mind and soul.
I figure I'll use it some day in some other context, as part of a longer journey.
Thanks for the comment.

Jekyll&Hyde at 15:28 on 01 March 2006  Report this post
Hi mon,

I could go on reading this for quite some time. Your style is engaging and I found myself fascinated to read on.

Particularly liked:
Some were memories, some dreams, some the variegated expressions of the people I darted by.

Nice intriguing title, by the way. Good stuff.


mon at 21:11 on 01 March 2006  Report this post
Thanks S.M.,
I find your comment encouraging. Makes me want to write some more. Wish they could all be like this, don't you?

Jekyll&Hyde at 21:14 on 01 March 2006  Report this post
Hi mon,

From what I've read of your writing so far, they are. Keep writing, and I'll keep reading.


sazzyjack at 13:40 on 09 March 2006  Report this post
Thankyou for a beautiful read Mon, this piece is excellently written and very perceptive.


mon at 14:30 on 09 March 2006  Report this post
You are so kind!
I love the fact that I joined this group!
(she says and notices soonafter that she chose the option "be gentle with me" in the pop-up...her disappointment could not be hidden)

sazzyjack at 14:32 on 09 March 2006  Report this post
I don't do gentle, just less harsh, I am always honest with people about their writing, and find that if I am restricted by the level of crit they have requested, I don't comment. And I only bother to read and comment on things I like.


mon at 14:45 on 09 March 2006  Report this post
I think you are fishing for a new recipe....will follow later, check out the food court ;)

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