Story: Empty

This is a flash fiction that I wrote for my creative writing portfolio. The idea came to me randomly one evening, but I think I was somewhat inspired by the extremely short flash fiction by Ernest Hemingway: For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.

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Every night, she woke up. Always at the same time. 2:57 AM. That had been the time when she had felt it. The stabbing in her lower abdomen, the wetness between her legs. And the dread, the anguish. Not fear. Fear required a notion of uncertainty, of confusion. She had known exactly what was happening. She had only wished for it to stop. Of course it hadn’t. Even now, it hadn’t gone away. This pain, this deep ache within her body and her heart still pulsed and woke her each night to remind her why she felt this way.

Next to her, she felt him move. He wasn’t asleep, he couldn’t fool her.

While she fell asleep only to reawaken, he couldn’t fall asleep anymore. For two weeks, his eyes would grow heavy but the tides of sleep never carried him away to sweet slumber. Instead, when his body could no longer withstand exhaustion, nightmares came. Terrible images of red stained sheets and his wife crying and cradling something small, red, and motionless in her arms. Her wails echoed through his mind until he woke, his heart racing and his pillow saturated with sweat. He would lie there, waiting for her to awake and sit up. She would stay silent, just sitting there, staring down at her legs, not daring to spread them. A hand rubbing over her abdomen, as if checking to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken. He had tried to talk to her at first, to see if there was any way he could put her mind at ease. To put his own mind at ease. But she never answered him and her silence was more painful than that awful night had been.

            He wondered if she blamed him.

            She didn’t answer him because he couldn’t help. How could he? He didn’t even understand. Yes, it had been a loss for both of them, but it was far worse for her. She had lost a part of herself. For months, she had been caring for it, nourishing it, loving it even though she had never laid eyes upon it. But now, it was gone, lost forever with no way of replacing it. She didn’t even want to try to replace it. The hole within her was too big, too deep. There was no way he or anyone else could make her feel whole again.

Story: Woodman of the World

This is a flash fiction that I included in my creative portfolio last term. Originally, it was part of a writing exercise my instructor assigned. We went to Pioneer Cemetery (our local cemetery on campus) and walked around, finding names for potential characters. Our assignment was to find a name and create a story with them as the main character. At first, I really wanted an unusual name and I did find some really wacky ones, but then I came across a tombstone with a wonderful inscription on it that made an entire story come into my mind. The name was Joseph S. Stiles and the inscription was: Here Lies Woodman of the World.

How could a story not come from that?

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Joseph lowered his axe and wiped sweat from his brow. The men were concentrating on their work, chopping away at the trees that had stood for hundreds of years. Maybe longer. When he was young, he had run through these trees with his brothers, laughing and running, imagining they were hunting bears and lions. Once he had grown up, married and had children of his own, these trees remained his friends. He cut firewood and lumber, but never took more than he needed and always silently thanked the trees for their gifts. Just like his father taught him. The day Joseph’s father had given him his first axe, he had said, “Joseph Samuel Stiles, remember that this forest is older than you. It was here before you were born and it’ll be here after you die. Show it respect.”

He had, up until now. But there was nothing Joseph could do. The lumber companies had finally found this prize collection of timber and began their destruction. It almost happened over night. They offered jobs to the townsmen, ordinary folks who, like Joseph, had lived and respected the forest all their lives. They had all jumped at the chance to make more money than they had ever seen at one time. Joseph had done the same. Soon, he’d be able to buy a brand new truck. His family had more food on the table and his wife even mentioned that, in a few years, they could move to another town, a bigger town, and not have to live in the backwaters anymore. It would be better for the children, she said. Joseph agreed, but as each day passed, the weight of the axe in his hands grew heavier and it became harder to look at the trees.

“You all right, Joe?” His head jerked and Joseph realised that he had stood still for far too long. Walt Humphrey and Nick Reynolds stared at him with large concerned eyes, axes raised, ready to strike the tree again. They were worried. They had all seen men who fainted from overworking themselves, squeezing in a few more hours each day to earn a bit more money, forgetting to drink water or eat food and eventually collapsing, almost catching themselves on the sharp edges of their axe. It was a scary thing to witness, the look some men got in their eyes when all they could think about was getting a few more dollars.

