Jamie’s Spirit – A 100 Word Story

 

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Jamie’s Spirit

Jamie roamed the streets flashing her body at slow moving cars.  She is hungry as are the other woman and men who walks these streets; some are children of mothers and fathers who pray for their safety and their souls.  There are winners and losers on these streets; the winners give a piece of their spirit.  The losers that could not pay sometimes take what they want without remorse.  Jamie decided to call her parents, her father answered; screamed “harlot” into the phone and hung up.  His only child’s crying will end tonight with a ride in an undertaker’s hearse.   

 

 

2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Author’s Note:  Dear followers I know that my posting are few during these past weeks, however I am fighting an illness and hope to be back to writing on a regular basis as soon as possible; thank you for your patience.  Elizabeth Ann

 

 

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Choices – A 100 Word Story

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Choices

A roar of thunder melds with a coming storm, Tom Thornton’s heart is stone; he knows that because he feels nothing.  His wife’s veins once flowed with a passionate fire; now the crimson liquid spread across the floor.  Doors locked, a decision had to be made and quickly.  His life also ended when he would not let Sarah leave.  His heart will never soften; he will never feel the heat of Sarah’s fire again.  The police and ambulance sirens filter into the house.  He sat on the bed asking, “God, will I go to Heaven if I choose to die”?

 

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Books at Amazon.com

Coffee Table Books – 8 X 11

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On a Blue Bird Day

It is spring, warm breezes float through magnolia trees.  A gracious woman of the South rises from past memories; her thoughts behind the ice blue eyes. She sits on the bank of a pebbly brook under a Blue Bird sky, the scent of lilac rises from her starched dress.  She dips her fingers slowly into the cool water; she is old and life has passed her by, and the depths of her truth never known.  In her secret place of selfishness her hate for an unwanted child; she stops to ponder her own question; does she deserve the name “Mother”.

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

#9391…A 100 Word Story

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#9391

It was July 1915 and Annabelle stared out the window.  Beyond the bars lay the tombstones covered with dead leaves and vine, each inscribes with nothing but a number; the records might have given the names of those beneath the red southern soil.

She knew that there were no tomorrows.  A marriage of happiness ended with a disobedient act against her husband.  It was his right to put her in an asylum for the insane and the disobedient.  Yesterday’s promises were over; the “Consumption” as they called it would soon take her life.  The small 12X12 stone would read “#9391”.

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

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Revenge – A 100 Word Story

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Revenge

Doctors looked down at the young girl in her drugged sleep; her pillow wet with tears shed before the medicine took effect placing her in a coma.  Her face innocence even though she had lived a nightmare: she would sleep until her broken body and mind could heal.  Her attacker had taken her for self-indulgence and  pleasure.  Andrew “Stubby” Bodine’s type was always on the prowl; always taking from others; especially young girls.  He did see the angry mob coming in their flatboats. Mary Jane Ayres would heal while her abductor hangs from a Swamp Oak in Louisiana’s Atchafalaya Swamp. 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

 

 

RUTTED ROADBookCoverImage

Ann Johnson-Murphree

Amazon.com

 

COMING SOON…

RUTTED ROADBookCoverImage

Dedicated to my daughter Charlotte Jean Murphree

1958 – 2010

The Voice 

From me you shall hear

Trampling of insistent voices of those

Whispering in my ear. They

Are fierce, burning with passion, their

Messages clear.

They speak to me with the force of a

Turbulent sea, other times with the

Surge of the tide, and always with

Respect; within me, they reside.

Ann Johnson-Murphree

I will not say that this is my final book of poetry; however, it will be the last until I have pursued my other interest in writing personal and fiction.  I have been on a journey; it has taken me from depths of a bottomless abyss, the path I walked was jagged and brutal both mentally and physically.  The trip is documented in my poetry, it came from deep within my soul and my spirit survived.  The healing continues, an ongoing process that will never end; but today, I can breathe.  I have held my breath too long as I walked these rutted roads; and must now set out on a new path.  I have chosen to begin a new “Story”.

