the process-ing; editing drafts

I wrote this piece nearly 5 years ago. Until now, I feared it being read by anyone but myself. “What would others think? What if they don’t get it? Or like it? What if I’m a shitty writer?”

I’ve outgrown such small, ego-filled thoughts. It’s time to share this piece. There is change in the air and it’s time to come out of my forest of shame and isolation, creatively speaking that is. Some pieces can’t be returned to for years. It takes that time and space to edit a piece objectively and with fresh eyes. Let the wounds heal, form scars and tougher tissue to cut away later.

I’d rather not provide too much context to this piece, and let it hit you where you let it.

What does it say to you? Where in your soul does it resonate? Let me know.

Namaste.

working title; golden handcuffs

“I wonder if it will happen again today,” she thought, “though the food is good when it does.”

Looking down all she could see were people. People with cameras snapping photos of her and the others. “How strange,” she wondered as she closed her eyes and returned to sleep. 

her rumbling stomach woke her and simultaneously incurred an ominous feeling. “It’s about that time,” murmuring under a heavy breath. She saw the young man in the white gown approaching. “Oh bother.”

There was a decision to be made. It could go one of two ways; Be uncooperative and return to an uninterrupted but irksome afternoon of endless flashes of light. Or cooperate and be rewarded.

“No matter what the flashes will disrupt my sleep. And if it’s not today it will be tomorrow. Or the next day. Might as well get it over with.”

The gowned man called for her. Shuffling down she noticed the faces of the others and the surprise that she went so freely. She sauntered toward the opening where the man was waiting. “Here we go.”

She could smell the sweet golden goo already. Her sensory receptors perked up. But at the same time something kept her excitement subdued. There was a feeling she remembered on her skin. A memory of what she would have to endure soon. 

Another was being taken out. Their eyes connected. “What’s different?”

Something small was missing that had been there earlier. It was almost unnoticeable but the absence was there. 

She was given something sweet, picked up and placed somewhere hard and cold. There were people in blue gowns and gloves were waiting in a line. All eyes on her; their collective gaze felt predatory, like she was about to be devoured.

The first blue gown sat next to her smiling. She couldn’t understand the desire of these blue-gowned people to sit with her amongst the ceaseless flashing. 

When she felt gloved hand rub her belly, the sweet food grew bitter. “Oh yeah,” she remembered, “this is what this is.” 

#shortstories #shortstory #theprocess #bloodtexts #letitbleed #writer #writing #writeitout #writingcommunity #drafts #goldenhandcuffs #metoo #timesup #create #write #writingheals

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s