Joseph shook his head. “I’m fine. Just need some water.” As the other men nodded, Joe stepped away, keeping his eyes off the mangled tree, and moved to the bucket of water. He lifted the metal ladle to his lips and closed his eyes, feeling the cool water bathe his parched throat. But when he closed his eyes, he was not greeted by comforting blackness. His mind’s eye filled with guilt in the shape of trees. Firs and spruces, their needles the rich blue-green of the ocean. Their limbs shifting and creaking in the wind. Their fresh scent of winter mornings. They called to him, spoke to him, asked him why he hurt them. Joseph tried to explain that there was nothing he could do, that even if he were to lay down his axe and never pick it up again other men would still come and cut them down. But they did not care that others would continue the work he was only a small part of. They cared why he did it, why he chose to break his promise.

Was it the money? No, Joseph never cared for the stuff, never thought he needed much of it to live. Before the lumber companies came, his family had lived comfortably off of the few dollars he earned selling wood in town.

Then what was it?

Joseph felt a hand on his shoulder. Nick stood beside him, concern in his face. “You sure you’re okay, Joe? You not gonna pass out or anything?”

Looking at his friend’s face, Joseph could see the beginnings of the money thirst in the other man’s eyes. They glinted frantically, they darted from one point to another, never staying in one place for long. Soon, Nick would work past sunset and come before dawn, his axe becoming an extension of his arm. Joseph was scared. Scared of what he had gotten himself into. He knew why he had begun work with the others. These men, he knew them all. He had trusted them when they told him this was a good thing. But now, all these men were strangers. Joseph did not want to become a stranger to his wife, to his children. To the trees.

Joseph looked Nick straight in the eyes, managing to lock the other man’s flighty gaze. “You know what, I think I need to leave. To rest.”

“You gonna be okay?”

A smile spread across Joseph’s face, an action he had not felt in many months. “Yeah. I’m gonna be all right.”

Writing Thoughts: Pouring yourself into your stories

Wow, three posts in one day! That's a new record I probably won't break anytime soon.

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So, I had to read an article for my creative writing program that talked about some very interesting ideas.  The article was "Autographobia: Writing the Secret Life" by David Jauss, from his book Alone With All That Could Happen, and it touched on a few points, most about how an author writes themselves into their work. Now, I know what you're thinking. "Not everyone writes about themselves! I've written (or read) loads of stories that obviously didn't happen to me (or the author) or that couldn't even happen in real life!" Don't worry, that's what Jauss' point was, though with a few additions.

First off, he talked about how, as a writer, he has had people call him and talk about how they connected with his stories, thinking that the stories were autobiographical. Just as a side note, I found this very amusing that people actually do this sort of thing but that's just me. Anyway, Jauss then went on to explain how most writers do not write autobiographical stories, but that this doesn't mean that writers don't put a part of themselves in the stories they write. Now, I used to oppose this kind of idea. For a long time, I thought, "No, I NEVER put myself into my characters. They're not real, they're nothing like me!" I think I held onto this idea partially because my mum (who reads everything I write, the good and bad) kept comparing me to my main characters. This annoyed me a lot. I don't really know why it annoyed me as much as it did but I guess I went out to prove that, no I am not in disguise as my characters, thank you very much. Then, sometime last year, I was thinking back on some of my stories, bot recent and older pieces, and I realised something. All these characters seem to encompass qualities that I can relate to, maybe even some circumstances that are at least a teeny bit similar to ones I've experienced. My mind kind of imploded at that. Could I have really been wrong all this time? Could I really have been writing myself into my stories, all the while pretending not to?

The thing is, there's a slight difference between autobiographical writing and "writing" oneself into a story. The former is basically a diary entry, written down formally, maybe in third person, maybe not. The latter is incorporating one's own personality quirks, ideas, circumstance, etc. and changing them slightly as they are mixed with the other ingredients making up the story. Jauss called this the "secret self" and it is a way of gaining insight into the deeper layers of a person and holds more meaning than just recounting the facts of an event that happened ten years ago.

Wow, this has become a heavily intellectual post, hasn't it. I'm sure all of you can take it ;) Now, I'd love to hear any comments, thoughts, questions, etc. you may have.

What do you think about this "secret self" Jauss is on about? Is he right? Wrong? Missing something?