I will continue to blog daily with my own work or reblog in support of my wonderful loyal followers.   I will post when Rutted Roads is published.  

Altered Senses

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Existence, scene after scene, characteristic of

life’s environment and promises that

reveal nothing, the past descends like rain from

the sky, washing away all dreams. Phantoms of

youth chanting within the soul, paths blocked;

evil has spread across the landscape of a lifetime.

Loneliness limits love and happiness; boundaries

slow down the process of moving into the future

shrouded with abundant solitude from where there

is no escape. Rethink your future!

 

 

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

 

thBPHSKA15“Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet, cherish it.”

 

 

Click on author’s book page to view poetry and art books at Amazon.com

 

2015 REPOST…The Black Box

The content below based on a true story developed from a book of poetry published at Amazon.com called “Adoration, Anger, Asylum and Aspiration”.  The poems were created from thoughts of a young girl confused about her love, anger from abuse and the actions of her mother and the older man she was forced to marry.  Aspirations became her final  voice, her desires, wishes, her thoughts on life and her lost innocence before she was placed behind the walls of an asylum.  This conversion from poetry will be Rebecca’s story, a story where death meant freedom; the story leading up to this ending segment shows the many years of pain and this is the last moments of her life.

~

 

The Black Box

Rebecca watched her father walked through the double doors of their home without looking back at her.  Her mother and husband seem to be talking to someone about how she had been upset with her miscarriages and talked of killing herself.  All lies!  She looked at her arm, the rubber tubing, the glass syringe, felt the numbness.  Her vision blurred, the fleur-de-lis wallpaper in her mother’s living room became waves of beige and gold swaying in an invisible breeze.  She became was suspended in an ocean of oblivion.

When Rebecca began to regain her senses, she was lying on an examining table in a Shelby County Tennessee Medical Clinic, she recognized the doctor, the same one that had given her the shot in her mother’s house.  Standing in the corner of the room were her mother, husband and two sheriff deputies.  It was fear that paralyzed her this time; but the doctor gave her another shot, this time she did not protest. It was then that the doctor and a nurse put her into the back of a squad car she could hear her mother telling her husband that it was almost over that his wife would never try to leave him again.  Rebecca felt her mother’s face close to hers as she leaned into the back seat, and in a heartless whisper said…

“You see what happens when you try to disgrace me,” then the spray of evil from her tongue continued, “Putting you away for being insane will be more acceptable than have you leave your husband.  You’re a southerner, a Darwin for God sake.” 

Hours later, Rebecca found herself quivering beneath a threadbare blanket, she fought violently against the straps confining her to a bed and her mind battled with drugged hallucinations that became chaotic dreams.  Each time she woke, she quietly watched what appeared to be unwanted souls shuffle back and forth in a dimly lit hallway.   Rebecca knew of Challis Manor, located at the edge of the Appalachian foothills.  It provided medical treatment for the mentally ill, a place where wealthy Tennesseans paid to have members of their families placed to avoid embarrassment.  Rebecca was not there because she had a mental or physical problem; she was there because she tried to leave an abusive husband.

Days moved into weeks as Rebecca struggled in the confusion, she had undergone several shock treatments, but it had not taken away her need to be free.  She fought confinement, she fought treatments and she wanted her father to come and take her away.  A nurse brought Rebecca two small pills, it was extra medication and it could mean only one thing, it was time for another treatment.  Nurses put her on a gurney rolled her into the hallway outside her room.  She could not stop her mind as it hovered between reality and the delusional.  Should she doubt herself, she examined the redness of her wrist made by her constantly fighting the heavy leather straps causing deep cuts; then after medication, Rebecca’s involuntary thrashing turned into calmness.

Her mind frozen in time and her body controlled, her madness brought confused memories.  She would drift for hours in hopelessness, her flesh burning, she wondered if she would ever escape the anguished nightmares of her childhood, her marriage, her life.

“Daddy, is that you?”  

