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Category Archives: Abuse

The Coffee Table…

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This is a very, very short story of a long marriage that “ends” after thirty-six years with spurts of happiness and much tribulation; the end came over twenty-five years ago. Now that the logistics is out of the way, this numeric information is relevant to the title…the coffee table. 

I chose to end the marriage that had been filled little happiness and many tumult periods from the beginning.  It is important to know that before ending such a marriage my children were adults.  I walked away on a sunny June morning with a suitcase, my dog and a rented car.  I did not want anything that was a part of my past.  The coffee table bought in the mid-sixties was going to be tossed in the mid-nineties; it had been in the basement of my sons’ home.  Cleaning time. 

I said yes, I would take it.  Somehow it meant something to me; the only thing that I would have from my marriage.  This ageless contemporary piece of furniture carried with it many memories.  Shopping for furniture in 1979 was during a better time, my then husband and I spent an entire day searching the stores until the one meant for us was found.  A few days later the table would be tossed across the room in a rage of madness, the inside frame broken.  I repaired the table and it was like new.

It would appear that the coffee table itself was somehow demonic.  Over the period of ten-years, the coffee table would split open the chins and one cut above an eye of two boys wrestling in the living room.  It placed cuts on grandchildren that tripped and fell on its corners.  It left bruises on shins of the entire family who chose to hurry around the object of discussion.

 

It had its good moments too.  It served as desk where hundreds of thousands pages of homework was done.  Throughout its “life” served as step stool, craft table, coloring table, and eating and snack table.  It has held plants, books and other things during the different seasons.  I smile as I think back at the many good times my children and I had sitting around this table when my husband was out of town.  We glorified the days without chaos.  When I received the coffee table, I painted the dark wood white, a pure color that would remove all turmoil significance.  Throughout these past years, it has been repainted the same white many times.

This brings me to the present and for the record, I have stated many times that the table is being held together by the paint.  Apparently, it was…my four-year-old grandson used it as a bounce board and then I sat on the table to talk to my granddaughter and poof; I ended its life and an era.

 

Well you would not believe the “moans” from my children, “ah can’t it be fixed”?

 

There was no pain in its exodus from my home, well maybe a little as it was heaved into the trash.  I suddenly understood that I had held onto it for the memories, memories that are embedded deep within me.  The good ones I will keep, the bad will soon be hauled away.  I thought about what could have been and never was; time wasted, and I looked for the last time at the only thing that was left of a long marriage… the coffee table.   

 

 

 

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

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Bayou Gauche Death…

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Bayou Gauche Death

untitledDrawing by Anneka Reay

 

At dawn, Ruby Waters life light went out, in the dark her children cried; a candle glowed against the rustic rough boards of the shanty shadowing the souls left behind.  Laid to rest quickly in the Louisiana heat; the moon cast a glow on her shallow grave.  The children’s tears burn hot upon their dirt-streaked faces as relatives who heard the shots took them away.  Drunken Gat Waters had shot his emaciated wife because she was pregnant again then yelled, “Now dat’ are two less mouths to feed”.  They were swamp folk no one outside Bayou Gauche would ever know.

 

 

 

 

Text Copyright © 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree 

Publishing Rights AsterialThoughts.100WordShortStories 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree

asterial_thoughts_cover_for_kindle-jpg  https://www.amazon.com/Asterial-Thoughts-Journey-into-Thought-ebook/dp/B01MXWUZ4X/ref=sr_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1487141103&sr=1-7&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

Bayou Gauche Death is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

 

 

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Causalities of Life…

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The homeless cannot sleep on cold nights, some gather around burning barrels, men, women and children, forgotten, shattered and despised by those who are more fortunate… those who have a home, a job.  In the distance, you may hear a baby cry.  Mothers’, Fathers’ are begging for food, living on the streets, no jobs, the family no longer sound. 

Government talks end up in contradictions, a lifetime of poverty is the homeless prediction.   The spirit freezes, fruit of labors rot, life squeezes and struggles persist.   Bad luck smothering heart and soul, hope ceases to exist.  Shifting winds turn into storms, will the world grow wiser or beaten back into servility?  Trust departed, a cardboard box in the streets is where the homeless make their beds, hope disappears and the future appears dead.  Wake up America! 

 

 

Writing

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

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Sanity and Sorrow… and other thoughts are among the writings in Asterial Thoughts.

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Sanity and Sorrow…

I hide behind a cloak of make-believe while dangerous storms of daily living blows across the recesses of my mind.  The habitual motion of putting one foot in front of the other tells me that I have arrive at my destination; deep into an empty world of denial.  Out there, out there in the world with humanity that has become swaddled in half-truth or total lies I find no happiness.  My sanctuary, my safe haven is within the walls that keeps me safe.  I sit in the center of “my universe” reflecting upon the beginning of what was to one day become me, unwanted.  I find myself lost in time, the starvation the need of conversation on a level of necessity to maintain sanity.  Life without love, destiny, fate, a yoke around my neck from birth; I carry the emotional scars since the beginning of my journey on earth.  Tomorrow’s path is certain to be long and steep, my anger runs deep.  Truth in those who would hurt me cannot be found.  I believe that sanity and sorrow are closely bound.    

