(This is a freewrite I did probably in my first year of college so AGES ago, which I unearthed today…So, Dear Readers, here is a flashback to the writing of CNC0’s yesteryears)
Oh, dear. I guess I’ve done it, again. I’ve broken my fingertips on shards of glass. I’ve seen the statistics and learned to hate numbers. Yes, sticks and stones will break my bones. But, there are words that will really hurt me. I saw her pulled down by a pack of wolves; saw the blood on their teeth. I’ll be smarter than her, my hood is black. They will let me pass on to the forest, on to the path up the mountain. I will step on speckled stones. They are the souls of men. So much prettier than bones. Seven pairs of shoes. Seven. Seven. Seven. A magician throws up a golden glass bauble. That no one will catch, but cannot break. I hit the floor and shatter. Here is how it feels: like falling for the precious, like Susan awaking on the train, like Rose in the alternate world and Who is gone, like the blessed child who sees the million candles. I will meet you in the tower or at the bottom of the well. We will lie to one another. You will promise a trip to Waiora. I will promise a trip to Aalu. We will dance around the obvious. A waltz and then a salsa. You will warn me to listen to the singing bones. I will ask you to listen for the Bird’s whistle. We will stare down each other, believing the other to be the real one. The sun rises. The sun also sets. I grow bored. Sort out these seeds. Get three golden hairs. Drain the lake. I’m tired with riddles, I’m sick of games and allusions to grace. What if it was painted in a day? Doesn’t make as good a lesson. I wish you would just say what you mean. Spit it out!
Let me know which path to take. Let me know where he is. Tell me that he is alive. Tell me that he is dead. I am turning to stone and the not knowing is my Medusa. Wasn’t I clever enough? Wasn’t I brave enough? I deserve… Okay, you got me. I made that one mistake. I said I. I should have said we, I should have known that he belonged to us all. They all did, they all do, but they should never belong to you. I guess I better go, so just say those words, but please remember to hurt me. Make it sting; make me bleed, because this will be my last sensation, my last chance to break. You will say it and I will be ice, the snow queen, the woman in the waves. You smile, say nothing, and hand me a speckled stone.