Fantasy Fiction posted December 4, 2010


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The world of one schizophrenic

Pink Clouds in a Soft Purple Sky

by S. Pumpkin

In my world... Contest Winner 

They are more afraid of you than you are of them
In my world, bubble gum pink clouds float like cotton candy in a soft purple sky. Birds sing lullabies in French, flowers teach addition and subtraction, and there is no need to learn to read because books tell you bedtime stores in your dreams.  In my world, no one laughs because my best friend is a tree.
 
I open my eyes and smile as I breathe in the warm early morning air filled with the vibration of a thousand happy thoughts.  I gently brush aside my blanket of yellow cheddar, periwinkle, and oxblood leaves. Remembering to say thank you, I giggle watching the red and white polka dot wind, always a jokester, playfully pick them up and take them on a journey to heaven knows where.
 
Once a tiny acorn, now a giant oak tree, my best friend bends down and gently tickles my nose.  The unspoken word reigns supreme, as thoughts float effortlessly from being to being in colors with names still unknown to me.  Fortunately, the message is always clear no translation is required.
 
"Good morning dear friend.  Another beautiful day, wouldn't you agree?"
 
My silent response flows like a hand painted papaya and tangerine flavored rainbow from my heart to his, "Yes, big fellow, it is going to be a marvelous day."
 
I stretch to work out the kinks in my tired bones, yawn, and wave goodbye.  Not wanting to be late for breakfast, I sprint across the turquoise meadow covered in vermilion, fuchsia, and rose-colored daisies.  I tiptoe across the lavender stream flowing uphill careful not to disturb the tiny wallywap fish wearing sunglasses while they lie on their back peacefully sunbathing.  I step over the large caramel rock still sleeping next to her three small green square pebble cousins, and two auburn shaped sons. I arrive as Mother Peacock proudly fans her feathered tail and steps aside allowing me to see her three beautiful babies all dressed in shiny bronze, silver, and gold.

I sit next to a giant ultramarine mushroom covered in delicate obsidian lace anxiously anticipating the delicious feast about to be served.  A minute later, twin does dressed in coral and maroon tutus recite in silent unison William Wordsworth's poem, I Wandered lonely as a Cloud:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils

 
The sweet taste of vowels is only surpassed by the tantalizing and delicious smell of ham and bacon flavored nouns.  I enthusiastically swallow waffle adjectives floating in warm yellow maple syrup topped by an omelet of rhyme and perfect meter.  I giggle as I watch the last guppy green word float across the sky, filling my soul with joy. The twins smile proudly as they quietly disappear into a field of twenty-foot-tall macaroni and cheese colored sunflowers.  Mr. Orangutan steps onto the stage wearing a lilac tuxedo and a crown of chartreuse and tangerine dandelions while humming Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture.  He is truly spectacular!

Unsure I could swallow another bite, yet not wishing to be rude, I politely accept the Grand Pelican's nectar of wisdom as he recites, all at the same time AND in less than ten minutes, the complete repertoire of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  The sky glows brightly as the words dance hand in hand while floating effortlessly in the now velvet red sky.  Finally finished, the Grand Pelican bows, a signal breakfast is over.

Filled to beyond capacity from three gigantic helpings of all of life's beauty, I lay on the grass prepared to take a well-earned nap.  Without warning, the clouds turn dark pewter, blocking the warm rays of the sun. The meadow instantly disappears along with all its inhabitants.  Suddenly alone, my heart fills with fear.  I cry out, "No, not now!  Please, don't make me go back!"


My plea is ignored.
 
* * * *
 
A voice I do not recognize speaks in a well rehearsed, monotone and noticeably disinterested voice.  "Take your pills.  They will make you better." 

I ignore the saliva dripping off my chin from an open mouth twisted into frozen cries of silent pain.   Physically unable to resist, I swallow the two large white pills without any water.  I cannot speak and must use the wall to hold myself up as I try to walk back to my room on legs made of rubber.  I spend the day in bed unable to stop the powerful drugs racing through my body from doing their damage.  Tears stream down my cheeks as I wonder why they fear me.  What harm do I pose them by just being me.  They tell me 'normal' is best, but I know better.
 
One day turns into two, then three, and finally a month passes.  Once again, ready to rejoin society, the doctor with no name hands me a bottle of pills.  "Make sure you take two every morning and one again at night.  If you don't take your medication, next time we may not be able to bring you back."
 
I nod, feign a smile, and walk away.  As soon as I step off the elevator, I look around to make sure no one is watching then toss the bottle of pills into the trashcan next to the front door.  
 
As I walk down the street, I pass a hundred strangers, each steps aside, eyes turned away, not daring to look at me.  They perceive me as odd, therefore someone to fear. 
 
I walk all day and into the night with no sense of direction or destination.  Knowing the sun will soon set I look for a quiet place to sleep.  An empty building to shield me from the wind and rain or the shelter of a lonely forgotten bridge is more than sufficient. Two or three days are all I need for the drugs in my system to dissipate. Then, hopefully, I will return to where I belong.
 
* * * *
 
In my world, bubble gum pink clouds float like cotton candy in a soft purple sky…



In my world...
Contest Winner

Recognized


Approximately, 1,011 word count. Those of you who have read my book are aware that I am more than a little familiar with the psychiatric community. Having spent a few well-earned weeks on several psychiatric wards over a ten-year period I had the pleasure of meeting several schizophrenics and manic depressives (now known as Bipolar) that became dear friends. It is important to understand, a schizophrenic's world is not a simple psychotic episode or a drug-induced hallucination. The average schizophrenic is mild mannered, quiet, shy, and prefers to keep to him or herself. Most of the bag ladies you see pushing a cart down the street, talking to themselves, and living under a bridge are schizophrenics and/or suffering from bipolar disorder. This story is a combination of my younger sister's world (she is probably autistic but never diagnosed), people I have known, and contains descriptions of my own fantasy word I lived in to escape the stress of the dark world around me. The illustration is a self-portrait I did a few years ago entitled, Bad Hair Day, or Sasha off her meds.
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