I think I’m only just now starting to catch on, but I think digging up lost fiction and trying to revamp everything all at once is my mind’s way of straying from the larger task at hand: working on my novel. Or beginning work on my writing prompt if I want to attempt to win any thing.
But – since I’m already here – I just uncovered yet another flash fiction piece (which I think could/should be more than that, but alas, is all it has come to be for now), and I’d appreciate some feedback on this as well. Forgive me for being all over the place – I am making a promise to myself to do some serious work on the previous piece I posted and put it up again, to prove I can make some sort of progress!
So in the meantime, here are some bits and pieces of a little ditty I call “Refuge”:
I died in fall, in the hours when the air is still and the sky gushes with red, and the drama of New Jersey stands frozen and suspended in some pocket of serenity. I watched the neighborhood slowly spring to life from beneath the solid oak porch of a large woman in her 80s, her pink cotton robe brushing against the cracks in the panels as rays of sunlight gave way to small glimpses of my cracked red lips.
A thin strand of brown hair lay plastered to the open wound on my left cheek. The plastic that covered my face blurred my surroundings, and through it I could just barely see the glistening reflections of frost on the empty beer cans that had found refuge with me there. My glazed blue eyes could scan only the environment which was right in front of them – they remained open, and frozen in a final position.
I couldn’t remember much about my actual death. Those last moments became a blur, like a night of heavy drinking. I had been taking a walk just three blocks from my home, the heavy night air kissing my face as I cleared my mind after a long day. He came as quietly as the wind and squeezed my fragile shoulders, the calluses on the tips of his fingers rubbing against my skin like sandpaper. His nails dug in directly above my shoulder blades and I went numb and disappeared.
It does go on for a bit, but I just wanted to give a general idea for now.
Now you may be wondering why this girl is stuffed under some old woman’s porch. Oh, you’re wondering how she’s telling a story from the other side, too? Pft. Let’s just say I was feeling very inspired by a certain Alice Sebold after reading The Lovely Bones.
It was one of those things that just popped into my strange mind and made its appearance on the page. I would love to keep working on this one and developing it into something lively. But for now, what do you think of the general story? Is this something that could be of interest to you, if it was to be built on?
As always, I’d love the feedback.