Writing Rocks March Challenge: Week 1
In March, Writing Rocks invites members and interested writers to use the cards at Post Secret as inspiration for ficlets, timed writing exercises, short stories, whatever.
So I did a little bit for this week (Sunday March 2nd Secrets), basically a timed exercise for ten minutes because I wrote it on my lunch break, directly into the posting window.
I'm sorry I failed you... The words sat alone on the page, uneven lines bleeding ink into the paper.
The note sat like a dying bird in Ethan's palm, creased and torn. She had not apologized in life. What did she think her words would solve, would heal, now that she was dead? What did she think dying would solve, in the first place?
Ethan wanted to scream, but the note could not answer him, nor could the corpse. He stood over her and let his colleagues work. The forensic team took measurements, went over the room with falyn gloves and mundane brushes, but found no evidence of an intruder. The scene was as it appeared: a middle-aged whorehouse madam with poison on her lips and fourteen unsent letters in her lap.
Every letter was addressed to Ethan.
After he opened the first and read that single line, he refused to open the others. Agnes, who had come with him even though they were barred from the investigation proper, made no comment about his decision. She helped him bundle the letters together and placed them in her satchel for disposal later.
"Seems open and shut from here," Gretchen said as she finished brushing the victim's eyelashes for magical residue. "Suicide by alfaisym, drunk with her evening brandy."
Ethan closed his eyes. He could not stay here. Someone clapped him on the shoulder and murmured, "Sorry for your loss." When he looked again, the others seemed to have realized that he was still there, and that he was not acting in his usual capacity as a guard. The pity in their faces nauseated him.
Agnes made a gesture he could not quite make out from his angle of view, but the others in the room began to leave. "I'll be outside, Ethan. Shall I send the soulguide in when she arrives?"
Ethan nodded. "Yeah. Thanks." At least Agnes had thought far enough ahead to think of the soulguide. Ethan had forgotten that someone would have to see to the body, once the guard was done. Someone would have to take the shell of flesh to be disposed of, and someone else would have to say the words and perform the rites to put the soul to rest.
Suicide. A more difficult rite for the priestess, but not one they were unused to enacting. Ethan had seen plenty of suicides in his years of duty.
He was alone in the room now. He looked at the body in the chair, then down at the note crumpled in his fingers.
I'm sorry I failed you...
He could not forgive her. She was not even alive anymore and he could not forgive her. Zephrene would be disappointed in him. He threw the crumpled paper back into her lap and turned away. When he reached the door, he paused and looked back.
I'm sorry I failed you...
"I'm sorry, too, Mother," he said, and walked out.
©2008
So I did a little bit for this week (Sunday March 2nd Secrets), basically a timed exercise for ten minutes because I wrote it on my lunch break, directly into the posting window.
I'm sorry I failed you... The words sat alone on the page, uneven lines bleeding ink into the paper.
The note sat like a dying bird in Ethan's palm, creased and torn. She had not apologized in life. What did she think her words would solve, would heal, now that she was dead? What did she think dying would solve, in the first place?
Ethan wanted to scream, but the note could not answer him, nor could the corpse. He stood over her and let his colleagues work. The forensic team took measurements, went over the room with falyn gloves and mundane brushes, but found no evidence of an intruder. The scene was as it appeared: a middle-aged whorehouse madam with poison on her lips and fourteen unsent letters in her lap.
Every letter was addressed to Ethan.
After he opened the first and read that single line, he refused to open the others. Agnes, who had come with him even though they were barred from the investigation proper, made no comment about his decision. She helped him bundle the letters together and placed them in her satchel for disposal later.
"Seems open and shut from here," Gretchen said as she finished brushing the victim's eyelashes for magical residue. "Suicide by alfaisym, drunk with her evening brandy."
Ethan closed his eyes. He could not stay here. Someone clapped him on the shoulder and murmured, "Sorry for your loss." When he looked again, the others seemed to have realized that he was still there, and that he was not acting in his usual capacity as a guard. The pity in their faces nauseated him.
Agnes made a gesture he could not quite make out from his angle of view, but the others in the room began to leave. "I'll be outside, Ethan. Shall I send the soulguide in when she arrives?"
Ethan nodded. "Yeah. Thanks." At least Agnes had thought far enough ahead to think of the soulguide. Ethan had forgotten that someone would have to see to the body, once the guard was done. Someone would have to take the shell of flesh to be disposed of, and someone else would have to say the words and perform the rites to put the soul to rest.
Suicide. A more difficult rite for the priestess, but not one they were unused to enacting. Ethan had seen plenty of suicides in his years of duty.
He was alone in the room now. He looked at the body in the chair, then down at the note crumpled in his fingers.
I'm sorry I failed you...
He could not forgive her. She was not even alive anymore and he could not forgive her. Zephrene would be disappointed in him. He threw the crumpled paper back into her lap and turned away. When he reached the door, he paused and looked back.
I'm sorry I failed you...
"I'm sorry, too, Mother," he said, and walked out.
©2008