 

 

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Authors Books on Line:

https://www.createspace.com/pub/simplesitesearch.search.do?sitesearch_query=ann+johnson-murphree&sitesearch_type=STORE

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/ann+johnson+murphree

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Motherless Child…

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A Motherless Child…

I believed and continue to believe myself to be a motherless child.  A simple family gathering where my Aunt Vina made the statement when correcting a story regarding my daddy.   She said, “No, that happen after Roy came for Ann”; then added, “Remember, she was with me until she was two years old”.  I heard her.  The truth freed a family secret; Southerners are very good at keeping secrets.  My mother unflinchingly said, “Well, it was Roy who wanted her back home, not me”.  The words cut like a knife; they would not be the last damning words to me that my mother would say.

charlotte-36-copy(This is the only picture of my mother that I have)

Questions of a lifetime were answered.  I was a tough child, strong minded, creative and resourceful; I knew how to survive.  My daddy took care of me as best he could until I was five years old; he then brought home a wonderful black lady called Aunt Francis (yes, it was the day where such names were given that today would be offensive, but I loved her) she would be my mother until I was old enough to no longer need the care a mother would give a child.  Was my mother there, of course, she was…doing her own thing.  My mother was a brilliant woman with great potential; she also had love in her heart but it was reserved for others not me.  She did not want me at birth and she did not want me the day she died.  However, that’s another story

I survived, I grew up in the tranquility of the woods that surrounded the house I lived in, I had daddy, and Aunt Vina my daddy’s sister was still in my life.  Aunt Francis taught manners and how to live with adversary; my Great-grandmother taught me how to survive in all ways.  My mother instilled fear in me.

I loved my mother with every breath I took, I remember pretending that she would put her arms around me lovingly, calling me with a voice filled with love and caring.  No, in all of my life, my mother has never put her arms around me or told me she loved me.  And, I survived it all physically, mentally is still being questioned.  Nonetheless, I flourished under those heavenly Alabama skies, I am still silent within my own loneliness, a motherless child before and after she died.

 

Note from Author:  These stories are true…there were many children in my situation, yet few continued to love their mother as I did; I have accepted the fact that it is my destiny to be alone and to be lonely.  However, writing the stories will be my gift to all who read them, I will write until the well of words dry up. 

 

 

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Authors Books on Line:

https://www.createspace.com/pub/simplesitesearch.search.do?sitesearch_query=ann+johnson-murphree&sitesearch_type=STORE

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/ann+johnson+murphree

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

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I am just saying…

womanwriterblogDear Followers,

Let us get back to the business of art, painting beautiful scenes, writing fiction and non-fiction, creating our dreams; let us get back to what is as close to normal as possible (for me), my followers and especially those on my Face Book page. 

I have watched with interest all those running for President of the USA.  I continued to sort through the actions, policies and as they dwindled to two, I watched more closely.  I supported and voted for the individual of my choice.  It does not matter at this point who won or lost, we have a President.  In truth, I do not care about the lives of his children other than to wish them well, I do not care what Mr. Trumps wife wears, where she is from, or about her past or his.  “Bashing with vulgarity” any person in and out of official offices is wrong.  Nonetheless, My FB page has been filled with anti-Trump post for weeks; I had my own entries of course, but I hope with “taste”. 

This morning I checked my FB page and the first post had a particular vulgar word Trump had used during his campaign.  I almost deleted the entire page, I did not faint, my ears did not turn red, and I have heard in all; you do not get my age and maintain your innocence.  My finger hovered over the delete button, I thought of the wonderful people whom “had not” chosen to lay in the gutter; they were trustworthy, decent creative people.  So, I did not delete!

It is time to get on with the business of living our lives, doing what we do best, and chose not to stoop to levels of vulgarity when voicing our opinions.  We all have something to say…I am not speaking of “going” religious or pumping up of the “faith” card, I think you all know me better.  I am just saying; let us be decent in our protest and our marches, we do not have to destroy material things and bash good people.  This country was built on marches, protest and fighting for one’s belief; it is our right as an American to do so, I practice my belief in “freedom of speech” daily.  While we are voicing our dislike for a person, place or issue, let us do so with dignity.  I am just saying…

Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree 1.22.2017

 

 

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Fire, Rain and Lies…

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Excerpt from the works of Fire, Rain and Lies…

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

©2017.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Authors Books on Line:

https://www.createspace.com/pub/simplesitesearch.search.do?sitesearch_query=ann+johnson-murphree&sitesearch_type=STORE

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/ann+johnson+murphree

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

 

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