Pseudopod Pseudopod 138: involved My Arms, mine Beamish BoyBy Douglas F. WarrickRead by Phil Rossi whose novel, Crescent terminal is released this June.

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Most that Cotton’s memories to be gone. Choose the surname of the delivery he had served on. Favor the surname of his commanding officer. His daughters’ names, i m sorry husband went with which daughter, i m sorry grandchildren came from i m sorry marriage, which fiancé held hands through which granddaughter. That had actually mostly melted away. His head felt favor an icebox, favor someone had actually opened the door, maybe just to grab a beer or to examine the expiration day on the milk, and also let all the cold waiting out, filled the up with thick stagnant heat. Alzheimer’s was a muggy goddamned country, the airless stomach the a vast beast that takes the sweet time digesting old useless machinery prefer him.He can hold Audrey’s hand, prefer he was doing now, and also he might remember her name and he could see the wedding ring he had provided her every those years ago, might run his trembling fingers end it and also feel its coldness, its sharpness, and for a couple of moments these things were every he needed.But he couldn’t remember the wedding, no a goddamned thing about it. He’d with as far as he might into that damaged old icebox, strain to large a small further and shot to discover the little details, what walk her dress look like? how did she wear she hair? was she smiling? to be she crying? It was gone. Melted. And also he’d panic since he knew it was there, knew that if he could just reach a small further… and he’d look at around and also realize he wasn’t at home. He remained in a hospital bed. And also he’d look up at her and shot to say, Audrey, ns scared, dammit, i’m scared and also I want to walk home! and also all he might ever speak was, “Audrey… where’s the cat?” or “Audrey… ns don’t know…”And Audrey said, favor she constantly said, “Hush, Cotton.” and also he might see himself in her eyes, a useless old man, or not also a man but a reminder that the husband she should have. And he might see how worn down she was, can see the part of her the wished the totality mess would just end. The component that want a duration on the finish of this awkward run-on sentence, no that he might blame her. It would be a period, too. No an exclamation suggest like he’d always kind of wanted in his navy days, a laugh on his face and the devil at his heels, a man’s type of death. It—no—he would end quietly through a mushy melted head and a solitary dark period.
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Re: Pseudopod 138: concerned My Arms, my Beamish Boy
Reply #1 on: April 20, 2009, 01:03:15 PM
The expression "my beamish boy" need to evoke some connection for me, but it didn't. So that didn't work.The story, to me, to be your traditional "I hate having alzheimer's and not being able to remember stuff, oh, and hey, there space these monsters the eat memory who are managed by mine old university professor" piece. Well-written, however I feel prefer I've heard that before.Reading was good.
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