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A Fictional Writing Piece on the Corona Virus by My Son Eamon Peach

I was not surprised when my children’s artistic talents began to emerge. My son could draw pretty well and at age 8, he began to play the piano. The rest is history. He took to it so fast, it was always what he’d been good at, he’d just not gotten a chance to play yet.

In addition to piano, he also plays the bass clarinet for both his high school marching band and a large local community band. And one night, he forgot to bring his instrument home from school. So while his fellow community band members were practicing, he spent the time writing the following short story on the subject topic that seems to be worrying the world currently; the Corona Virus.

She wakes, and looks at her phone. The news reports a “rapidly spreading plague” in China, supposedly set to become an epidemic. She laughs to herself, figuring this type of stuff happens all the time, in her modern world, this could never happen, just like WW3, it was an amusing thought, but it passed. She walks into her kitchen, pours herself some coffee, and sits down. Jumping to reddit, she notices quite a lot of memes and such about this new “corona virus”. She chuckles, this is definitely a joke of a disease.

About a month later…

She wakes, and looks at her phone, the news reports that the “corona virus” has several confirmed cases in the US, a few in Australia, and is still rapidly spreading in Asia. It supposedly gotten to the point where several smaller countries have stopped imports and transportation from China in an attempt to stop the spread. She shakes her head; “well that’s something” she tells herself, walking to the kitchen. Her roommate steps out from his room, coughing and bleary-eyed. He says it’s just a common cold, she reassures herself, a little scared at first.

At work..

Several of her coworkers are out today, believed to be sick. Her boss tells everyone there’s been a cold spreading about, nothing to be concerned about, use germ-ex or whatever. She sighs in relief and continues her day.

A few weeks later…

She wakes, and looks at her phone, the news, reporting mass fatalities in China, and areas of quarantine in some of its urban regions. Other countries near China have done the same, some successful, some not. Other western countries, such as Greenland and Sweden have completely shut off all contact with infected countries, claiming they can sustain themselves, and that it’s: “worth the risk”. Economists worldwide are warning against this, saying although it will delay the plague, it will ruin the economies of some countries, making their contributions to the plague insignificant. She shudders, and walks to the kitchen, she hears a thinking from her roommates room, and peeks inside. He’s on the ground, face first, unconscious, and practically choking on his own vomit. She screams and feels a wave of nausea wash over her. Panicking, she tries to figure out ways to help him, before remembering reading somewhere that you  in these types of situations, you should roll them onto their sides, at least that’s what she thinks she remembers. She rolls him, taking several tries, onto his side, and a stream of green runs from his mouth onto the carpeted floor. She look away and dials 911, so many thoughts running through her mind, what if he died? What if she caught it? What if she died?

911, what’s your emergency?”

My roommate, I, uh, found him lying on the floor, I don’t know if he’s dead, he had a col-“

Ma’am we’ll be there as soon as we can, thank you.”

-click-

The next day, at work…

Welp, it looks like we’re shutting down, nobody can afford us anymore, not with the sudden depression the country’s been having, they all withdrew their money and left, haven’t had a single deposit anywhere in the system since Wednesday.” Her boss exclaims to her and the rest of the employees.

She walks slowly home, head down, slowly realizing how hopeless her life has become. She sees a man arguing with a figure in a business suit, the man seems extremely upset, and the suited person hands him a paper. The man crumbles to his knees and pleads. She turns away from the scene to bump into a cloaked man, who was running down the sidewalk, sputtering and coughing. A few seconds later, a pursuing figure, a police officer of a sort, runs after the man, yelling for him to stop. She decides to visit her grocery store later in the day, just in case anything were to… go wrong.

A day or so later…

She wakes, hungry. She is afraid to look at her phone, but does it anyway. The first thing she notices is a notification from her phone company saying data for the next month will have to be paid within the next week or the user’s phone will be shut off. She sighs, at this point, it’s not a surprise, just another problem in what’s looking to be the downward spiral of her life. The news reports that this will be it’s last report, as they will soon go bankrupt. The news however, makes her wish they’d gone bankrupt far before she read it. All of east Asia has fallen into anarchy, lucky countries, such as Australia, have managed to keep it to martial law, out of desperation. Business in Europe is rapidly declining, and border policies are infinitely more strict than at any time before. The claim to a nation with no infected citizens has become a bragging right, and cure research is few and far between, claiming they have been: “actively working towards a solution”. She walks to her kitchen, and prepares the breakfast she had rationed for herself the night before. She takes a glance at the door to her roommates room, it doesn’t even look like a room anymore, bundles of quarantine tape around it, with a smell of chemicals. Everything inside has been destroyed, tampered with to the point of destruction, or nabbed by she assumes to be the government for the cause of “science”.