Rebecca’s visions clung to her like the sweat that gathered and rolled down her face in her fretful attempt to get free.  It is hot, no one cared, and a white clad figure took her hand, the gurney was moving, and then stopped.  A glass vial of a syringe glittered in the semi-lit room; it was more medication to help them imprison her mind, again.

“Daddy I’m afraid.”

“Daddy, are you there?”  

Rebecca’s visions clung to her like the sweat that gathered and rolled down her face; she remembers a little girl riding with her daddy on the back of a fine Tennessee walking horse in an open field.  She felt someone pick up her hand, turning it was a nurse.  A glass syringe glittered in the semi-lit room; it was more medication to help them imprison her mind.

“Daddy, daddy are you there, I’m afraid.”

Rebecca knew about the small room designed for suffering; the plastered walls had cracks that snaked toward the ceiling resembling leafless trees in winter.  She tried to open her eyes but the glare from the lights blinded her.  The room was filled with people, nurses, doctors; one saying shock treatment again might be risky; somewhere in the distance, Rebecca could hear her mother’s voice fervently auguring with someone.

She could picture her mother’s face contorted with anger; then remembered, her mother preferred a lunatic in the family instead of a divorced daughter.  “You see what happens when you try to disgrace me, putting you away for being insane will be more acceptable than have you leave your husband.” 

White flecks began to explode behind Rebecca’s closed eyes.  Her arms and legs strain against the straps as the drug raced through her body.  She opened her eyes and watched as the blood coming from her bound wrist spread across her pale flesh leaving a crimson trail down to the sheet.   She drifted among abysmal visions of pain and humiliation; traveling into a realm of kaleidoscopic dreams when she heard her mother say…

“I am paying you people enough to take such a risk, and I signed a waiver, what else do you want, this time, finish the job!” 

Rebecca opened her eyes and looked at the mirrored window across from her; she knew behind it stood her mother, and her husband.  The poignant smell of antiseptic became heavy in the air.  Rebecca felt herself losing control of her thoughts; she could feel her eyes as if on a mission of their own dart back and forth taking in the limited boundaries of the small treatment room, a surge of electricity violated her body, her mind, and her senses.  She bit a wooden paddle between her teeth in half as the electrical current coursed deeply into her brain.  If she woke, she would try to remember how she got into the asylum and the Rebecca that she was before she married the man her mother had chosen for her.

Her eyes were oblivious of the intense light invading her enlarged pupils; she tried to focus on a large mirror above her.  In its reflection was that of a young girl lying on a small narrow bed, leather straps on her arms, legs and across her chest, her skin had a bluish tint of death; her body emancipated, her hollow raven eyes seem more animal than human.  Then the lights became soft, a white garment of serenity blanketed the young girl.  Rebecca closed her eyes then opened them for one last look looked; she knew that she and the young girl were the same and would soon be free; she smiled.

It was just a small black electrical box sitting on a chipped white enamel table; nineteen-year-old Rebecca her eyes now dark stagnant pools as she was unhooked from the box.  Before they wheeled her from the room she closed her eyes for the last time, she had firsthand knowledge of the power of the little black box!  It altered minds, made people submissive; her mother and her husband would no longer have to worry about being embarrassed, there would be no divorce in the family.  Rebecca knew that her mother and money controlled “the black box”!

Rebecca’s soul smiled; she would miss her daddy… but no one noticed that the innocent young girl had just taken her last breath!

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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Tongues of Fire

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Tongues of Fire

 

A caged mind escapes into sleep,

the consciousness of the inner spirit

sheds tears, weighing the false caring

that others portray is a lie against

truth.  The spitefulness and actions of

some holds captive the sleeping mind

not allowing it to wake.  There are those

that cannot be trusted, they show

concern for their own selves and their

own greed.  They are always on the prowl

 to take, take, and take.  They cause pain

to the minds of the blameless and find in

it joy, they have tongues of fire.  They will

ask you to prayer for them to engorge their

own needs.  If you allow them to be exposed

 to your life, your spirit, your soul, you will

never be the same again.

Run, Run, Run…

 

©2016.elizabethannjohnsonmurpree

 

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ANN JOHNSON-MURPHREE