drabble - untitled
I can’t tell if my muse has absconded (because writing anything this past week has been so forced) or is simply determined to see me kicked out of this group (because this piece is what eventually came out). Laura kindly offered me hers, but I don’t think her muse will want to be associated with this effort. Seriously, I warn you, look away if you don’t want angst (or half-baked writing, for that matter).
I promise something lighter next week, perhaps that silly fic I’m still trying to write, though I’m not sure that will go over any better. And seriously, don’t feel obligated to comment or say anything nice because I'll understand if not everyone likes.
(And for the record, eight are possible.)
***
During the second world war, theirs became a story about boxes.
About eight boxes - one for each son - that Mary fills with news clippings, unsent letters, and the rare photo they mail home. Lined up in the order her children were born, she caresses them each day and thinks, if she tries just a bit harder, she can hear faint echoes in the hall. Proper Robert, happy James, forceful Charles, triplets John, Paul, and George, lonely Reginald, and baby Matthew and the distant laughter of their youth.
About three boxes, shattered pieces of her soul, shipped home from Greece and France and Italy. She visits them as often as she can bear and supposes she should be grateful the others were spared.
About two boxes, buried within two hearts. Two boxes, filled with everything she and Matthew have seen and felt and heard and done and yet leave unsaid. Perhaps the boxes grew from fear or the simple passage of time.
Or perhaps, she didn’t raise her son to be a soldier…and he did.
So it’s a story about one box - once a home and now just a house - and the no longer happy souls locked inside.
I promise something lighter next week, perhaps that silly fic I’m still trying to write, though I’m not sure that will go over any better. And seriously, don’t feel obligated to comment or say anything nice because I'll understand if not everyone likes.
(And for the record, eight are possible.)
***
During the second world war, theirs became a story about boxes.
About eight boxes - one for each son - that Mary fills with news clippings, unsent letters, and the rare photo they mail home. Lined up in the order her children were born, she caresses them each day and thinks, if she tries just a bit harder, she can hear faint echoes in the hall. Proper Robert, happy James, forceful Charles, triplets John, Paul, and George, lonely Reginald, and baby Matthew and the distant laughter of their youth.
About three boxes, shattered pieces of her soul, shipped home from Greece and France and Italy. She visits them as often as she can bear and supposes she should be grateful the others were spared.
About two boxes, buried within two hearts. Two boxes, filled with everything she and Matthew have seen and felt and heard and done and yet leave unsaid. Perhaps the boxes grew from fear or the simple passage of time.
Or perhaps, she didn’t raise her son to be a soldier…and he did.
So it’s a story about one box - once a home and now just a house - and the no longer happy souls locked inside.