A few days later…

She puts on her “outside” suit, as she’d come to call it, a combination of torn apart hazmat suits and other items she thought would help her not join the many millions of casualties in the massive quarantine zone that was her city. She takes a step outside, and looks upon the wonderful wasteland outside of her apartment building. Blood and other unusual liquids paint streaks in the road, and bodies litter the street as if dispensed from a chute in the sky. She begins her morning jog to the store, hoping to meet with the usual survivors to trade random commodities and talk about how miserable life was nowadays.

After a saddening encounter with a barely alive.. definitely infected.. thing, chasing her, she finally reaches the store. To her utmost surprise, the store is completely leveled, and there is evidence of the appearance government appearance on site, mostly the scorch marks and tire treads made from what was obviously the government’s “quarantine division”, whose job was to pick off all the citizens of a quarantined zone. She reasoned the government thought it was more  “efficient”. She was glad she’d been late to the meeting here, the quarantine division had most likely caught on to where they’d been meeting, and struck a couple of easy targets. Tough luck for them, she thought, and continued about her day.

That night…

She gasped, and awoke. Around her was not what she usually woke up to, she looked over a planet, the earth, or so it seemed. It was different, yellow and brown, she could sense there was no life there, nothing, just nothing.

It’s not impossible, just improbable.

If it’s improbable, it’s still possible.”

a short story by Eamon Peach

For fear that this never got published, I really wanted to put this here. Of course, I think it’s very good, I’m his mother. And I hope that college finds him polishing his writing skills. Meanwhile, he’s just an average American young man about to turn 15 years old.

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your emailbox. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest too. I am always practicing Intentional Intouchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

Setting the Record Straight About Authenticity

Being authentic, honest, or forthright is still considered a crime in our modern society. It’s understood that if you tell the truth about your background, heritage, or state of mind, you are asking for trouble. You could be judged and shunned for these truths. It’s crazy-talk to be outright honest.

Many African Americans “passed” as white and were glad they could. Being “dishonest” saved lives. The Irish weren’t treated any better. If only they could lose their accents. And women would use a male pen name just to get theur work published. In order to survive, we have asked ourselves and our children to be inauthentic for the greater good. You never know when a posse with pitchforks from the cul de sac may come looking for you because of the truth you gave over on Facebook.

But the problem with this life tactic is that we and the children we are raising are so out of touch with our true selves, that we’re neurotic and sick. Inauthenticity is a prison from which you’ll spend the rest of your life looking for permission to escape from.Setting the Record Straight About Authenticity on Shalavee.com

I’ll give you permission. You may be yourself whenever you want. Not just in the shower but at your parents for dinner. And when you say something that shocks them, let them know that you can either tell them the truth or get brain cancer, it’s up to them. They’ll pick you telling the truth I promise.

Don’t worry about giving me permission, I’m already upsetting the world and my parents with the permission I’ve borrowed from other authentic inspirational people.

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your emailbox. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest too. I am always practicing Intentional Intouchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

Why Does My Self-Interest Waver?

I am wondering what my deal is when it comes to my wavering self-interest. I understand that I prioritize my children and my family above myself. I understand that everything I may do that is a creative endeavor is a risk of showing my authentic self and getting whooped. Fear does a lot of dances around not showing up for yourself. And my bad opinion of egomania is well-established and substantiated which makes me not want to be that way.

Except, I’m a writer for goodness sake. I have to find what I think somewhat interesting to begin writing. And usually I find my way through to another set of thoughts I’m surprised by. But why don’t I find what I think interesting enough to promote, to delve into more deeply and publish? It’s like I’m two different people. The mild-mannered writer by night and then the American housewife by day. Hmmmmm…Why Does My Self-Interest Waver? on Shalavee.com

I have the potential to write really interesting pieces, in fact whenever I read my work I’m always surprised at how well spoken I am. But a general compulsion to have my thoughts on certain subjects known on a broader band, I’ve got nothing. As if I just turn a knob off for my existence. I don’t exist for myself, I exist for everyone and everywhere else.

I bring these thoughts to my therapist and to you. You are bearing witness to my process. I am inviting you here within my head in case you too have problems in the places I do. And I greatly appreciate your presence. But know this, I will break through. I always do.

