WuToWu #71: A Dip into Fiction

Hi Curtis,

School is back in session! Mom kept it together this year, but we’ll see about next year. I’m enjoying watching your adventures on the east coast as I return back to the classroom.

I’ve noticed a trend in the past few blog posts from you: the expansion into more fiction. Since I haven’t been assigned any big writing assignments yet and writing stories is more  fun than writing about myself (cough, common app, cough) I thought I’d try my hand at it.

I’ve been trying to do some more creative writing right now since I’m knee deep in college essays about myself. Of course, there’s nothing more refreshing than writing about things that are the opposite of yourself during this time of year.

It had been a hard pregnancy, from the very start. Her soul shifting forward from within her to several inches in front. Mornings were spent eyeing the white speckled tiles of the bathroom, lungs feeding on that the crisp winter air that gently waved the linens in the backyard. She saw a fragment of herself during these times, her face morphing from the refractions of each imperfect tile. The toilet was always cold yet warmed up to her touch, comforting as her insides rebelled against the intruder growing next to them. Each night spent rubbing the ever growing fruit that threatened to split her stomach apart. Her nightgown grew smaller each time until it refused to reach over the globe of her torso.

It should have come to no surprise that for all the struggle to create life it would not go out without causing one more. It carried distinction, marring an otherwise perfect month. Like a gunshot it tore a hole in the calendar, taking with it several weeks of happiness and leaving behind a smoking trail that quite possibly would never leave. That morning the air had not been it’s calming presence but instead was muggy like the atmosphere before the tornado. She struggled to catch her breath, instead feeling trapped inside a fly catcher. More and more came up has her insides called for final rebellion, throwing out all and everything that had once been consumed.

That night, hands held her stomach but not to move things around but to try and hold on. She felt a pain, similar to the ones that greeted her in the morning but different-too low inside, bearing a warning. She ran from the bed to the bathroom, to the speckled tiles, to safety, just in time to see the crimson flag marched out from her body. The toilet would not warm to her instead it seemed to suck warmth from her, taking her strength as her body and mind gave way. The warmth of her body seemed to slip out, pulling with it the future of happiness she had planned so many nights ago. Red seemed to cover all that was comfort-the tiles, the linens, it made way for a new life.

She  sat on the floor, crumpled like a napkin, in final defeat. Her nightgown now fit over her head, bathed in blood from battle against her own body. She couldn’t lift her eyes to look into the basin of the toilet to see it. She slept.

The air was crisp again; the crusty linens waved calmly and the bright red waves had reduced to a ruddy copper. She awake on the battlegrounds, to worn out to even mourn the loss of the stillborn-she refused to even name it instead wrapping it in one of the linens and quickly buried it by the large oak tree outside. She bathed the remains of the future off herself before returning to her bed, covers still tangled from her flight the previous night. She took out the pair of pink satin shoes, almost comically small and gingerly placed them on her desk. Retrieving a piece of paper she wrote “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”





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