Fiction

Tablet containing alien drawings and other drawings done at Philhaven Hospital in Mt. Gretna, PA prior to June of last year (2022) and containing emails up until the present detailing this situation for movie rights is available for 5 million. Please contact me at lmurphymack5@gmail.com

My policy of priding myself on doing everything all by myself (i.e., without any help) was, of course, stupid.

Like just about everything else.

My brother and I grew up in the woods behind our house in the modest New Jersey suburbs south of NYC.

We played with salamanders from the river and interesting finds in the city dump.

We made our own rules.

It is no joke that my sister married river royalty.

As I got older and wanted to be a lady, I imagined and English-American woman as something so, so beautiful.

Recently I was on a psych ward where I met an alien–not the one that I was fleeing from who had had me smashing up electronics in my home. He came to my bed when I was utterly stressed and exhausted from the unit and hadn’t had a shower for days and I knew that I looked absolutely horrible and I had said in group that I was an alien; this alien being came to me in my bed and he had soft round eyes and a soft, round snout and said “soft, soft” and music was playing “through” the music on the radio and it was saying “so, so beautiful” THIS IS NOT FICTION

It happened in Reading, Pennsylvania, city of wonders.

It is not what I had expected from my life.

There was someone in college whose life I destroyed. He was in line for a beautiful job, a beautiful career, a beautiful marriage and I fd it all up for him, not even knowing what I was doing. And this is horrible.

All I was was a little child from New Jersey and I did not belong in the high life and it is a shame for me as well what happened in that debacle at a college in Mass. How can I say I am sorry when noooe gave a rat’s ass that I lost MY OWN life through that? Not through what happened to him but through the whole situation. I wanted to WRITE. That situation put me on the wrong side of it. I was not UP TO the world of politics and responsibility and whatever, I would have been a minor poet. Who was it who said that writing for a newspaper kills a writer? Mark Twain? It was like that. I was sucked in. Was it just a joke when I was asked to run for Editor?

Here I am at 61, 5 major suicide attempts. They were all major, even the minor ones. Even a gesture of suicide is serious, it takes you way down and theleast attempt of self-harm often as unforeseen consequences.