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your emailbox. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest too. I am always practicing Intentional Intouchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

Write Like Your Parents Are Dead or Alive, Just Write

I’ve been listening to a lot to talk of telling your story. When we write and tell our stories, we own them. Our stories become grounding and good for our souls. But the Stories We Live are tricky to tell when they involve other people and you wonder, what are the rules there? 

The primary question I heard, and have asked myself, is what impact will this story have on the other people in my story and in my life ? And here are the answers I’ve heard. If you need to tell your story, tell it. Don’t worry if anyone will read it because you might not show it to anyone afterwards. But the story needs to come out of you. It’ll fester until it does.

You also need to never share a story that you haven’t resolved. Stories that are still being written, need to stay private. The story won’t serve you or your audience if you are asking them to help you heal it thanks to Brene Brown for that insight). And on the same note, we may also need to heal our life’s relationships with the people in our lives for it to be worth telling. Healing is interesting.

I always loved the quote from Anne Lamott,”Write like your parents are dead.”

And then she added, this,“Remember that you own what happened to you. If your childhood was less than ideal, you may have been raised thinking that if you told the truth about what really went on in your family, a long bony white finger would emerge from a cloud and point to you, while a chilling voice thundered, “We *told* you not to tell.” But that was then. Just put down on paper everything you can remember now about your parents and siblings and relatives and neighbors, and we will deal with libel later on.”Write Like Your Parents Are Dead or Alive, Just Write on Shalavee.com

Unresolved anger and resentment aren’t very interesting. You can change people’s names but they’ll still know who they are. Or maybe you need truly no longer care about that person if you commit to telling about them. The bottom line is that you still have to get it out of you. So this will be a matter of editing not of writing.

I found that the stories I had to tell about my sad sack childhood made me sorry for myself but didn’t empower me in any way. I was passing the blame back when I needed to no longer be defined by it at all. Everyone is doing their best at any given time. And as a writer, the best story I have to tell is the truthiest story I have in me.

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your emailbox. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest too. I am always practicing Intentional Intouchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

Taking off From the Runway

Seems recently, my brain has made enough room to allow for some actions in directions that I had “always meant” to go, but hadn’t gone yet. Begin the unstuck here.  I had purchased a series of talks on fear which have wallowed in my email box until suddenly recently, I dialed it up and listened. 

And then today, I was driving in the car and I remembered I had a link in my browser tabs to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Magic Lessons podcast. And I dialed that up and began to listen to the first episode of season one from 2015.

The Universe allows you to get what you need when you are ready.

Her very first podcast was with a blogger and Mom named Erin. She’d been writing her self-development and mothering blog for 6 years but she was feeling the push to do something bigger now that her youngest one was in first grade. But she was struggling with guilt and doubts. Sound familiar?

If there wasn’t a podcast meant for me to hear, it was this now.

She suggested that Erin had been on the “Runway” of the airport picking up steam for the takeoff the years that she’d been teaching and blogging. Hmmmm. And that now it was time for her to dive into writing her book before her plane crashed into the houses at the end of the runway.

She also had a few more brilliant ideas and permissions to give Erin who struggled with motherhood guilt. By engaging in the creativity that expresses who she is, she is modeling this for her children. She can love and be available for them because she’s there for herself first. And it would be good for everyone for the kids to be asked not to disturb her for a while. They need to learn how to occupy themselves as well as be modeled boundaries so they can have them too.Taking off From the Runway on Shalavee.com

She suggested that when she’s writing, there’ll be a time when Mom will only be able to be there 75% of the time and not a 100%. And that we often have these notions about Good Mommies and Bad Mommies and it seems like we can’t be both sometimes. If we slack, will be replaced? I doubt it. Will they appreciate us more? Probably. Why not then? I dunno.

In the 20 whatever minutes of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Magic Lessons Podcast, I’d heard more than I have ever heard as a writer that let me know I am right where I needed to be and that I too am ready to move myself along. And all the fear burbling up is disguised as perfectly good sounding excuses which not even the best writers can avoid feeling the fear. They’ve just seen it through to the other side and finished the book. So what is it that I am needing to get on to doing?

And If you enjoyed what you read, subscribe, via the subscription box in the sidebar, to my thrice weekly posts via your emailbox. And visit me on Instagram to see my daily pictures, friend me or like my page on Facebook. Or come find me on Twitter or Pinterest too. I am always practicing Intentional Intouchness so chat at me please. I live for conversations.

And, as always, Thanks to you for your visit.

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