Thanks to Debs and Kath for their contributions to this months blog; it’s their strong imagery that set me pondering: when we write we are using our own, very personal peculiar imaginary ideas and images. But every person who reads our writing will interpret the words in their own individual way. So, the intended meaning is ours alone, but once let loose a single story may fragment into many versions, each a shade different, dependent on the life experiences and mind-set of its reader.
An awesome thought: that the story, which we have shaped to convey our personal message, can and does kaleidoscope out of our control to be taken into the mental meshes of unknown readers. It does not remain one story, it becomes many; our readers’ stories.
To launch a piece of work – be it novel, poem, or drabble – is a brave move. It can be painful putting your work out into the world for others to judge. But once released we have given it away to make its own way as best it can – time to move onto the next one, time to continue the hard work of writing.
I still feel sick when I send a piece of fiction on its journey. I hope in time this will pass. Now I’m wondering how others feel. Have any of you found ways to overcome this fear, or do you still struggle? Meanwhile I hope you enjoy these two gruesome drabbles.
Elizabeth’s vision adjusts to the sunlight filtering through gaps in the timbered roof.
How many years has she been locked away? One Hundred? It seems so, from the date on a piece of yellowed newspaper lining the mouse’s nest.
Six blind pinkies, tails writhing, wait for mother’s return. She lies still, trapped in the jaws of a wooden contraption.
Elizabeth is also trapped; fingers grasp her neck, the back of her dress cut open. Straw is removed, a hand slips inside. A child-like voice speaks for the doll, say’s
“I never knew I had bones, until you found me.
Kath J Rennie
LIFE BY THE KNIFE
The squeaking rattle of the gurney’s wheel was my first indication that something was wrong. The second was the whir of the drill. I wasn’t asleep, I could hear and feel everything! Why didn’t they know! why didn’t one of those newfangled machines warn them of my consciousness!
As the surgical light bled through my eyelids, turning their backs into a glowing map of veins, I begged for mercy – prayed someone would hear me, prayed they’d notice a twitch. An irregularity. The tear nestling at the crease of my eye. Anything! Anything, but that pain, that stench of cauterised flesh.
July’s prompt is ‘COCOA’ the same as for our next group meeting. Please get your submissions to me by 28th July. Anyone outside the group can send their drabbles to me at email@example.com, subject Drabbles.