The voices came often. They spoke to her of things she had rather not think of, but there was truth in the words they spoke.
Sometimes when they came, she would pick up her knife and make patterns in her skin…bleeding hearts and tulips of the most vivid red. She would sit and watch the sticky redness pool onto the floor…thinking what a waste of beautiful color it was. As for the artwork on her skin, it was striking and lovely. She longed to show it off to the world.
Her canvas would clear in a few days and beg for more. But her inspiration always came from the voices, and she never knew when they would come.
Nobody understood her work. Some called her crazy. Some called her a genius. What they failed to understand was the fact that nothing came from her. All of her ideas and inspiration came from somewhere else.
Once, in the middle of the night…the pounding on the wall grew louder and louder and she knew not what was causing it. She lay in bed, afraid…and then voice said, “It is time. Get up and etch your greatest fear.” She spent the next hour etching death…a black cloaked visitor splattered with her blood.
Suddenly, death consumed her and she was afraid to close her eyes and go back to sleep. It was a part of her now…and until it faded from view, there was no escape. She spent sleepless nights, and the voices came more often….urging her to create.
She etched demons writhing in agony. She etched children laughing in a field. She etched dancing clowns and talking rabbits. She etched herself, screaming in pain.
The pain was real, but she thrived on it. Pain was something she craved. Pain was her pleasure. Pain was her release.
She remembered days of bondage when she gave herself up to sadists, succumbing to their whips…their instruments of torture. She had been a slave to her fantasies. But when those fantasies became real, she became a slave to herself.
Now, holding herself in bondage, she was as much sadist as she was masochist. She was as much creator as she was destroyer. She was as much artist as she was onlooker.
Still, the voices were in control…and her knife waited for instruction.
I read this while judging the Surreal Flash Fiction contest. The other two judges and I found it one of the strongest contenders of the thirty three we looked at.
ReplyDeleteThere´s a real intensity to the piece, and it is one of the best works of fiction I´ve read about this recent juvenile ´cutting´ meme of self-destruction of the last decade. A bit of Kafka´s Hunger Artist, a bit of Poe´s Pit And The Pendulum, a bit of Charlotte Perkins Gilman´s The Yellow Wallpaper, but with lots of Southern Gothic thrown in, Cheryl Williams style. I want you to look at Flannery O´Connery´s stories when you decide to rewrite this for publication.
It´s close to where you want it to be, but you may want to add more specific descriptors and switch from poetic rhetoric--for example, use of anaphora in the paragraph, ´she etched´--to simply telling it--¨She etched demons writhing in agony; children laughing in a field. Dancing clowns and talking rabbits. Herself, screaming in pain.¨
The piece has raw power, anguish, and a real sense of the character´s plight, Cheryl. You should be very pleased that you are writing at this level, and marking out your own distinctive trangressive voice.
Thank you for your comment, John. I will take your critique to heart and check out Flannery O'Connery's stories as well.
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