500 word piece meant to stand alone by itself, but I plan to expand it to a full-blown short story:-
You have terminal, aggressive cancer, and today is the day you are going to die.
And now, you’re not sure if you’re dead dead, or some weird state of being, because your unique Gift that manifested at puberty–like everyone’s does–is that you can make yourself disappear, not be found. That’s how you managed to leave your family behind. The death itself was not what you thought would happen; no going towards the light, no meeting your maker. Instead it’s like as if your essence withdrew into itself, and, muffled from the sensory input of the world, took residence somewhere inside your skull.
That moment when working on finishing up your novel you realize that novels aren’t just something ‘they’ or ‘other people’ do, but YOU do, too.
The mild panic.
The realization hits you and hides, as if to protect you from freaking out;
It comes in waves.
The four men were angry.
Angry, and in the dark.
“Well,” said the first man, named Ed, “Let’s see what we have here.”
“Well,” said the second man, named Jed, “I know where you are, but where am I?”
“Well, said the third man, named Teddy, “You’re to my left, which means…”
“Well, said the fourth man, named Alfred, “I’m to your right. Right where we were. When the lights went out.”
“I know where you are,” said Jed, but where am-”
“Shut up, Jed,” the other men said.
Snippet, “Chronology of a Burn”, current (CanLit) fiction WiP:-
“That body is mine,” she remembered her mother telling her. “Until I say, that body is mine and you don’t have permission to mark up your skin.” Funny how something said slightly in jest in childhood could still mark your mentality, your approach to your own body even as the years tumble on by. She felt like she had failed, yet again, to keep her skin unblemished. After all, she had shared her mother’s sentiment. Why mark up something beautiful?